MY BONNIE STEED.

A lady on horsebackMy Bonnie Steed

My Bonnie Steed

MY BONNIE STEED.

———

BY ALEX. A. IRVINE.

———

Mybonnie steed, with merry speed,Away we gallop free,The first to drink the morning breeze,Or brush the dewy lea,To hail the sun as o’er the hillsHis slanting ray he flings,Or hear the matin of the larkThat high in heaven rings.My bonnie steed, o’er noontide meadWe’ve swept in canter gay,Through woodland path have boldly dash’d,Oh! what can check our way?With hound and horn in jocund bandAnd hearts that smile at fear,And flowing rein and gay halloo,We’ve chased the flying deer.My bonnie steed, with matchless speedAt eve we dash away,The zephyrs laughing round our pathAs children at their play,And while in merry race and free,Away, away we fly,The thick stars shining overheadSeem speeding swifter by.My bonnie steed, my bonnie steed,True friend indeed thou art,And none are brighter in mine eyeOr dearer to my heart.Let others smile on gallants gayI mock the lover’s creed,Then onward press, away, away,My bonnie, bonnie steed.

Mybonnie steed, with merry speed,

Away we gallop free,

The first to drink the morning breeze,

Or brush the dewy lea,

To hail the sun as o’er the hills

His slanting ray he flings,

Or hear the matin of the lark

That high in heaven rings.

My bonnie steed, o’er noontide meadWe’ve swept in canter gay,Through woodland path have boldly dash’d,Oh! what can check our way?With hound and horn in jocund bandAnd hearts that smile at fear,And flowing rein and gay halloo,We’ve chased the flying deer.

My bonnie steed, o’er noontide mead

We’ve swept in canter gay,

Through woodland path have boldly dash’d,

Oh! what can check our way?

With hound and horn in jocund band

And hearts that smile at fear,

And flowing rein and gay halloo,

We’ve chased the flying deer.

My bonnie steed, with matchless speedAt eve we dash away,The zephyrs laughing round our pathAs children at their play,And while in merry race and free,Away, away we fly,The thick stars shining overheadSeem speeding swifter by.

My bonnie steed, with matchless speed

At eve we dash away,

The zephyrs laughing round our path

As children at their play,

And while in merry race and free,

Away, away we fly,

The thick stars shining overhead

Seem speeding swifter by.

My bonnie steed, my bonnie steed,True friend indeed thou art,And none are brighter in mine eyeOr dearer to my heart.Let others smile on gallants gayI mock the lover’s creed,Then onward press, away, away,My bonnie, bonnie steed.

My bonnie steed, my bonnie steed,

True friend indeed thou art,

And none are brighter in mine eye

Or dearer to my heart.

Let others smile on gallants gay

I mock the lover’s creed,

Then onward press, away, away,

My bonnie, bonnie steed.

ORIGINAL LETTER

FROM

CHARLES DICKENS.

[For the truly characteristic letter here published, and for the sketch which accompanies it, we are indebted to the obliging attention ofMr. John Tomlinof Tennessee.—With our own warm admiration of the writings and character of Dickens we can well understand and easily pardon the enthusiasm of our friend.]

Insetting about that most difficult of all tasks, the sketching of the character of a living author, I feel that I cannot entirely keep clear of that weakness of the human mind, which praises the foibles of a friend and condemns the virtues of an enemy. There is no task more difficult of performance than the one I have imposed upon myself—no task but what can be more easily performed correctly, than the presentation to the world, in their nice distinctive shades, of living characters. To admire one is to praise him—and to cover all of his faults in the blindness of charity, is the weakness of our nature. It is scarcely possible then, Mr. Poe, for one like me, whose love is as strong as the faith of the martyr, when at the stake he expires, and whose hate is as deep as the depths of the sea, to shun the errors that almost every one has fallen into, who undertakes the task of sketching characters,life-like, of eminent living individuals.—To succeed partially is in my power, and in the power of almost every one, but to succeed wholly in introducing to the mind’s eye the character as it really is, of any individual, is scarcely possible. I will not say that I am peculiarly fitted to shine in this province, nor will I say that I am equal to the task that I have voluntarily imposed upon myself—but I will say that everything I say will be said from a conviction of belief.

