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So that, departing at the evening's close, She says, "She may be saved! she nothing knows!"

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress! Now that thou wouldst, thou art no

prophetess! This morning, ill the fulness of thy heart,

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!


Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating,

And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky,

Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,

How differently!

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, The one puts on her cross and crown,

Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,

And flaunting, fluttering up and down,

Looks at herself, and cannot rest. The other, blind, within her little room,

Has neither crown nor flower's perfume;

But in their stead for something gropes apart,

That in a drawer's recess doth lie, And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet


Convulsive clasps it to her heart.

The one, fantastic, light as air,

'Mid kisses ringing,

And joyous singing.
Forgets to say her morning prayer!

The other, with cold drops upon her brow,

Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,

And whispers, as her brother opes the door,

"O God ! forgive me now!"

And then the orphan, young and blind,

Conducted by her brother's hand,

Towards the church,through paths

unscanned, With tranquil air, her way doth


Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale,

Round her at times exhale,
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,
But brumal vapors gray.

Near that castle, fair to see, Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,

Marvels of nature and of art,

And proud of its name of high

degree, A little chapel, almost bare At the base of the rock, is builded


All glorious that it lifts aloof, Above each jealous cottage roof, Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,

And its blackened steeple high in air, Round which the osprey screams and sails.

"Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!" Thus Margaret said. '' Where are we?

we ascend!" "Yes ; seest thou not our journey's


Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry?

The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know!

Dost thou remember when our father said,

The night we watched beside his bed,

'O daughter, I am weak and low; Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!'

And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying?

Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;

And here they brought our father in his shroud.

There is his grave ; there stands the cross we set;

Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?

Come in! The bride will be here soon:

Thou tremblest! O my Cod! thou art going to swoon!"

She could no more, — the blind girl,

weak and weary! A voice seemed crying from that grave

so dreary,

"What wouldst thou do, my daughter ?" — and she started, And quick recoiled, aghast, fainthearted;

But Paul, impatient, urges evermore Her steps towards the open door;

And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid

Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,

And with her head, as Paul talks on again,

Touches the crown of filigrane Suspended from the low-arched portal,

No more restrained, no more afraid, She walks, as for a feast arrayed, And in the ancient chapel's sombre night

They both are lost to sight.

At length the hell,
With booming sound,
Sends forth, resounding round,
Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down
the iMl.

It is broad day, with sunshine and
with rain;
And yet the guests delay not

For soon arrives the bridal train,
And with it brings the village

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day,

Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning.

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper Feels her heart swell to hear all round

her whisper, '' How beautiful! how beautiful she is!'"

But she must calm that giddy head,

For already the Mass is said; At the holy table stands the priest; The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it;

Ere on the finger of the bride he leave* it,

He must pronounce one word at least!

'T is spoken ; and sudden at the groomsman's side

"'Tis he!" a well-known voice has cried.

And while the wedding guests all hold

their breath, Opes the confessional, and the blind

girl, see!

"Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my death,

As holy water be my blood for thee!"

And calmly in the air a knife suspended!

Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,

For anguish did its work so well,
That, ere the fatal stroke descended,
Lifeless she fell!

At eve, instead of bridal verse,
The De Profundis filled the air;
Decked with flowers a simple hearse
To the churchyard forth they bear;
Village girls in robes of snow
Follow, weeping as they go;
Nowhere was a smile that day,
No, ah no! for each one seemed to
say: —

"The road should mourn and be veiled

in gloom, So fair a corpse shall leave its home! Should mourn and should weep, ah,

well-away! So fair a corpse' shall pass to-day!"



I HEAR along our street
Pass the minstrel throngs;
Hark ! they play so sweet,
On their hautboys, Christ mas songs!
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

In December ring
Every day the chimes;
Loud the gleemen sing
In the streets their merry rhymes.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire.

