Up springs the blithesome morn.

In yon gardens the birds renew their familiar song.

The fishes are sporting through the freshening waters of the Seine.

The gladness of divine nature, the roar and dissonance of mortal life, awake again: the trader unbars his windows; the flower-girls troop gayly to their haunts; busy feet are tramping to the daily drudgeries that revolutions which strike down kings and kaisars, leave the same Cain's heritage to the boor; the wagons groan and reel to the mart; Tyranny, up betimes, holds its pallid levee; Conspiracy, that hath not slept, hears the clock, and whispers to its own heart, "The hour draws near." A group gather, eager-eyed, round the purlieus of the Convention Hall; to-day decides the sovereignty of France,--about the courts of the Tribunal their customary hum and stir.
No matter what the hazard of the die, or who the ruler, this day eighty heads shall fall! ....
And she slept so sweetly.

Wearied out with joy, secure in the presence of the eyes regained, she had laughed and wept herself to sleep; and still in that slumber there seemed a happy consciousness that the loved was by,--the lost was found.