24 SEPTEMBER 1870, Page 15

POETRY.

THE VOICE OF NEMESIS TO THE REPUBLIC.

THE Empire's dead : in open day France scans with dauntless eyes her fate.

But will your nursling freedom stay The swift avenger at your gate ?

Afield, a traitor's hands were light, For bane at home his bonds were strong. Your ancient heritage of right Is foul with stains of upstart wrong.

You laugh for joy of new-found light, For pride of new unfettered force : 'Tis well : but first in all men's sight Come forth and carry out the come.