Nay, do not start and turn pale, gentle reader, when I tell you that “Boz,” the inimitable “Boz,” is the subject of the present sketch. It is indeed true that Charles Dickens, the great English author—he who lives in London amid the exciting scenes and struggles of this world’s great Metropolis, is now about to be “talked off,” by a backwoodsman—but he will do it with anadmiringreverence, and amost partialdiscretion. I will not speak of his published works, for they have been numbered among our household gods,—nor of the genius of the mind that has made them such. So long as there is mind to appreciate the high conceptions of mind, and a taste to admire the purity of thought, so long will Charles Dickens live “the noblest work of God.”

Charles Dickens as an author is too well known for me to say aught for or against him. It is only in his private capacity will I speak—only as Charles Dickens, the private man. Those social qualities of the nature so requisite in the making up of a good man, belong to him essentially and justly. He could not be Charles Dickens and have not those qualities of the soul which but few possess. Had all of us the true nobility of nature, all of us would be like him in spirit. There is in him a gentleness that commands our love as much as his genius has our admiration. The kindness of his nature is as great as his talent is pre-eminent. He could never be otherwise than “Boz” nor less than Charles Dickens—the being of all kindly feeling.

Dwelling in a little hamlet that is scarcely known beyond the sound of its church bell—and in a place that a few years ago, resounded only to the winds of the magic woods, or the moccasin tread of the Indian on the dry leaves,—I, a creature less known by far than my village, addressed a letter to “Boz,” and, in answer from him, received the following letter:

“1 Devonshire Terrace, York Gate.Regent’s Park, London.Tuesday, Twenty-third February, 1841.Dear Sir:—You are quite right in feeling assured that I should answer the letter you have addressed to me. If you had entertained a presentiment that it would afford me sincere pleasure and delight to hear from a warm-hearted and admiring reader of my books in the back-woods of America, you would not have been far wrong.I thank you cordially and heartily, both for your letter, and its kind and courteous terms. To think that I have awakened a fellow-feeling and sympathy with the creatures of many thoughtful hours among the vast solitudes in which you dwell, is a source of the purest delight and pride to me; and believe me that your expressions of affectionate remembrance and approval, sounding from the great forests on the banks of the Mississippi, sink deeper into my heart and gratify it more than all the honorary distinctions that all the courts in Europe could confer.It is such things as these that make one hope one does not live in vain, and that are the highest reward of an author’s life. To be numbered among the household gods of one’s distant countrymen and associated with their homes and quiet pleasures—to be told that in each nook and corner of the world’s great mass there lives one well-wisher who holds communion with one in the spirit—is a worthy fame indeed, and one which I would not barter for a mine of wealth.That I may be happy enough to cheer some of your leisure hours for a very long time to come, and to hold a place in your pleasant thoughts is the earnest wish of Boz.—And with all good wishes for yourself, and with a sincere reciprocation of all your kindly feeling, I am, Dear Sir,Faithfully Yours,Charles Dickens.Mr. John Tomlin.”

“1 Devonshire Terrace, York Gate.

Regent’s Park, London.

Tuesday, Twenty-third February, 1841.

Dear Sir:—You are quite right in feeling assured that I should answer the letter you have addressed to me. If you had entertained a presentiment that it would afford me sincere pleasure and delight to hear from a warm-hearted and admiring reader of my books in the back-woods of America, you would not have been far wrong.

I thank you cordially and heartily, both for your letter, and its kind and courteous terms. To think that I have awakened a fellow-feeling and sympathy with the creatures of many thoughtful hours among the vast solitudes in which you dwell, is a source of the purest delight and pride to me; and believe me that your expressions of affectionate remembrance and approval, sounding from the great forests on the banks of the Mississippi, sink deeper into my heart and gratify it more than all the honorary distinctions that all the courts in Europe could confer.

It is such things as these that make one hope one does not live in vain, and that are the highest reward of an author’s life. To be numbered among the household gods of one’s distant countrymen and associated with their homes and quiet pleasures—to be told that in each nook and corner of the world’s great mass there lives one well-wisher who holds communion with one in the spirit—is a worthy fame indeed, and one which I would not barter for a mine of wealth.

