THE BRIDGES OF PARIS: by G. K.
THE Bridges of Paris are of distinctive interest and their very names suggest in part the fascinating panorama of French history and legend—Tolbiac, Bercy, Austerlitz, Sully, Marie and Louis Philippe, Notre Dame, Pont San Michel, Solferino, La Concorde, Alma, Iéna, Passy, etc. The Seine flows for seven miles through the city and is at its widest (nearly 1000 feet) at the extremity of the island called La Cité. This island communicates with the right bank of the Seine by the bridges of Notre Dame and Au Change. The latter, as is evident from the familiar device sculptured above the piers (see illustration), was built by the first Napoleon.
Lomaland Photo. and Engraving Dept.
PARIS: THE PONT AU CHANGE AND THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE
Lomaland Photo. and Engraving Dept.
PARIS AND THE SEINE
The Palais de Justice is located in La Cité and the Greek façade by Duc is considered one of the finest examples of this style in modern architecture.
From the Boulevard du Palais on the east it is separated by a magnificent eighteenth-century railing in wrought iron and gilt. On this side lie the Salle des Pas Perdus and the Sainte-Chapelle. The fine square tower known as the Clock Tower stands at the corner formed by the Quai du Mord and the Boulevard du Palais; and on the north side lies the Conciergerie prison with the dungeon once occupied by Marie Antoinette.—Gaston Meissas
OLD BRYNHYFRYD GARDEN
by Kenneth Morris
There's a quiet old enchantment of the heart that's calling, calling
From when Myrddin wielded magic powers, and Gwydion wove his tales;
And you'll hear it any April morn, when the apple-bloom is falling
In old Brynhyfryd Garden, in White, Wild Wales.
There's an Ousel in the Orchard there, and dear knows what he's telling;
But I think there's Welsh comes welling from his throat when no one's nigh,
And it's he that in Cilgwri in the olden days was dwelling,
And he saw the Quest of Cilhwch, and the old worlds die.
There's a lonely, lofty spirit that will fire your soul with craving
For the kind and haughty glory of the old, Heroic Kings,
Where the foxglove and sweet-william on the turf-topped walls are waving
In old Brynhyfryd Garden, when the West Wind sings.
There's a ruin filled with nettles, where I think Ceridwen lingers
When she's out to gather herbage for the Wisdom Broth she brews:
And maybe you'll close your eyes there, and you'll feel the touch of fingers,
Or the dropping down of healing with the cool June dews.
Ancient Magic of the World, it's the fires of you are burning
When the Wind is in the pine tops, and the moon is o'er the vales;
It's a rumor of immortal hopes, Immortal Hearts returning
That's in old Brynhyfryd Garden in the white West of Wales.
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