The Dead Heart. (Written after seeing Mr. Irving and Miss Ellen Terry in the play of that name.) They have battered the walls of his prison through, They have brought him forth to the free glad sun, But he gazes round on his comrades true, He has forgotten them every one. And where is the maiden of years long fled ? Will she not come with her smiles and tears ? What does it matter ? His heart is dead— Dead in the night of those eighteen years. Hark ! the din of the Carmagnole ! The rabble have doomed her boy to die ; Ever the laden tumbrils roll ; God ! how the moments hurry by ! And him she had loved could set him free, But he will not list to her mother-tears ; His love has fled, his heart is dead— Dead with the weight of those eighteen years. The grey dawn breaks ! She kneels, she prays, He looks in her eyes with tears all dim, And then—he remembers the lost sweet days, And the old love wakes again in him. “ Love, let me go,” he cries, “ forgiven ! Love, let my death thy boy restore ; For what is death but the gate of heaven That will give thee back to my soul once more ! ” Frederic E. Weatherly.