That I may be happy enough to cheer some of your leisure hours for a very long time to come, and to hold a place in your pleasant thoughts is the earnest wish of Boz.—And with all good wishes for yourself, and with a sincere reciprocation of all your kindly feeling, I am, Dear Sir,

Faithfully Yours,

Charles Dickens.

Mr. John Tomlin.”

Can anything be moreunique—or more sweetly beautiful than this letter? In it there is the poetry of feeling warmed into life by his sympathies with the “creatures of many thoughtful hours.” The brain has never yet loosened from her alembic fountain, and dropped upon an author’s page, thoughts more gem-like than those that we see sparkling like diamonds in his letter. Time in her ravages on the thoughts of the departed never harvested more sparkling things than what appears here from the granary of “Boz’s” original mind. Throughout there is a tenderness breathing its seer-like influence on every thought, until it seems to become hallowed like the spirit-dream of a lover’s hope.

The great difference between mankind is, that there is a feeling of kindness in the heart of some that is not possessed by others. To live in this world without conferring on others, benefits, is to live without a purpose. Of what value to our fellow creatures is mind, no matter how splendidly adorned, if it bestows no favors on them? The rich gems that lie buried in the caves of the oceans, are not in their secret caves intrinsically less valuable, but their value is really not known until they yield a profit.—Napoleon in his granite mind impressed no stamp of heaven on his countrymen. Hard as the winter of his Russian Service lived his life on the memory of man! Frozen tears as thickly as hail-drops from a thunder-shower fell from the eyes of his army to blight and wither the affections of civilized Europe. In his life he toiled for a name which he won at the sacrifice of the lives of millions, and perished a prisoner on a bleak and rocky isle of the ocean!—The splendid intellect of Byron, more dazzling than the sunbeam from a summer sky, by one untoward circumstance came to prey upon every good feeling of his heart—and what was he?—a misanthrope!—That ill-fated and persecuted star, P. B. Shelley, what could he not have been, had the genius of his high-toned feelings been directed aright?

With all of the genius of these three beings Charles Dickens has a good heart, with all of the philanthropy and patriotism of a Washington. How few indeed are the great men that have lived in any age or in any country whose social qualities of the heart have not been materially injured, and in many instances totally destroyed, by eccentric peculiarities. Sometimes these peculiarities are real, but mostly have they been assumed. To be as nature made us is hardly possible now with any being who has the least prospect of a brilliant career in the world of letters. When nature bestows her high endowments on the mind, the favored one immediately aspires to oddity, and often to insanity,—and makes a non-descript of his genius. To have the world’s affability, and those social qualities of the heart that give so much of happiness and pleasure to our fellow creatures, is not considered by a man of genius as a thing at all worthy of possession, or as gifts adding one lustre to the character. Instead of being as they are, forming epochs in time and being bright exemplars in the annals of chroniclers, which nature intended them to do, they by the most odd monstrosities endeavor to mar the genial warmth of the feeling by misanthropic actions, and destroy from their very foundation the most kindly emotions.

To see one of our fellow creatures on whom nature has with an unsparing hand bestowed her best gifts, doing deeds unworthy the high standing of his parentage, and disgracing the purity of his privileges, is to the noble in spirit the source of its most feverish excitement. With the best of minds, organized artistically, Byron fell into habits so monstrously bad, that among the virtuous his name became a term used in denoting disgrace. No excuse can be offered for the man who has disgraced his name—no charity is so blind as not to see the stain.

In the world’s history, as far back as the memory reaches into the past, we have seen the most brilliant minds, associated in connection with some of the worst qualities of the heart. There is occasionally some solitary instance, standing as some beautifulreliefon the epoch of time, of beings whose splendid endowments of mind have not been more remarkable in their era of history for talent, than the generous breathings of the holy purity of heart have been for kindness. Such cases as these are few, and happen but seldom. In “Boz” these two qualities have met.

NYDIA, THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL OF POMPEII.

———

BY G. G. FOSTER.

