This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,
Seemed from the clouds descending;
When lo! a merry company

Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,

Each one with her attendant swain, Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain; Resembling there, so near unto the sky, Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent, For their delight and our encouragement Together blending,

And soon descending
The narrow sweep
Of the hill-side steep,
They wind aslant
Towards saint Anant,
Through leafy alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies
Singing their chant:

"The roads should blosson, the roads should

bloom,

So fair a bride shall leave her home!

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal laden!

The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,
The sun of March was shining brightly,
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly
Its breathings of perfume.

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,
A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is!

To sounds of joyous melodies,

more:

If thou wouldst perfect be,

Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, And come and follow me!"

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, Those sacred words hath said,

And his invisible hands to-day have been
Laid on a young man's head.

And evermore beside him on his way
The unseen Christ shall move,
That he may lean upon his arm and say,
"Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?"

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,
To make the scene more fair;
Beside him in the dark Gethsemane
Of pain and midnight prayer.

O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!
Like the beloved John

To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,
And thus to journey on!

THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE.
FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN.

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright;
Let me attempt it with an English quill:
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.

I.

AT the foot of the mountain height
Where is perched Castel-Cuillè,

When the apple, the plum, and the almond-tree,
In the plain below were growing white,
This is the song one might perceive

On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:
"The roads should blossom, the roads should
bloom,

So fair a bride should leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

Meanwhile, whence comes it that among
These youthful maidens fresh and fair,
So joyous, with such laughing air,
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue?
And yet the bride is fair and young!
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all,
That love, o'erhasty precedeth a fall?
Oh, no! for a maiden frail, I trow,
Never bore so lofty a brow!

What lovers! they give not a single caress
To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one would say.
What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him op-
press?

It is, that half-way up the hill,
In yon cottage, by those walls
Stand the cart-house and the stalls,
Dwelleth the blind orphan still,
Daughter of a veteran old;
And you must know, one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and tender,
Was the village pride and splendour,
And Baptiste her ioyer bold,

Love, the deceiver, then ensnared ;
For them the altar was prepared;
But, alas! the summer's blight,
The dread disease that none can stay,
The pestilence that walks by night,
Took the young bride's sight away.

All at the father's stern command was changed; Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged.

Wearied at home, ere long the lover fled;
Returned but three short days ago,

The golden chain they round him throw,
He is enticed, and onward led

To marry Angela, and yet
Is thinking ever of Margaret.

Then suddenly a maiden cried,

Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!

Here comes the cripple Jane!" And by a fountain's side

A woman, bent and grey with years,
Under the mulberry-tree appears,
And ail towards her run, as fleet
As had they wings upon their feet,
It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.
She telleth fortunes, and none complain,
She promises one a village swain,
Another a happy wedding-day,

And the bride a lovely boy straightway.
All comes to pass as she avers;
She never deceives, she never errs.

But for this once the village seer
Wears a countenance severe,

And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue,
Who like a statue stands in view;
Changing colour, as well he might,
When the beldame wrinkled and gray
Takes the young bride by the hand,
And, with the tip of her reedy wand

Making the sign of the cross doth say:-
"Thoughtless Angela, beware!

Lest, when thou weddest this false bride

For ever night! for ever night! When he is gone 'tis dark! my soul is sad! I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad. When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude: Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue

eyes;

Within them shines for me a heaven of love,
A heaven all happiness, like that above,
No more of grief! no more of lassitude!
Earth I forget,-and heaven, and all distresses,
When seated by my side my hand he presses;
But when alone, remember all!
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call!
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,
I need some bough to twine around!
In pity come! be to my suffering kind!
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!
What then-when one is blind?

"Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken! Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave!

O God! what thoughts within me waken! Away! he will return! I do but rave!

He will return! I need not fear!
He swore it by our Saviour dear;
He could not come at his own will;
Is weary, or perhaps is ill!

Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,
Prepares for me some sweet surprise!

But some one comes! Though blind my heart can see!

And that deceives me not! 'tis he! 'tis he!"
And the door ajar is set,

And poor, confiding Margaret

Rises, with outstretch'd arms, but sightless eyes; Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:

"Angela the bride has passed!

I saw the wedding guests go by;

Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked?
For all are there but you and I!"

"Angela married! and not send
To tell her secret unto me!

Oh, speak! who may the bridegroom be?"
"My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend!"

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said;
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks,
An icy hand, as heavy as lead,

Descending, as her brother speaks,
Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat,
Suspends awhile its life and heat.

