. Some of the fashionable
inhabitants of the surrounding houses had been induced by the fineness
of the night to prolong their promenade; and the light laugh, and the
sound of pleasant voices, added to the touching and simple charm of the
scene. A group had stopped round a player on the guitar, with which we
made a tolerable accompaniment to some foreign songs. My ear was caught
by a chorus which I had often heard among the French peasantry, and I
joined in the applause. The minstrel was ragged and pale, and had
evidently met with no small share of the buffets of fortune; but,
cheered by our approval, he volunteered to sing the masterpiece of his
collection--"The Rising of the Vendee"--the rallying-song of the
insurrection, a performance chanted by the Vendean army in the field, by
the Vendean peasant in his cottage, and which he now gave us with all
the enthusiasm of one who had fought and suffered in the cause.

THE RISING OF THE VENDEE.

It was a Sabbath morning, and sweet the summer air,
And brightly shone the summer sun upon the day of prayer;
And silver-sweet the village bells o'er mount and valley toll'd,
And in the church of St Florent were gather'd young and old.
When rushing down the woodland hill, in fiery haste was seen,
With panting steed and bloody spur, a noble Angevin.
And bounding on the sacred floor, he gave his fearful cry,--
"Up, up for France! the time is come, for France to live or die.

"Your Queen is in the dungeon; your King is in his gore;
On Paris waves the flag of death, the fiery Tricolor;
Your nobles in their ancient halls are hunted down and slain,
In convent cells and holy shrines the blood is pour'd like rain.
The peasant's vine is rooted up, his cottage given to flame,
His son is to the scaffold sent, his daughter sent to shame;
With torch in hand, and hate in heart, the rebel host is nigh.
Up, up for France! the time is come, for France to live or die."

That livelong night the horn was heard, from Orleans to Anjou,
And pour'd from all their quiet fields our shepherds bold and true;
Along the pleasant banks of Loire shot up the beacon-fires,
And many a torch was blazing bright on Lucon's stately spires;
The midnight cloud was flush'd with flame that hung o'er Parthenaye,
The blaze that shone o'er proud Brissac was like the breaking day;
Till east and west, and north and south, the loyal be