Advice - Blessed Bread - Satisfaction and Affection - First
Thought of Love--Sorrowfulness--The Virgin.
Beside a cot at Estanquet,
Down by a leafy brooklet,
The limpid stream
Enshadowed sheen,
Lapped
o'er the pebbles murmuring.
Last summer sat a maid, with gathered flowers,
She was engaged in setting,
Within her grassy bowers;
She sang in joy her notes so thrilling,
As made the birds, their sweet songs
trilling,
Most jealous.
Why does she sing no more? midst fields and hedgerows verdant;
'The nightingales
that came within her garden,
With their loud "jug! jug!" warbling,
And their sweet quavers singing;
Can
she have left her cottage home?
No! There's her pretty hat of straw
Laid on the bench; but then they
saw
There was no ribbon round it;
The garden all neglected;
The rake and wat'ring-pot were down
Amongst
the jonquils overthrown;
The broken-branched roses running riot;
The dandelion, groundsell, all about;
And
the nice walks, laid out with so much taste,
Now cover'd with neglected weeds and wanton waste.
Oh!
what has happened here? Where is the lively maid?
The little birds now whispering said;
Her home is
sparkling there beyond,
With tufted branch of hazel round;
Let's just peep in, the door is open,
We make
no noise, but let us listen.
Ah! there's grandmother, on her arm-chair, fast asleep!
And here, beside the
casement deep,
The maid of Estanquet, in saddened pain and grief,
The tears down-falling on her pretty
hand;
To whom no joy nor hope can ever give relief!
Ah! yes,'twas dark enough! for it is Franconnette,
Already you've divined it is our pet!
And see her now, poor maiden,
Bending beneath the falsest blow,
o'erladen;
She sobs and weeps alternately--
Her heart is rent and empty,
Oft, to console herself, she
rises, walks, and walks again;
Alas! her trouble is so full of pain--
Awake or sleeping--
she's only soothed
by weeping.
Daughter of Huguenot accursed,
And banished from the Church!
Sold to the demon; she's
for ever cursed!
Grandmother, waking, said, "Child, 'tis not true;
It matters not; 'tis but thy father fled,
No
one can contradict that raving crew;
They know not where he is, and could they see him,
They would
so frightened be, they'd not believe their een!"
"How changed things are," said Franconnette, "before I
was so happy;
Then I was village queen, all followed love in harmony;
And all the lads, to please me,
Would come barefooted, e'en through serpents' nests, to bless me!
But now, to be despised and curst,
I, who was once the very first!
And Pascal, too, whom once I thought the best,
In all my misery shuns
me like a pest!
Now that he knows my very sad mishaps,
He ne'er consoles with me at all--perhaps----
"
She did deceive herself. Her grief to-day was softened
By hearing that Pascal 'gainst slanders her
defended;
Such magic help, it was a balm
Her aching soul to calm;
And then, to sweeten all her ill,
She
thought always of Pascal--did this softened girl.
What is that sound? A sudden shriek!
Grandmother
dreamt--she was now wideawake;
The girl sprang to her; she said, "Isn't the house aflame?
Ah! twas a
dream! Thank God!" her murmur came.
"Dear heart," the girl said softly; "what was this dream of thine?"
"Oh,
love! 'twas night, and loud ferocious men, methought
Came lighting fires all round our little cot,
And
thou did'st cry unto them, daughter mine,
To save me, but did'st vainly strive,
For here we too must
burn alive!
The torment that I bore! How shall I cure my fright
Come hither, darling, let me hold thee
tight!"
Then the white-headed dame, in withered arms of love,
With yearning tenderness folded the brown-
haired girl, who strove,
By many a smile, and mute caress,
To hearten her, until at length
The aged one
cried out, her love gave vital strength,
"Sold to the Demon, thou? It is a hideous lie!
Therefore, dear
child, weep not so piteously;
Take courage! Be thou brave in heart once more,
Thou art more lovely
than before--
Take grannie's word for that! Arise!
Go forth; who hides from envious eyes
Makes wicked
people spiteful; I've heard this, my pet;
I know full well there's one who loves thee yet--
Marcel would
guard thee with his love;
Thou lik'st not him? Ah! could he move
Thy feelings, he would shield thee,
dear,
And claim thee for his own.
But I am all too feeble grown;
Yet stay, my darling, stay! To-morrow's
Easter Day,
Go thou to Mass, and pray as ne'er before!
Then take the blessed bread, if so the good
God may
The precious favour of his former smile restore,
And on thy sweet face, clear as day,
Own
thou art numbered with his children evermore!"
Then such a gleam of hope lit the old face again,
Furrowed
so deep with years and pain,
That, falling on her neck, the maiden promised well,
And once more on
the white cot silence fell.
When, therefore, on the morrow, came the country-side,
To hear the Hallelujas
in the church of Saint Pierre;
Great was the wonderment of those that spied
The maiden, Franconnette,
silently kneeling there,
Telling her beads with downcast eyes of prayer.
She needs, poor thing, Heaven's
mercy to implore,
For ne'er a woman's will she win!
But then, beholding her sweet mien,
Were Marvel
and Pascal, eyeing her fondly o'er;
She saw them with her glances, dark as night,
Then shrinking back,
they left her all alone,
Midway of a great circle, as they might
Some poor condemned one
Bearing some
stigma on her brow in sight.
This was not all, poor child! It was well known--
The warden, uncle to Marcel,