———

Thoubeautiful misfortune! image fairOf flowers all ravished, yet their sweetness givingTo the rude hand that crushed them! thou dost wearThy loveliness so meekly—thy love hivingWithin thy deepest heart-cells—that the airPauses enamored, from thy breath contrivingTo steal the perfume of the incensed fireWhich brightly burns within, yet burns without desire.Thy life should be among the roses, whereBeauty without its passion paints each leaf,And gently-falling dews upon the airThe light of loveliness exhale, and briefAnd glorious, without toil, or pain, or care,They prideless bloom and wither without grief.Thou shouldst not feel the slow and sure decayWhich frees ignoble spirits from their clay.Farewell, thou bright embodiment of truth⁠—Too warm to worship, yet too pure to love!Thou shalt survive in thy immortal youthThy brief existence—while thy soul aboveRests in the bosom of its God. No ruth,Or anguish, or despair, or hopeless love,Again shall rend thy gentle breast—but blissEmbalm in that bright world the heart that broke in this.

Thoubeautiful misfortune! image fair

Of flowers all ravished, yet their sweetness giving

To the rude hand that crushed them! thou dost wear

Thy loveliness so meekly—thy love hiving

Within thy deepest heart-cells—that the air

Pauses enamored, from thy breath contriving

To steal the perfume of the incensed fire

Which brightly burns within, yet burns without desire.

Thy life should be among the roses, whereBeauty without its passion paints each leaf,And gently-falling dews upon the airThe light of loveliness exhale, and briefAnd glorious, without toil, or pain, or care,They prideless bloom and wither without grief.Thou shouldst not feel the slow and sure decayWhich frees ignoble spirits from their clay.

Thy life should be among the roses, where

Beauty without its passion paints each leaf,

And gently-falling dews upon the air

The light of loveliness exhale, and brief

And glorious, without toil, or pain, or care,

They prideless bloom and wither without grief.

Thou shouldst not feel the slow and sure decay

Which frees ignoble spirits from their clay.

Farewell, thou bright embodiment of truth⁠—Too warm to worship, yet too pure to love!Thou shalt survive in thy immortal youthThy brief existence—while thy soul aboveRests in the bosom of its God. No ruth,Or anguish, or despair, or hopeless love,Again shall rend thy gentle breast—but blissEmbalm in that bright world the heart that broke in this.

Farewell, thou bright embodiment of truth⁠—

Too warm to worship, yet too pure to love!

Thou shalt survive in thy immortal youth

Thy brief existence—while thy soul above

Rests in the bosom of its God. No ruth,

Or anguish, or despair, or hopeless love,

Again shall rend thy gentle breast—but bliss

Embalm in that bright world the heart that broke in this.

THE DUELLO.[1]

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” ETC.