Shepherds at the grange,
Where the Babe was born,
Sang, with many a change,
Christmas carols until morn.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

These good people sang
Songs devout and sweet;
While the rafters rang,
There they stood with freezing feet.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire.

Nuns in frigid cells
At this holy tide,

For want of something else,
Christmas songs at times have tried.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!

Washerwomen old,
To the sound they beat,
Sing by rivers cold,
With uncovered heads and feet.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire.

Who by the fireside stands
Stamps his feet and sings;
But he who blows his hands
Not so gay a carol brings.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!



Should you ask me, whence these stories?

Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest,
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations,
As of thunder in the mountains?

I should answer, I should tell you, '' From the forests and the prairies, From the great lakes of the Northland, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fenlands,

Where the heron, the Shuh-slmh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Nawadaha,
The musician, the sweet singer."

Should you ask where Nawadaha Found these songs, so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions,

I should answer, I should tell you,
"In the bird's-nests of the forest,
In the lodges of the beaver,
In the hoof-prints of the bison,
In the eyry of the eagle!

"All the wild-fowl sang them to him,
In the moorlands and the fen-lands,
In the melancholy marshes;
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"

If still further you should ask me,
Saying, "Who was Nawadaha?
Tell us of this Nawadaha,"
I should answer your inquiries
Straightway in such words as follow.

"In the Vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley,
Hy the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,
And beyond them stood the forest,
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees,
Green in Summer, white in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing.

"And the pleasant water-courses, You could trace them through the valley, By the rushing in the Spring-time, By the alders in the Summer, By the white fog in the Autumn, By the black line in the Winter; And beside them dwelt the singer, In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley.

"There he sang of Hiawatha, Sang the Song of Hiawatha, Sang his wondrous birth and being, How he prayed and how he fasted, How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, That the tribes of men might prosper, That he might advance his people!"

Ye who love the haunts of Nature,
Love the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind among the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,
And the rushing of great river s
Through their palisades of pine-trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like eagles in their eyries ; —
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this Song of Hiawatha!

Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken ; —
Listen to this Indian Legend,
To this Song of Hiawatha!

Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,
Who have faith in God and Nature,
Who believe, that in all ages
Every human heart is human,
That in even savage bosoms
There are longings, yearnings, strivings
For the good they comprehend not,
That the feeble hands and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God's right hand in that darkness
And are lifted up and strengthened ; —
Listen to this simple story,
To this Song of Hiawatha I

Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, AVhere the tangled barberry-hushes Hang their tufts of crimson hemes Over stone walls gray with mosses, Pause bv some neglected graveyard, For a while to muse, and ponder

I On a half-effaced inscription,
Written with little skill of song-craft,
Homely phrases, but each letter
Full of hope and yet of heart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the Here and the Hereafter ; —
Stay and read this rude inscription,
Read this Song of Hiawatha!



On the Mountains of the Prairie,
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
He the Master of Life, descending,
On the red crags of the quarry
Stood erect, and called the nations,
Called the tribes of men together.

From his footprints flowed a river,
Leaped into the light of morning,
O'er the precipice plunging downward
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.
And the Spirit, stooping earthward,
With his finger on the meadow
Traced a winding pathway for it,
Saying to it, "Run in this way!"

From the red stone of the quarry With his hand he broke a fragment, Moulded it into a pipe-head, Shaped and fashioned it with figures; From the margin of the river Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, With its dark green leaves upon it; Filled the pipe with bark of willow, With the bark of the red willow; Breathed upon the neighboring forest, Made its great boughs chafe together, Till in flame they burst and kindled; And erect upon the mountains, Gitche Manito, the mighty, Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, As a signal to the nations.

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, Through the tranquil air of morning, First a single line of darkness, Then a denser, bluer vapor, Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, Like the tree-tops of the forest, Ever rising, rising, rising. Till it touched the top of heaven, Till it broke against the heaven, And rolled outward all around it. . From the Vale of Tawasentha,

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