Before Sedan. “ The dead hand clasped a letter.” —Special Correspondence. Here, in this leafy place, Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies ; ’Tis but another dead ;— All you can say is said. Carry his body hence,— Kings must have slaves ; Kings climb to eminence Over men’s graves : So this man’s eye is dim ;— Throw the earth over him. What was the white you touched, There, at his side ? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died ;— Message or wish, may be ;— Smoothen it out and see. Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled !— Only the tremulous Words of a child ;— Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His—her dead father’s—kiss ; Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet. That is all. “ Marguerite.” Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain ! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain ! If the grief died !—But no ;— Death will not have it so. Austin Dobson .