———

Itwas a clear bright day in the early autumn when the royal tilt-yard, on the Isle de Paris, was prepared for a deadly conflict. The tilt-yard was a regular, oblong space, enclosed with stout squared palisades, and galleries for the accommodation of spectators, immediately in the vicinity of the royal residence of the Tournelles, a splendid gothic structure, adorned with all the rare and fanciful devices of that rich style of architecture—at a short distance thence arose the tall gray towers of Notre Dame, the bells of which were tolling minutely the dirge for a passing soul. From one of the windows of the palace a gallery had been constructed, hung with rich crimson tapestry, leading to a long range of seats, cushioned and decked with arras, and guarded by a strong party of gentlemen in the royal livery with partizans in their hands and sword and dagger at the belt—at either end of the list was a tent pitched, that at the right of the royal gallery a plain marquee of canvass of small size, which had apparently seen much service, and been used in real warfare. The curtain which formed the door of this was lowered, so that no part of the interior could be seen from without; but a particolored pennon was pitched into the ground beside it, and a shield suspended from the palisades, emblazoned with bearings, which all men knew to be those of Charles Baron de La-Hirè, a renowned soldier in the late Italian wars, and the challenger in the present conflict. The pavilion at the left, or lower end, was of a widely different kind—of the very largest sort then in use, completely framed of crimson cloth lined with white silk, festooned and fringed with gold, and all the curtains looped up to display a range of massive tables covered with snow-white damask, and loaded with two hundred covers of pure silver!—Vases of flowers and flasks of crystal were intermixed upon the board with tankards, flagons, and cups and urns of gold, embossed and jewelled—and behind every seat a page was placed, clad in the colors of the Count de Laguy—a silken curtain concealed the entrance of an inner tent, wherein the Count awaited the signal that should call him to the lists.—Strange and indecent as such an accompaniment would be deemed now-a-days to a solemn mortal conflict—it was then deemed neither singular nor monstrous—and in this gay pavilion Armand de Laguy, the challenged in the coming duel, had summoned all the nobles of the court to feast with him, after he should have slain, so confident was he of victory, his cousin and accuser, Charles Baron de La-Hirè. The entrances of the tilt-yard were guarded by a detachment of the King’s sergeants, sheathedcap-a-piéin steel, with shouldered arquebuses and matches ready lighted—the lists were strewn with saw-dust and hung completely with black serge, save where the royal gallery afforded a strange contrast by its rich decorations to the ghastly draperies of the battle-ground. One other object only remains to be noticed; it was a huge block of black-oak, dinted in many places as if by the edge of a sharp weapon and stained with plashes of dark gore. Beside this frightful emblem stood a tall muscular gray-headed man, dressed in a leathern frock and apron stained like the block with many a gout of blood, bare-headed and bare-armed, leaning upon a huge two-handed axe, with a blade of three feet in breadth. A little way aloof from these was placed a chair, wherein a monk was seated, a very aged man with a bald head and beard as white as snow, telling his beads in silence until his ministry should be required.

The space around the lists and all the seats were crowded well nigh to suffocation by thousands of anxious and attentive spectators; and many an eye was turned to watch the royal seats which were yet vacant, but which it was well known would be occupied before the trumpet should sound for the onset. The sun was now nearly at the meridian, and the expectation of the crowd was at its height, when the passing bell ceased ringing, and was immediately succeeded by the accustomed peal, announcing the hour of high noon. Within a moment or two, a bustle was observed among the gentlemen pensioners—then a page or two entered the royal seats, and, after looking about them for a moment, again retired. Another pause of profound expectation, and then a long loud blast of trumpets followed from the interior of the royal residence—nearer it rang, and nearer, till the loud symphonies filled every ear and thrilled to the core of every heart—and then the King, the dignified and noble Henry, entered with all his glittering court, princes and dukes, and peers and ladies of high birth and matchless beauty, and took their seats among the thundering acclamations of the people, to witness the dread scene that was about to follow, of wounds and blood and butchery. All were arrayed in the most gorgeous splendor—all except one, a girl of charms unrivalled, although she seemed plunged in the deepest agony of grief, by the seductive beauties of the gayest. Her bright redundant auburn hair was all dishevelled—her long dark eyelashes were pencilled in distinct relief against the marble pallor of her colorless cheek—her rich and rounded form was veiled, but not concealed, by a dress of the coarsest serge, black as the robes of night, and thereby contrasting more the exquisite fairness of her complexion. On her all eyes were fixed—some with disgust—some with contempt—others with pity, sympathy, and even admiration. That girl was Marguerite de Vaudreuil—betrothed to either combatant—the betrayed herself and the betrayer—rejected by the man whose memory, when she believed him dead, she had herself deserted—rejecting in her turn, and absolutely loathing him whose falsehood had betrayed her into the commission of a yet deeper treason. Marguerite de Vaudreuil, lately the admired of all beholders, now the prize of two kindred swordsmen, without an option save that between the bed of a man she hated, and the life-long seclusion of the convent.

