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