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Or in the sandy desert, with the sky

Aloft a cloudless plain of aching blue,
And not a speck to tell the straining eye

Of tree, or tent, or fountain to bedew
Parched lips; and when the silence-wearied ear
Thirsts for one human sound—we will not fear:

God is our hope and refuge!
The hurricane is His—the ocean deeps

Own Him their master—He the trackless woods
Regards with eye of love that never sleeps,

And with His presence peoples solitudes:
Faint not then, loved ones! or our toils deplore,
He whom we trust shall bring us back once more—

Our God—our hope—our refuge!


They imaged thee, of old, in casque and plume, The statue of

Bright Maid of France !—with wild and flashing eye, ' ,of

And round lip wreathed with scornful victor}', Like his who burns for conquest sure to come, Fired with the future,—careless all, how Doom

Dogs triumph, like a slow-hound, sure and nigh.

Here thou art more a woman: thy low sigh
Heaves the harsh cuirass,—on thy brow, the gloom

Of joy departing broods, though tempered well
With thoughts inspired,—thy hand (unlearned its part)

Grasps the sharp sword with strangeness, not with fear.

Clings yet a memory of thy forest cell,
With its clear, warbling fountain, round thy heart,

One dream of Love and Peace,—though War and Death
are near?

Or marks thine eye—unfaltering 'mid the haze

Of glory's noon,—wide fields of trampled corn?

Brave blood like water poured, fair homes forlorn, While thy heart sickens at those stormy days,

And the shrill cries of Anguish drown the lays
Which hail thee all victorious:—or dost turn
With patient foresight toward awaiting scorn,

The unjust tribunal, the grim faggot's blaze,
And blear-eyed malice gibbering o'er thy grave,

Bright Maid of France ?—What sculptor, wise and gray,
Whose practised hand obeyed a master's will,
To marble thus thy musing sadness gave?

Fool!—thinkest thou aught but woman* could pourttay
A woman's deepest heart with such a gentle skill?

* The sculptor was the Duchess of Wurtemburg, whose death is referred to in the prefatory note to the poem.


JOHN FRANCIS, 188l—1882.

Th1s sketch of some of the work of the Atlienazim has now been brought down to the date of the death of John Francis, who had been its publisher since October 4th, 1831. He had been the fortunate possessor of almost perfect health, and during the thirty years that the paper was published on Saturday morning at four o'clock he was absent only once on account of illness.

It was not until the commencement of 1881 that the first signs of any permanent weakness appeared. He then found the daily journey to and from his house in the suburbs to be beyond his strength, and at once resolved, rather than give up the work he loved so well, to return to his old rooms above the office in Wellington Street. In March his illness had so increased that his friend Dr. Jones wished to have further advice, and at his suggestion Dr. Gowl

VOL. II. 2 N

land and he had a consultation. Mr. Francis, at his own especial request, was informed of the result, and, when told that his life could only be prolonged for a few months, spent the rest of the day in quiet thought, and on the morrow was prepared to resume his ordinary work, and so continued as long as strength would permit. Death ot On the 14th of June his second son,* Edward E. J. Francis. james, died at ^ early &ge of thirty-seven.

This sorrow much increased his weakness, but

he still persisted in taking an active part in the

business management of the Athenmim, and

had it read to him with the greatest regularity,

Death of this practice being continued until his death, John Francis. which took place on ^ eye of Qood FTifay,


"I know thou hast gone to the home of thy rest,
Then why should my soul be so sad?
I know thou hast gone where the weary are blest,
And the mourner looks up and is glad;
Where love has put off, in the land of its birth,
The stains it had gathered in this,

* Edward James Francis was apprenticed to Mr. James Holmes in 1858, and on the retirement of that gentleman in 1869 took over the business, when he became the printer of the Athenaum, Notes and Queries, and other publications. In addition to this he went into partnership with Mr. Ashton Dilke, and became manager of the Weekly Dispatch, the circulation of which he was the means of largely increasing.

And hope, the sweet singer that gladden'd the earth,
Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss."

The Atlienceum of the 15th of April contains the following obituary notice :—" On Thursday, Obituary the 6th, Mr. John Francis passed away after a Athauntm. long illness, during which he displayed the high courage and patience that always distinguished him. Mr. Francis had been the publisher of this journal for over fifty years, and till within a short time of his death he continued to superintend the many details of its business arrangements. John Francis was born in July, 1811, and after having attended for a short time a dame's school in Bermondsey, he was placed at a middle-class school in the same neighbourhood, and afterwards at a Nonconformist free school in Tooley Street. Through the instrumentality of the secretary of the Tooley Street school he was apprenticed in his fourteenth year to Messrs. Marlborough, then as now among the chief newspaper agents in London. When his apprenticeship was at an end, Mr. Francis answered an advertisement for a junior clerk inserted in the Atlienaum, and in consequence he entered, in August, 1831, the office of this journal, which had some time before passed out of the hands of John Sterling, and was then edited by the late Mr. Dilke. Two months afterwards, such was the ability he had shown,

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