soft replied, "The gracious God into His fold doth gather
The best of poor folks' doctors now, to his eternal rest;
They bear the body forth, 'tis true: his spirit's with the
blest."

Bright on his corpse the candles shine around his narrow bier,
Escorted by the crowds of poor with many a bitter tear;
No more, alas! can he the sad and anguished-laden cure--
Oh, wail! For Durand is no more--the Doctor of the Poor!

Endnotes to THE POOR MAN'S DOCTOR.

{1} In the last edition of Jasmin's poems (4 vols. 8vo, edited by Buyer
d'Agen) it is stated (p. 40, 1st vol.) that "M. Durand, physician, was
one of those rare men whom Providence seems to have provided to assuage
the lot of the poorest classes. His career was full of noble acts of
devotion towards the sick whom he was called upon to cure. He died at
the early age of thirty-five, of a stroke of apoplexy. His remains
were accompanied to the grave by nearly all the poor of Agen and the
neighbourhood."

MY VINEYARD.{1}

{MA BIGNO.}

To MADAME LOUIS VEILL, Paris.

Dear lady, it is true, that last month I have signed
A little scrap of parchment; now myself I find
The master of a piece of ground
Within the smallest bound--
Not, as you heard, a spacious English garden
Covered with flowers and trees, to shrine your bard in--
But of a tiny little vineyard,
Which I have christened "Papilhoto"!
Where, for a chamber, I have but a grotto.
The vine-stocks hang about their boughs,
At other end a screen of hedgerows,
So small they do not half unroll;
A hundred would not make a mile,
Six sheets would cover the whole pile.

Well! as it is, of this I've dreamt for twenty years--
You laugh, Madame, at my great happiness,
Perhaps you'll laugh still more, when it appears,
That when I bought the place, I must confess
There were no fruits,
Though rich in roots;
Nine cherry trees--behold my wood!
Ten rows of vines--my promenade!
A few peach trees; the hazels too;
Of elms and fountains there are two.
How rich I am! My muse is grateful very;
Oh! might I paint? while I the pencil try,
Our country loves the Heavens so bright and cheery.

Here, verdure starts up as we scratch the ground,
Who owns it, strips it into pieces round;
Beneath our sun there's nought but gayest sound.
You tell me, true, that in yo