CHAPTER XXXIII.

FRANÇONNETTE.

I.

Nor of our own, but of those distant days,
When blood and tears rilled through Provençal shore,
Shed by the sword of tiger-hearted Blaise

As 'gainst the Huguenots his legions pour.
Nor can the martyr's band their sorrows cease,
His sword he flasheth for the God of peace;
Wretched he deems such aid the cross demands,

Corses bestrew the fountain's rippling stream, Infants and parents lie upon the sands,

Then sheathes his sword, its purpling crimson gleam. The breathless tiger calls his murderous bands,

Enters his castle walls and goes to prayer,

Filled with the blood of God's own people there—

A threefold wall, a triple foe within,

No more resounds his murderous culvérin.

Beneath a frowning fortress wall
The glancing feet of maidens fall,
To the pleasant sounding

Of the fife, rebounding;

August's golden month descending,
Mingled flowers their odours blending,
The grape and fig are ripened through
Heat of sun and freshest dew;

Never a fête like this was seen

'Neath sheltering leaves so fresh and green,

From the cliffs on high,
From the valley below
Still comes their cry

As the peasant's flow;
Upward from Montagnack,
On from St. Colombe,
Winding the dusty track

The happy feasters come

The meadows a chamber, the hills a throne,
The sun shines bright and the fêtes begun.

What pleasure to meet,
While the air with heat

Doth sparkle and glow

How the dancers go!

Lemonade bubbles and cymbals clash,

Polchinelle mutters and loud drums crash ;

But who is this that beneath is seen,

'Tis Françonnette the Prairy Queen!

'Tis the custom I ween

In hamlet, city, or field,

That some one single girl
Of love should be pearl

Through our meadows green,

One tribute all yield;

To whatever city your steps might repair

You'd still deem Françonnette the fairest of fair!

Now please not to dream

That her eyes languid seem,

That her figure was drooping like a willow by stream;

Nor like a lily white

She appeared to the sight,

Her eyes sparkled finely like stars in the night;

Roses blushed on her face,

Her brown hair with grace

Curled over her brow,
Her mouth like a cherry,

Teeth whiter than snow,

She laughed out right merry ;

To say it, good sirs, 'tis my manifest duty,
That Françonnette was the load-star of beauty!

Save Pascal, brave Pascal- the neighbours all gave
Their hearts to her keeping-he alone won't be slave.
Her grandmother, after these grave words, used speak:
"Marcel is thy lover, I my promise won't break."

"Dear grandmother," laughing, Françonnette then would cry—
"I'll have more than one lover I'm sure ere I die!"
Alas! how these peasants from morning to night
Would pine for her love, though they could not indite
A single love-letter; how their work went astray,
The vines were half spoilt and the furrows wrong way.
But still all in vain for this maiden's no pleasing,
Unless she 'll succeed in Pascal's heart teasing.

Now with me unite,

Since you know all about her, to keep her in sight;
With young Stephen she's dancing,

Yet at Pascal she's glancing;

The wind blows high her kerchief blue.

Now when the dancer is tired,

By the usage required

A single kiss is on her lips impressed,

And he who gives it is thought grandly blest;
Jean, Louis, Piérre and Paul

All breathless backward fall.
Marcel advances slow,

The cockade on his brow,

A soldier straight and tall,

He thinks the prize his own!

Why, she seems only now begun.

His helmet, pay, and glittering sabre

He'd freely give for victory in this labour.

Alas! alas, she dances on oft smiling,

Her joyous steps with merriment beguiling;
Marcel turns pale,

His steps now fail
Back from her presence falling.

Pascal assumes his place,

Then with a witching grace.

"I'm weary quite;” him Victor all are calling,
While with that single kiss

Pascal seems faint with bliss.

With anguish and rage, Marcel is beholding

On Pascal he rushes-strikes a blow on his cheek. "Back, peasant!"-his voice looms like loud thunder scolding

"Thou did'st come much too soon, I felt only weak!"

Alas! how joy fast withers into pain!

Life and death!

A kiss, a blow!

Fire and ice!

Pascal stands with bated breath,

Such thoughts madly flow;

Alas! his passions fleet device!

With eyes that flash and cry resounding,

On Marcel now his steps are bounding.

The soldier draws his sword,

But falls upon the turf. "Fore Pascal," all's in vain!
Uprises then each peasant's word.

"Back, peasants, back!"-
'—a single voice is heard-
Montluc has come to greet the revel throng,
And Roquefort too—but like the evening bird
Now hushed is all the merriment of song.

The gentle maidens all have fled apace,
Like hares that fly along the furrow's trace;

The shepherds march, with fife and drum loud sounding,
Pascal, the throng is eagerly surrounding;
Marcel looks back, and cries with angry mien,
"They love each other, that is plainly seen—
By Saint Marcel, her love I yet will brave,
She'll be my wife unto the very grave!"

II.

Three months in rural fêtes are gone

The dance's measure,

Rustic pleasure,
Autumn's treasure,

Forest tressure

All, all are done.

Beneath high heaven's dome

Sombre the days become,

While no one dares to stray
Except in cheerful light of day

The melancholy fields among,

But croucheth sadly at the blazing fire;
While wolves and witches, terror of each hall,
Their sabbaths keep beneath the elms tall.

Hush!-list, Jean's loud drum—

"Maidens, dress and come, Christmas Day on us has glided;

Maidens tender, true,

Spin at the Buscou !"

Thus his stalwart arms fall,

Thus his thundrous accents call--
"One and each I now require!"

Quickly now the tale's divided,

They seem like birds, with wings provided.
Scarce the air feels the sun's heat,
When from Fire to Fire they greet
One another-saying, "Meet
At the Buscou, New-year's Day,"
Thus from mouth to mouth all say !