'Tis true at first I have not many a friend,

Still true's the proverb-Though the rain descend
Not upon earth, yet still that very day

A gentle dew it moisture sure will lend,
And cool the fierceness of the hot sun's ray.
I found a loving maid, who loved me well;
How fleet the time flies to the happy soul,
When suffering less away the moments roll;
Like the wild bird I love the azure sky,
Like the sea fowl, to ocean waves I fly;
Oh how I loved, my tongue can scarcely tell,
To lie alone upon the primrosed grass,

Listening the music that the wild bees hum,
Watching the shadows lengthen as they pass,
While gentle visions melancholy come.
Verses I made, not grand as bards of old,
Yet verses still that many a story told;
What rapture then to seek her loving smile,
To clasp her hand and thus the eve beguile;
Ah! if I did not fear you'd quickly say,
"Jasmin's too long," I'd paint our marriage day-
My hat fresh cocked; my blue frock turned again;
My whitest shirt; I might full well be vain.
Since then some fifteen years have rolled along,
Since then the echoes of my rural song

Have caused a little stream of gold to flow
Into my coffers. Thus the more I sing

The more I gain. Away has passed my fear;
The hospitals no more their horrors fling
Around my path. One thing indeed is clear,
I gain, I spend, my house I rather fear
Some slates doth want, at least upon the rear.
My wife cries, "Courage, every verse you string
Another tile upon the roof will bring!"
Thus I make verses, thus I toil away;

My wife who other times would beg and pray
That I from pen and ink abstain would quite,
Brings the best pen and presses me to write.
"Write on, my love," she cries, with gracious mien,

Urging to write, my parents now are seen.

"Make verses, verses; thus from morn till night My household cries, then reads them with delight.

Adieu, adieu, my threefold strain is ended.
I've granted now your pressing words' demand;
There's something solemn with a farewell blended,
A looking forward to another strand;

May we meet there where tears have aye departed,
Where there's no weeping eye or broken-hearted.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE BLIND MAIDEN OF CASTEL-CUILLÉ.

I.

BENEATH that lofty mountain height,
Where Castel-Cuillé's towers shine bright
In evening's sunset glow—

What time the scented blossoms come,
On apple, almond, and on plum,

And whiten fields below

Eve of Saint Joseph through the plain,
We heard this sweetly sung refrain.

"The roads should cover themselves with flowers, 'Neath the fair step of this bride of ours; Cover them o'er with fruit and bloom,

Till the fair maiden blushing come."

Old Te Deums chanted loud,
Seem descending from yon cloud;
Beautiful the gliding crowd-
Maidens climbing upward higher
Toward the mountain crest aspire ;
Walking each by lover's side,
With the same refrain replied;
There the neighbours of the sky
Seemed half angels from on high!

Soon they downward take their flight,
On the narrow path they light;

Form a chain in joyous throng,

Chant they thus toward Saint Amant.

"The roads should cover themselves with flowers, 'Neath the fair steps of this bride of ours;

Cover them over with fruit and bloom,
Till the sweet maiden blushing come.'

It is Baptiste and his fair bride,

They seek the green leaves' woodland pride;
The sky was blue, no cloud was seen,

A light breeze flings its balmy breath,

The March sun gilds with rays the heath.
How joyous a wedding when fields are green,
How the picture charms the sight,
Filling the heart with sweet delight;
A thousand songs rise on the air,
Fluttering maids and young men there,
By his love each one lingers,
Presses oft her tapering fingers!
Passes on that happy day,
Many a sport and jocund play.

Then the destined bride cries clear,
"Catch me, then be wed this year!"
Then they run on all sides round her,
Try like wild fawn to surround her,
Try to hold ere darts away,

Apron new and robe so gay.

But whence comes it mid the beaming,
Of such mirth and sunny gleaming,
Baptiste only sad is seeming?

Why amid that revelry,
Utters he that frequent sigh?
Surely such a pair of lovers,
Not one single kiss discovers,
All the fervour of their heart,
One would think they act the part
Of great people placed on high!

Why upon that happy eve,

Can such sad thoughts Baptiste grieve?

Dost thou see by the side of the hill,
A house rising, lonely and still,
Close to that little wood shed?
In that lone cottage you'd find
An orphan, once lovely, now blind.
Her father, a soldier, lived there,
And Marguerite, fairest of fair,
To Baptiste soon was to be wed;
For the altar the lovers prepare.

Alas! disease from summer heat ensuing,
For ever endeth now that lover's wooing—
For Marguerite is blind!

Love still, not happiness, you'll find.

They loved on still, 'tis said.

Before a cruel father's frown,

Baptiste is forced his true love to disown.

Away he goes, and now but three days since returning,

A love of gold within his bosom burning,

He weds Angèle, while still he's ever dreaming

Of Marguerite, with thoughts of saddest seeming!

Suddenly Angèle exclaiming,

"Catherine, Marie, Therese naming,

Under yonder mulberries green;

Have I Jane the cripple seen,

By the fountain wave low bending,
White hairs on her forehead blending."
Like the wild bird's rapid flight,
The maidens run with all their might;

None have tried her skill in vain,
None were known e'er to complain,
Of her skill in fortune-telling.
To the mother's heart outswelling,
Promist is a lovely child,
To the love-lorn maiden wild,
Vanisht is her bitter pain,

“Thou wilt win thy love again."