The King was seated—the trumpets flourished once again, and at the signal the curtain was withdrawn from the tent door of the challenger, and Charles de La-Hirè stepped calmly out on the arena, followed by his godfather, De Jarnac, bearing two double-edged swords of great length and weight, and two broad-bladed poniards. Charles de La-Hirè was very pale and sallow, as if from ill health or from long confinement, but his step was firm and elastic, and his air perfectly unmoved and tranquil; a slight flush rose to his pale cheek as he was greeted by an enthusiastic cheer from the people, to whom his fame in the wars of Italy had much endeared him, but the flush was transient, and in a moment he was as pale and cold as before the shout which hailed his entrance. He was clad very plainly in a dark morone-colored pourpoint, with vest, trunk-hose, and nether stocks of black silk netting, displaying to admiration the outlines of his lithe and sinewy frame. De Jarnac, his godfather, on the contrary, was very foppishly attired with an abundance of fluttering tags and ruffles of rich lace, and feathers in his velvet cap. These two had scarcely stood a moment in the lists, before, from the opposite pavilion, De Laguy and the Duke de Nevers issued, the latter bearing, like De Jarnac, a pair of swords and daggers; it was observed, however, that the weapons of De Laguy were narrow three-cornered rapier blades and Italian stilettoes, and it was well understood that on the choice of the weapons depended much the result of the encounter—De Laguy being renowned above any gentleman in the French court for his skill in the science of defence, as practised by the Italian masters—while his antagonist was known to excel in strength and skill in the management of all downright soldierly weapons, in coolness, in decision, presence of mind, and calm self-sustained valor, rather than in slight and dexterity. Armand de Laguy was dressed sumptuously, in the same garb indeed which he had worn at the festival whereon the strife arose which now was on the point of being terminated—and forever!

A few moments were spent in deliberation between the godfathers of the combatants, and then it was proclaimed by De Jarnac, “that the wind and sun having been equally divided between the two swordsmen, their places were assigned—and that it remained only to decide upon the choice of the weapons!—that the choice should be regulated by a throw of the dice—and that with the weapons so chosen they should fight till one or other should behors de combat—but that in case that either weapon should be bent or broken, the seconds should cry ‘hold,’ and recourse be had to the other swords—the use of the poniard to be optional, as it was to be used only for parrying, and not for striking—that either combatant striking a blow or thrusting after the utterance of the word ‘hold,’ or using the dagger to inflict a wound, should be dragged to the block and die the death of a felon.”

This proclamation made, dice were produced, and De Nevers winning the throw for Armand, the rapiers and stilettoes which he had selected were produced, examined carefully, and measured, and delivered to the kindred foemen.

It was a stern and fearful sight—for there was no bravery nor show in their attire, nor aught chivalrous in the way of battle. They had thrown off their coats and hats, and remained in their shirt sleeves and under garments only, with napkins bound about their brows, and their eyes fixed each on the other’s with intense and terrible malignity.

The signal was now given and the blades were crossed—and on the instant it was seen how fearful was the advantage which De Laguy had gained by the choice of weapons—for it was with the utmost difficulty that Charles de La-Hirè avoided the incessant longes of his enemy, who springing to and fro, stamping and writhing his body in every direction, never ceased for a moment with every trick of feint and pass and flourish to thrust at limb, face and body, easily parrying himself with the poniard, which he held in his left hand, the less skilful assaults of his enemy. Within five minutes the blood had been drawn in as many places, though the wounds were but superficial, from the sword-arm, the face and thigh of De La-Hirè, while he had not as yet pricked ever so lightly his formidable enemy—his quick eye, however, and firm active hand stood him in stead, and he contrived in every instance to turn the thrusts of Armand so far at least aside as to render them innocuous to life. As his blood, however, ebbed away, and as he knew that he must soon become weak from the loss of it, De Jarnac evidently grew uneasy, and many bets were offered that Armand would kill him without receiving so much as a scratch himself. And now Charles saw his peril, and determined on a fresh line of action—flinging away his dagger, he altered his position rapidly, so as to bring his left hand toward De Laguy, and made a motion with it, as if to grasp his sword-hilt—he was immediately rewarded by a longe, which drove clear through his left arm close to the elbow joint but just above it—De Jarnac turned on the instant deadly pale, for he thought all was over—but he erred widely, for De La-Hirè had calculated well his action and his time, and that which threatened to destroy him proved, as he meant it, his salvation—for as quick as light when he felt the wound he dropped his own rapier, and grasping Armand’s guard with his right hand, he snapped the blade short off in his own mangled flesh and bounded five feet backward, with the broken fragment still sticking in his arm.

