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النشر الإلكتروني

So that, departing at the evening's close, Towards the church, through paths She says, “She may be saved ! she

unscanned, nothing knows ! ”

With tranquil air, her way doth

wind. Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress !

Odors of laurel, making her faint and Now that thou wouldst, thou art no


Round her at times exhale, prophetess ! This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,

But brumal vapors gray.
Thou wast so, far beyond thine art !

Near that castle, fair to see,

Crowded with sculptures old, in every III.


Marvels of nature and of art, Now rings the bell, nine times reverber.

And proud of its name of high ating,

degree, And the white daybreak, stealing up the

A little chapel, almost bare sky,

At the base of the rock, is builded Sees in two cottages two maidens wait


All glorious that it lifts aloof,
How differently !

Above each jealous cottage roof,

Its sacred summit, swept by autumn Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,

gales, The one puts on her cross and And its blackened steeple high in air, crown,

Round which the osprey screams Decks with a huge bouquet her

and sails. breast, And flaunting, fluttering up and “ Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!” down,

Thus Margaret said. " Where are we? Looks at herself, and cannot rest.

we ascend!” The other, blind, within her little “Yės ; seest thou not our journey's room,

end ? Has neither crown nor flower's per- Hearest not the osprey from the belfry

fume ; But in their stead for something gropes The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, apart,

we know ! That in a drawer's recess doth lie, Dost thou remember when our father And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet

said, dye,

The night we watched beside his Convulsive clasps it to her heart.


O daughter, I am weak and low ; The one, fantastic, light as air, Take care of Paul ; I feel that I am 'Mid kisses ringing,

dying !' And joyous singing;

And thou, and he, and I, all fell to cryForgets to say her morning prayer !


Then on the roof the osprey screamed The other, with cold drops upon her

aloud; brow,

And here they brought our father in his Joins her two hands, and kneels upon

shroud. the floor,

There is his grave; there stands the And whispers, as her brother opes the

cross we set ; door,

Why dost thou clasp me so, dear MarO God ! forgive me now !”

garet ?

Come in ! The bride will be here And then the orphan, young and blind,

Thou tremblest! ( my God! thou art Conducted by her brother's hand,

going to swoon!”

cry ?


She could no more, — the blind girl, | Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves weak and weary !

it, A voice seemed crying from that grave He must pronounce one word at so dreary,

least ! “What wouldst thou do, my daugh- | 'Tis spoken ; and sudden at the groom.ster ?” — and she started,

man's side And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-“ 'T is he !” a well-known voice has hearted;

cried. But Paul, impatient, urges evermore And while the wedding guests all hold Her steps towards the open door ;

their breath, And when, beneath her feet, the un- Opes the confessional, and the blind happy maid

girl, see ! Crushes the laurel near the house im- “ Baptiste,” she said, “since thou hast mortal,

wished my death, And with her head, as Paul talks on As holy water be my blood for thee !" again,

And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! Touches the crown of filigrane Doubtless her guardian angel near atSuspended from the low-arched

tended, portal,

For anguish did its work so well, No more restrained, no more afraid, That, ere the fatal stroke descended, She walks, as for a feast arrayed,

Lifeless she fell ! And in the ancient chapel's sombre night

At eve, instead of bridal verse, They both are lost to sight.

The De Profundis filled the air ;

Decked with flowers a simple hearse At length the bell,

To the churchyard forth they bear ; With booming sound,

Village girls in robes of snow Sends forth, resounding round, Follow, weeping as they go ; Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down Nowhere was a smile that day, the dell.

No, ah no! for each one seemed to It is broad day, with sunshine and

say :with rain; And yet the guests delay not “The road should mourn and be veiled long,

in gloom, For soon arrives the bridal train, So fair a corpse shall leave its home! And with it brings the village Should mourn and should weep, ah, throng.


So fair a corpse shall pass to-day !” 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 FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis ; I HEAR along our street
To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper

Pass the minstrel throngs; Feels her heart swell to hear all round Hark! they play so sweet, her whisper,

On their hautboys, Christmas songs ! “How beautiful ! how beautiful she is !":

Let us by the fire

Ever higher
But she must calm that giddy Sing them till the night expire. !

For already the Mass is said ;

In December ring
At the holy table stands the priest ; Every day the chimes;
The wedding ring is blessed ; Baptiste Loud the gleemen sing,
receives it ;

In the streets their merry rhymes.

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“And the pleasant water-courses, | On a half-effaced inscription, You could trace then through the valley, Written with little skill of song-craft, By the rushing in the Spring-time, Homely phrases, but each letter By the alders in the Summer,

Full of hope and yet of heart-break, By the white fog in the Autumn, Full of all the tender pathos By the black line in the Winter; Of the Here and the Hereafter ; And beside them dwelt the singer, Stay and read this rude inscription, In the vale of Tawasentha,

Read this Song of Hiawatha ! In the green and silent valley.

“ There he sang of Hiawatha, Sang the Song of Hiawatha,

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 ! On the Mountains of the Prairie,

Ye who love the haunts of Nature, On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,
Love the sunshine of the meadow, Gitche Manito, the mighty,
Love the shadow of the forest,

He the Master of Life, descending, Love the wind among the branches, On the red crags of the quarry And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, Stood erect, and called the nations, And the rushing of great rivers

Called the tribes of men together. Through their palisades of pine-trees, From his footprints flowed a river, And the thunder in the mountains, Leaped into the light of morning, Whose innumerable echoes

O'er the precipice plunging downward Flap like eagles in their eyries ; - Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. Listen to these wild traditions,

And the Spirit, stooping earthward, To this Song of Hiawatha !

With his finger on the meadow Ye who love a nation's legends, Traced a winding pathway for it, Love the ballads of a people,

Saying to it, “Run in this way!” That like voices from afar off

From the red stone of the quarry Call to us to pause and listen,

With his hand he broke a fragment, Speak in tones so plain and childlike, Moulded it into a pipe-head, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Shaped and fashioned it with figures ; Whether they are sung or spoken ; From the margin of the river Listen to this Indian Legend,

Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, To this Song of Hiawatha !

With its dark green leaves upon it ; Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Filled the pipe with bark of willow, Who have faith in God and Nature, With the bark of the red willow; Who believe, that in all ages

Breathed upon the neighboring forest, Every human heart is human,

Made its great boughs chafe together, That in even savage bosoms

Till in flame they burst and kindled ; There are longings, yearnings, strivings And erect upon the mountains, For the good they comprehend not, Gitche Manito, the mighty, That the feeble hands and helpless, Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, Groping blindly in the darkness, As a signal to the nations. Touch God's right hand in that darkness And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, And are lifted up and strengthened ; - Through the tranquil air of morning, Listen to this simple story,

First a single line of darkness, To this Song of Hiawatha !

Then a denser, bluer vapor, Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Then a snow-white cloud unfolding, Through the green lanes of the country, Like the tree-tops of the forest, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Ever rising, rising, rising, Hang their tufts of crimson berries Till it touched the top of heaven, Over stone walls gray with mosses, Till it broke against the heaven, Pause by some neglected graveyard, And rolled outward all around it. For a while to muse, and ponder

From the Vale of Tawasentha,

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