"Seest thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows

As on the farther bank the distant towers
Of Vaucouleur ? there in the hamlet Arc
My father's dwelling stands; a lowly hut,
Yet nought of needful comfort wanted it,
For in Lorraine there lived no kinder lord
Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques
In flocks and herds was rich. A toiling man,
Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart
Affection had no root. I never knew

A parent's love; for harsh my mother was,
And deem'd the cares that infancy demands
Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were,
And would have made me fear them, but my soul
Possess'd the germ of steady fortitude,
And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke

And wrathful chastisement. Yet was the voice
That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet
To my young heart; how have I felt it leap

With transport, when mine uncle Claude approach'd!
For he would place me on his knee, and tell
The wondrous tales that childhood loves to hear,
Listening with eager eyes and open lips
In most devout attention. Good old man!
Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven
Unhallowed by the grateful thought of him,
Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it!
He was a parent to me, and his home

Was mine, when, in advancing years, I found
No peace, no comfort, in my father's house.
With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours,
By day I drove my father's flock afield
And this was happiness.

Amid these wilds

Often to summer pasture have I driven

The flock; and well I know these mountain wilds,
And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream

Is dear to memory. I have laid me down
Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent
Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd

The tide roll glittering to the noon-tide sun,

And listened to its ceaseless murmuring,

Till all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul,
Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight
That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds
Over the lake at eve: their fleeting hues
The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye,
Yet he remembers well how fair they were,
How very lovely.

Here in solitude

My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes
Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was,

As the white mists of morning roll'd away,
To see the mountain's wooded heights appear
Dark in the early dawn, and mark its slope
Rich with the blossom'd furze, as the slant sun
On the golden ripeness pour'd a deepening light.
Pleasant at noon, beside the vocal brook

To lie me down, and watch the floating clouds,
And shape to Fancy's wild similitudes
Their ever-varying forms; and oh, most sweet!
To drive my flock at evening to the fold,
And hasten to our little hut, and hear
The voice of kindness bid me welcome home.

“Amid the village playmates of my youth Was one whom riper years approved my friend; A very gentle maid was Madelon.

I loved her as a sister, and long time
Her undivided tenderness possess'd,
Till that a better and a holier tie

Gave her one nearer friend; and then my heart
Partook her happiness, for never lived

A happier pair than Arnaud and his wife.

"Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her youth
Went Arnaud to the war. The morn was fair,
Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerily,
And all the fields look'd lovely in the spring;
But to Domremi wretched was that day,
For there was lamentation, and the voice
Of anguish, and the deeper agony

That spake not. Never will my heart forget
The feelings that shot through me, when the sound
Of cheerful music burst upon our ears

Sudden, and from the arms that round their necks
Hung close entwined, as in a last embrace,
Friends, brethren, husbands went.

More frequent now

Sought I the converse of poor Madelon,
For much she needed now the soothing voice
Of friendship. Heavily the summer pass'd,
To her a joyless one, expecting still
Some tidings from the war; and as at eve
She with her mother by the cottage door
Sat in the sunshine, I have seen her eye,
If one appear'd along the distant path,
Shape to the form she loved his lineaments,
Her cheek faint flush'd by hope, that made her heart
Seem as it sunk within her. So the days

And weeks and months pass'd on, and when the leaves
Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope

That reason own'd not, that with expectation
Did never cheer her as she rose at morn,
Still lingered in her heart, and still at night
Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came,
But Arnaud never from the war return'd,
He far away had perish'd; and when late
The tidings of his certain death arriv'd,
Sore with long anguish underneath that blow
She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day
Upon the past, and talk of happiness

That never would return, as tho' she found
Best solace in the thoughts that minister'd
To sorrow: and she loved to see the sun
Go down, because another day was gone,
And then she might retire to solitude
And wakeful recollections, or perchance
To sleep more wearying far than wakefulness,
For in the visions of her heart she saw
Her husband, saw him as escaped the war,
To his own home return'd. Thus day nor night
Reposed she, and she pined and pined away.

"Bitter art thou to him that lives in rest,
O Death! and grievous in the hour of joy
The thought of thy cold dwelling; but thou comest
Most welcome to the wretched; a best friend
To him that wanteth one; a comforter,

For in the grave is peace. By the bed-side
Of Madelon I sat: when sure she felt
The hour of her deliverance drawing near,
I saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope,
I had her latest look of earthly love,

I felt her hand's last pressure. Son of Orleans!
I would not wish to live to know that hour,
When I could think upon a dear friend dead,
And weep not.

I remember, as her corse
Went to the grave, there was a lark sprung up,
And soaring in the sunshine, caroll'd loud
A joyful song; and in mine heart I thought,
That of the multitude of beings, man

Alone was wretched.

Then my soul awoke,
For it had slumber'd long in happiness,
And never feeling misery, never thought
What others suffer. I, as best I might,
Solaced the keen regret of Elinor;

And much my cares avail'd, and much her son's,
On whom, the only comfort of her age,
She centred now her love. A younger birth,
Aged nearly as myself, was Theodore,

An ardent youth, who with the kindest cares
Had sooth'd his sister's sorrows.

We had knelt

By her death-bed together, and no bond
In closer union knits two human hearts
Than fellowship in grief.

It chanc'd as once
Beside the fire of Elinor I sat,

The night was comfortless; the loud blast howl'd;
And as we drew around the social hearth,

We heard the rain beat hard; driven by the storm
A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light.

We heapt the fire: the friendly board was spread :
The bowl of hospitality went round.

The storm beats hard,' the stranger cried; 'safe hous'd, Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain.

I too were well content to dwell in peace,

Resting my head upon the lap of Love,

But that my country calls. When the winds roar,
Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers,

And think of Conrade.'

Theodore replied,

'Success go with thee! Something I have known
Of war, and of its dreadful ravages;

My soul was sick at such ferocity:
And I am well content to dwell in peace,
Albeit inglorious, thanking that good God

Who made me to be happy.'

'Did that God,'

Cried Conrade, form thy heart for happiness,
When Desolation royally careers

Over thy wretched country? Did that God
Form thee for peace when Slaughter is abroad,

When her brooks run with blood, and Rape and Murder
Stalk thro' her flaming towns? Live thou in peace,
Young man! my heart is human: I do feel

For what my brethren suffer.'

As he spake,
Such mingled passions charactered his face
Of fierce and terrible benevolence,

That I did tremble as I listen'd to him.
Then in mine heart tumultuous thoughts arose
Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild,
And vast, yet such they were as made me pant
As though by some divinity possess'd.

"But is there not some duty due to those
We love?' said Theodore; and as he spake
His warm cheek crimson'd. 'Is it not most right
To cheer the evening of declining age,

With filial tenderness repaying thus

Parental care ?'

'Hard is it,' Conrade cried,
'Ay, very hard, to part from those we love;
And I have suffer'd that severest pang.
I have left an aged mother; I have left
One, upon whom my heart has centred all
Its dearest, best affections. Should I live
'Till France shall see the blessed hour of Peace,
I shall return: my heart will be content,
My highest duties will be well discharg'd,
And I may dare be happy. There are those
Who deem these thoughts wild fancies of a mind
Strict beyond measure, and were well content,
If I should soften down my rigid nature