your sorrow,
And all that you have had to go through.
Long have I troubled for your arm! For mercy's
sake
Oh! go not forth to-night! I dreamt of flowers again,
And what means that, Pascal, but so much
tears and pain!"
"Now art thou craven, mother! and see'st that life's all black,
But wherefore tremble,
since Marcel has gone, and comes not back!"
"Oh yet, my son, do you take heed, I pray!
For the wizard
of the Black Wood is roaming round this way;
The same who wrought such havoc, 'twas but a year agone,
They tell me one was seen to come from 's cave at dawn
But two days past--it was a soldier; now
What
if this were Marcel? Oh, my child, do take care!
Each mother gives her charms unto her sons; do thou
Take mine; but I beseech, go not forth anywhere!"
"Just for one little hour, mine eyes to set
On my friend
Thomas, whom I'm bound to meet!"
"Thy friend, indeed! Nay, nay! Thou meanest Franconnette,
Whom
thou loves dearly! I wish thou'd love some other maid!
Oh, yes! I read it in thine eyes!
Though thou
sing'st, art gay, thy secret bravely keeping,
That I may not be sad, yet all alone thou'rt weeping--
My
head aches for thy misery;
Yet leave her, for thine own good, my dear Pascal;
She would so greatly scorn
a working smith like thee,
With mother old in penury;
For poor we are--thou knowest truly.
"How we have
sold and sold fill scarce a scythe remains.
Oh, dark the days this house hath seen
Since, Pascal, thou
so ill hast been;
Now thou art well, arouse! do something for our gains
Or rest thee, if thou wilt; with suffering
we can fight;
But, for God's love, oh! go not forth to-night!"
And the poor mother, quite undone,
Cried,
while thus pleading with her son,
Who, leaning on his blacksmith's forge
The stifling sobs quelled in his
gorge.
"'Tis very true," he said, "that we are poor,
But had I that forgot? . . . I go to work, my mother,
now, be sure!"
No sooner said than done; for in a blink
Was heard the anvil's clink,
The sparks flew from
the blacksmith's fire
Higher and still higher!
The forgeman struck the molten iron dead,
Hammer in hand,
as if he had a hundred in his head!
But now, the Busking was apace,
And soon, from every corner place
The girls came with the skein of their own making
To wind up at this sweethearts' merry meeting.
In the
large chamber, where they sat and winded
The threads, all doubly garnished,
The girls, the lads, plied
hard their finger,
And swiftly wound together
The clews of lint so fair,
As fine as any hair.
The winding
now was done; and the white wine, and rhymsters,
Came forth with rippling glass and porringers,
And
brought their vivid vapours
To brighten up their capers--
Ah! if the prettiest were the best, with pride
I
would my Franconnette describe.
Though queen of games, she was the last, not worst,
It is not that she
reigned at present, yet was first.
"Hold! Hold!" she cried, the brown-haired maid,
Now she directed them
from side to side--
Three women merged in one, they said--
She dances, speaks, sings, all bewitching,
By maiden's wiles she was so rich in;
She sings with soul of turtle-dove,
She speaks with grace angelic;
She
dances on the wings of love--
Sings, speaks, and dances, in a guise
More than enough to turn the head
most wise!
Her triumph is complete; all eyes are fixed upon her,
Though her adorers are but peasants;
Her
eyes are beaming,
Blazing and sparkling,
And quite bewitching;
No wonder that the sweetheart lads are
ravished with her!
Then Thomas rose and, on the coquette fixing
His ardent eyes, though blushing,
In language full of neatness,
And tones of lute-like sweetness,
This song began to sing:
THE SYREN
WITH A HEART OF ICE.
"Oh, tell us, charming Syren,
With heart of ice unmoved,
When shall we hear
the sound
Of bells that ring around,
To say that you have loved?
Always so free and gay,
Those wings
of dazzling ray,
Are spread to every air--
And all your favour share;
Attracted by their light
All follow in
your flight.
But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,
Such triumphs do but purchase pain;
What is it to be loved
like this,
To her who cannot love again?
"You've seen how full of joy
We've marked the sun arise;
Even
so each Sunday morn
When you, before our eyes,
Bring us such sweet surprise.
With us new life is
born:
We love your angel face,
Your step so debonnaire,
Your mien of maiden grace,
Your voice, your
lips, your hair,
Your eyes of gentle fire,
All these we now admire!
But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,
Such
triumphs do but purchase pain;
What is it to be loved like this,
To her who cannot love again?
"Alas! our
groves are dull
When widowed of thy sight,
And neither hedge nor field
Their perfume seem to yield;
The
blue sky is not bright
When you return once more,
All that was sad is gone,
All nature you restore,
We
breathe in you alone;
We could your rosy fingers cover
With kisses of delight all over!
But ah! believe
me, 'tis not bliss,
Such triumphs do but purchase pain;
What is it to be loved like this,
To her who cannot
love again?
"The dove you lost of late,
Might warn you by her flight,
She sought in woods her mate,
And has forgot you quite;
She has become more fair
Since love has been her care.
'Tis love makes all
things gay,
Oh follow where she leads--
When beauteous looks decay,
What dreary life succeeds!
And
ah! believe me, perfect bliss,
A joy, where peace and triumph reign,
Is when a maiden, loved like this,
Has learnt 'tis sweet to love again!"
The songster finished, and the ardent crowd
Of listeners clapped