“Hold!” shouted each godfather on the instant—and at the same time De La-Hirè exclaimed, “give us the other swords—give us the other swords, De Jarnac⁠—”

The exchange was made in a moment, the stilettoes and the broken weapons were gathered up, and the heavy horse-swords given to the combatants, who again faced each other with equal resolution, though now with altered fortunes. “Now De La-Hirè,” exclaimed De Jarnac, as he put the well poised blade into his friend’s hand—“you managed that right gallantly and well—now fight the quick fight, ere you shall faint from pain and bleeding!”—and it was instantly apparent that such was indeed his intention—his eye lightened, and he looked like an eagle about to pounce upon his foe, as he drew up his form to its utmost height and whirled the long new blade about his head as though it had been but a feather. Far less sublime and striking was the attitude and swordsmanship of De Laguy, though he too fought both gallantly and well. But at the fifth pass, feinting at his head, Charles fetched a long and sweeping blow at his right leg, and striking him below the ham, divided all the tendons with the back of the double-edged blade—then springing in before he fell, plunged his sword into his body, that the hilt knocked heavily at his breast bone and the point came out glittering between his shoulders—the blood flashed out from the deep wound, from nose, and ears, and mouth, as he fell prostrate, and Charles stood over him, leaning on his avenging weapon and gazing sadly into his stiffening features—“Fetch him a priest,” exclaimed De Nevers—“for by my halidome he will not live ten minutes.”

“If he livefive,” cried the King rising from his seat—“if he livefive, he will live long enough to die upon the block—for he lies there a felon and convicted traitor, and by my soul he shall die a felon’s doom—but bring him a priest quickly.”

The old monk ran across the lists, and raised the head of the dying man, and held the crucifix aloft before his glazing eyes, and called upon him to repent and to confess as he would have salvation.

Faint and half choked with blood he faltered forth the words—“I do—I do confess guilty—oh! double guilty!—pardon! oh God—Charles!—Marguerite!”—and as the words died on his quivering lips he sank down fainting with the excess of agony.

“Ho! there!—guards, headsman”—shouted Henry—“off with him—off with the villain to the block, before he die an honorable death by the sword of as good a knight as ever fought for glory!”

Then De La-Hirè knelt down beside the dying man, and took his hand in his own and raised it tenderly, while a faint gleam of consciousness kindled the pallid features—“May God as freely pardon thee as I do, oh my cousin!”—then turning to the King—“You have admitted, sire, that I have served you faithfully and well—never yet have I sought reward at your hand—let this now be my guerdon. Much have I suffered, even thus let me not feel that my King has increased my sufferings by consigning one of my blood to the headsman’s blow—pardon him, sire, as I do—who have the most cause of offence—pardon him, gracious King, as we will hope that a King higher yet shall pardon him and us, who be all sinners in the sight of his all-seeing eye!”

“Be it so,” answered Henry—“it never shall be said of me that a French King refused his bravest soldier’s first claim upon his justice—bear him to his pavilion!”

And they did bear him to his pavilion, decked as it was for revelry and feasting, and they laid him there ghastly and gashed and gory upon the festive board, and his blood streamed among the choice wines, and the scent of death chilled the rich fragrance of the flowers—an hour! and he was dead who had invited others to triumph over his cousin’s slaughter—an hour! and the court lackeys shamefully spoiled and plundered the repast which had been spread for nobles.

“And now,” continued Henry, taking the hand of Marguerite—“Here is the victor’s prize—wilt have him, Marguerite?—’fore heaven but he has won thee nobly!—wilt have her, De La-Hirè, methinks her tears and beauty may yet atone for fickleness produced by treasons such as his who now shall never more betray, nor lie, nor sin forever!⁠—”

“Sire,” replied De La-Hirè very firmly, “I pardon her, I love her yet!—but I wed not dishonor!”

“He is right,” said the pale girl—“he is right, ever right and noble—for what have such as I to do with wedlock? Fare thee well!—Charles—dear, honored Charles!—The mists of this world are clearing away from mine eyes, and I see now that I loved thee best—thee only! Fare thee well, noble one, forget the wretch who has so deeply wronged thee—forget me and be happy. For me I shall right soon be free!”

