A FLAME.
Sportsmen overtaken by night, sportsmen all loaded with game,
By the old winding roadway back to the village we came,
But down there—what, what is that light?
One of us, a farmer, said:—'On the summit of the hill
It is Lucas the shepherd, he guards my flocks by the mill,
His fire of vine-branches burns bright.'
A churchwarden soon answered:—'Neighbour, your pardon and leave,
It's the moon which strikes on—for look, how clear is the eve—
The cock on our church-steeple's height.'
The proud mayor interrupted:—'No, no sir, it is not,
It's a torch of rebellion,—the low knaves brew a plot;
Ho! Gendarmes, shoot, shoot them outright'
'All errors, good sirs,'—said the master that taught in the school,
'Look how it is moving,—if it isn't Jupiter I'm a fool,
It's the planet that gleams on our sight.'