She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.
At length, the bridal song again

Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.
"Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!
Sister, dost thou hear them singing?
How merrily they laugh and jest!
Would we were bidden with the rest!
I would don my hose and homespun gray,
And my doublet of linen striped and gay;
Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed
Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said!"
"I know it!" answered Margaret;
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,
Mastered again; and its hand of ice
Held her heart crushed, as in a vice!
"Paul, be not sad! "Tis a holiday;
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!
But leave me now for a while alone."
Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul,
And, as he whistled along the hall,
Entered Jane, the crippled crone.
"Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat!

I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! But thou art cold,-art chill as death; My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?" "Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;

And, as I listened to the song,

I thought my turn would come ere long,

Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. Thy cards forsooth can never lie, To me such joy they prophecy. Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide When they behold him at my side. And, poor Baptiste, what sayest thou? It must seem long to him;-methinks I see him now!"

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press: "Thy love I cannot all approve; We must not trust too much to happiness; Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!" "The more I pray the more I love!

It is no sin, for God is on my side!"
It was enough; and Jane no more replied.
Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;
But to deceive the beldame old
She takes a sweet, contented air;
Speaks of foul weather or of fair,
At every word the maiden smiles!
Thus the beguiler she beguiles;
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, in the fulness of thy heart,

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!

III.

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 he,

And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,
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

scanned,

With tranquil air her way doth bind. Odours of laurel, making her faint and pale,

Round her at times exhale,

And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,

But brumal vapours gray.
Near that castle, fair to see,

Crowded with sculpture 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 there;
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,

un

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 end? Hearest thou 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 God! 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, faint-hearted; But Paul, impatient, urges ever more

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 bell,

With booming sound,

Sends forth, resounding round,

Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell,
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain,
And yet the guests delay not long,
For soon arrives the bridal train,

And with it brings the village throng.

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 around 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:

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE BAROZAI.
I HEAR along our street,
Pass the minstrel throngs;
Hark! they play so sweet,

On their hautboys, Christmas 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

SCENE 1.-The COUNT OF LARA'S Chambers. Night. The COUNT in his dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with DON CARLOS.

Lara. You were not at the play to-night, Don
Carlos;

How happened it?
Don C.
I had engagements elsewhere,
Pray who was there?
Lara.
Why, all the town and court.
The house was crowded; and the busy fans
Among the gayly-dressed and perfumed ladies
Fluttered like butterfilles among the flowers.
There was the Countess Medina Celi;
The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover,
Her Lindo Don Diego; Dona Sol,
And Dona Serafina, and her cousins.
Don C. What was the play?
Lara.
It was a dull affair;
One of those comedies in which you see,
As Lope says, the history of the world,
Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judg.
ment.

There were three duels fought in the first act,
Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds,
Laying their hands upon their hearts, and say-

ing,

Lara. Because I've heard it said this angel fell,

And though she is a virgin outwardly,
Within she is a sinner; like those panels
Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks

Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary
On the outside, and on the inside Venus!

Lara. How credulous you are!

Why look you, friend, There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, In this whole city! And would you persuade

me

That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself,
Nightly, half-naked, on the stage, for money,
And with voluptuous motions fires the blood
Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held
A model for her virtue?
Don C.

You forget

She is a gipsy girl.
Lara. And therefore won
The easier.

Don C. Nay, not to be won at all!
The only virtue that a Gipsy prizes

Is chastity. That is her only virtue.
Dearer than life she holds it. I remember
A gipsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd,
Whose craft was to betray the young and fair:
And yet this woman was above all bribes.
And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty,-
The wild and wizard beauty her race, -
Offered her gold to be what she made others,
She turned upon him with a look of scorn,
And smote him in the face!

Lara.
And does that prove
That Preciosa is above suspicion?
Don C. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed
When he thinks conquest casy. I believe
That woman, in her deepest degradation.
Holds something sacred, something undefiled,
Some pledge and keepsake of her high nature,
And, like the diamond in the dark, retains
Some quenchless gieam of the celestial light:
Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold.
Don C. (rising). I do not think so.
Lara.
I am sure of it.
But why this haste? Stay yet a little longer,
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea.
Don C Tis late. I must be gone, for if I stay
You will not be persuaded.

Lara.

Yes; persuade me. Don C. No one so deaf as he who will not

wrong.

She is as virtuous as she is fair.

Chasing each other through her zodiac, As Taurus chases Aries.