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Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows,
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.
Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,
The threads of our two lives are woven in one.
Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed,
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.
How in the turmoil of life can love stand,
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand?
Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife ;
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.
Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love;
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.
Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen;
I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.
It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest,
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.
This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell;
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.


Forms of saints and kings are standing

The cathedral door above;
Yet I saw but one among them

Who hath soothed my soul with love. In his mantle,-wound about him,

As their robes the sowers wind, Bore he swallows and their fledglings,

Flowers and weeds of every kind. And so stands he calm and childlike,

High in wind and tempest wild;
O, were I like him exalted,

I would be like him, a child !
And my songs,-green leaves and blos-

To the doors of heaven would bear,
Calling, even in storm and tempest,

Round me still these birds of air.

At the ruthless nail of iron

A little bird is striving there. Stained with blood and never tiring,

With its beak it doth not cease,
From the cross 'twould free the Saviour,

Its Creator's Son release.
And the Saviour speaks in mildness:

“Blest be thou of all the good!
Bear, as token of this moment,

Marks of blood and holy rood!”
And that bird is called the crossbill;

Covered all with blood so clear.
In the groves of pine it singeth

Songs, like legends, strange to hear.


On the cross the dying Saviour

Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling

In his pierced and bleeding palm. And by all the world forsaken,

Sees he how with zealous care


THE sea hath its pearls,

The heaven hath its stars;
But my heart, my heart,

My heart hath its love.
Great are the sea and the heaven;

Yet greater is my heart,
And fairer than pearls and stars,

Flashes and beams my love.
Thou little, youthful maiden,

Come unto my great heart;
My heart, and the sea, and the heaven,

Are melting away with love!



A blind man is a poor man,

and blind a Who has it not wants hardihood, Who has it has much trouble and care,

poor man is;

For the former seeth no man, and the Who once has had it has despair.

latter no man sees. THE BEST MEDICINES. Joy and Temperance and Repose

Slam the door on the doctor's nose.

Live I, so live I,

To my Lord heartily,
Man-like is it to fall into sin,

To my Prince faithfully,
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein,

To my Neighbour honestly,
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve,

Die I, so die I.
God-like is it all sin to leave.

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines three
Extant are; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be.

A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round;
If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground.

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke;
But, alas! it now quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined;
Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small;
Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire,
Ha! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth silences the liar.

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in stranger's ears,
They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs ;
For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own,
They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known.

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. JASMIN, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South of France what Burns is to the South of Scotland,--the representative of the heart of the people, -one of those happy bards who are born with their mouths full of birds (la bouco pleno

d'aouzelous). He has written his own biography in a poetic form, and the simple narrative of his poverty, his struggles and his triumphs, is very touching: He still lives at Agen, on the Garonne; and long may he live there to delight his native land with native songs!

Those who may feel interested in knowing something about “Jasmin, Coiffeur" --for such is his calling-will find a description of his person and mode of life in the graphic pages of Béarn and the Pyrenees (Vol. i. p. 369, et seq.), by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming pen has done so much to illustrate the French provinces and their literature.

Should blossom and bloom with garlands THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTÈL CUILLÈ.

gay, I.

So fair a bride shall pass to-day!" At the foot of the mountain height

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, Where is perched Castèl-Cuillè,

With garlands for the bridal laden! When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree

The sky was blue; without one cloud In the plain below were growing

of gloom, white,

The sun of March was shining This is the song one might perceive

brightly, On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's

And to the air

the freshening wind gave Eve:


Its breathings of perfume. The roads should blossom, the roads

When one beholds the dusky hedges should bloom,

blossom, So fair a bride shall leave her home!

A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is! Should blossom and bloom with garlands

To sounds of joyous melodies, gay,

That touch with tenderness the tremSo fair a bride shall pass to-day!”

bling bosom, This old Te Deum, rustic ritesattending,

A band of maidens Seemed from the clouds descending;

Gaily frolicking, When lo! a merry company

A band of youngsters Of rosy village girls, clean as the


Wildly rollicking! Each one with her attendant swain,

Kissing, Came to the cliff, all singing the same

Caressing, strain;

With fingers pressing, Resembling there, so near unto the sky,

Till in the veriest Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has Madness of mirth, as they dance, sent

They retreat and advance, For their delight and our encourage

Trying whose laugh shall be ment.

loudest and merriest; Together blending,

While the bride, with roguish eyes, And soon descending

Sporting with them, now escapes and The narrow sweep

cries: Of the hill-side steep,

Those who catch me
They wind aslant

Married verily
Toward Saint Amant,


shall be !”
Through leafy alleys

And all pursue with eager haste, Of verdurous valleys

And all attain what they pursue, With merry sallies

And touch her pretty apron fresh and Singing their chant:


And the linen kirtle round her waist. "The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,

Meanwhile, whence comes it that So fair a bride shall leave her home!


These youthful maidens fresh and fair,
So joyous, with such laughing air,
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent

And yet the bride is fair and young!
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all,
That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall?

0, 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 oppress?
It is, that, half way up the hill,
In yon cottage, by whose 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

Was thevillage pride and splendour,
And Baptiste her lover bold.
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;
For them the altar was prepared;
But alas! the summer's blight,
The dread disease that none can

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 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 A woman, bent and gray with years, Under the mulberry-trees appears, And all 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 straight-

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 waist

coat 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

bridegroom, Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!” And she was silent; and the maidens

fair Saw from each eye escape a swollen

tear; But on a little streamlet silver-clear,

What are two drops of turbid rain ?
Saddened a moment the bridal train

Resumed the dance and song again; The bridegroom only was pale with

And down green alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies,

They sang the refrain :“The roads should blossom, the roads

should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garSo fair a bride shall pass to-day!”.

II. And by suffering worn and weary, But beautiful as some fair angel yet,


lands gay,

Thus lamented Margaret,

In her cottage lone and dreary :-“He has arrived ! arrived at last! Yet Jane has named him not these three

days past; Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far! And knows that of my night he is the

star! Knows that long months I wait alone,

benighted, And count the moments since he went

away! Come ! keep the promise of that happier

day, That I may keep the faith to thee I

plighted! What joy have I without thee? what

delight? Grief wastes my life, and makes it

misery; Day for the others ever, but for me

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

And the door ajar is set,

And poor, confiding Margaret
Rises, with outstretched arms, but

sightless eyes; 'Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus

“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! O, speak! who may the bridegroom

be?“My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend !” A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing A milky whiteness spreads upon her

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 of 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 ;

said ;

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