“Not so—not so,” replied King Henry, misunderstanding her meaning—“not so, for I have sworn it, and though I may pity thee, I may not be forsworn—to-morrow thou must to a convent, there to abide for ever!”

“And that will not be long,” answered the girl, a gleam of her old pride and impetuosity lighting up her fair features.

“By heaven, I say forever,” cried Henry, stamping his foot on the ground angrily.

“And I reply, not long!”

[1]See the “False Ladye,” page 27.

[1]

See the “False Ladye,” page 27.

DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA.

———

BY DR. REYNELL COATES.

———

“We could not pray together on the deep,Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay,Soft, solemn, holy!”Hemans.

“We could not pray together on the deep,

Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay,

Soft, solemn, holy!”

Hemans.

’TisSunday!—Far to the westward lie the regions of the Amazonians, and, in the east, the Caffre hunts the ostrich. From the south, the lonely island of Tristan d’Acunha looms high above the horizon. Although twenty-three miles of water intervene between us and the base of this extinct volcano, the spray of the long billows of the southern ocean rises in misty clouds above the perpendicular and rocky shores, shading the mountain with a pearly veil, widely different in color from the soft blue tint of distance.—Even from the mast-head, whither the desire of solitude has led me, the summits of three or four billows complete the range of vision; for, around the entire circuit of the earth, the eternal west winds sweep, with scarce a barrier to their action.

To those who are familiar with the Atlantic only—that comparatively diminutive expanse, which Humboldt has appropriately called “an arm of the sea,”—the extent of these mountain swells must appear almost incredible. It is not their height—for this is fixed within narrow limits by an immutable law—but their vast, unbroken magnitude, that awes the observer with the consciousness of infinite power. What are the proudest monuments of human strength and skill, dotting the surface of creation, when compared with these majestic waves, which are themselves but the ripple of a passing breeze?

Reclining in the main-top, above all living things except the wild sea bird—an antiquated volume on the Scandinavian mysteries in hand—I give myself up to solitary reflection.—Dark dreams of superstition!—and must the order and loveliness of this glorious world be terminated in one wild wreck—one chaos of hopeless ruin!—shall all the labors of creative goodness sink beneath the power of the unchained demon of destruction!

We move upon the hardened crust of a volcanic crater!—The solid pillars of the earth have given way once and again!—The stony relics of a former world forewarn proud man himself, that he too, with all his boastful race is hurrying to his doom!—All things have their cycles.

“This huge rotundity we tread grows old!”

What a pitiful guide is the unaided light of human reason, when it grapples with the mysteries of creation! The good and great have lived in every land, and all have striven to elevate the soul of man above the grovelling passions and desires that link him with the brutes—pointing his attention to the future, and instilling a belief in other powers, by whose high best our destiny is governed, and whose wise decrees will prove hereafter the reward of virtue and the scourge of vice.—Yet what have they accomplished!—Each forms a Deity, whose attributes are the reflection of the physical objects which surround him, or the echo of his own ill-regulated feelings!

In the bright regions of the East, where the unremitting ardor of the sun gives birth to an infinity of life, and the decaying plant or animal is scarce resolved into its elements, ere other forms start forth from its remains—there, the soul of man must wander from link to link in the great chain of Nature, till, purified by ages of distress, it merges into the very essence of the power supreme!—a power divided and engaged in an eternal contest with itself! a never-ceasing war between the principles of Good and Evil!

In those distant regions of the North, where winter rules three-quarters of the year, and the orb of day, with look askance, but half illuminates man’s dwelling and his labors—where verdure, for a few days, clothes the hills with transitory grace; but all that seeks support from vegetable aliment is endowed with fleetness like the reindeer, or migrates, in the icy season, to more genial climes with the wild duck and the pigeon;—in that gloomy circle, where the frozen earth scarce yields a foot in depth to all the warming influence of summer, and men, curtailed of half the sad resource spared even in the primeval curse, swept with their robber hordes the provinces of their more fortunate neighbors until the iron art of war barred up the avenues to these precious granaries;—in that inhospitable region where dire necessity inters the living infant with the departed mother, and resigns the aged and decrepit to starvation!—the Parent of Good is a warrior armed, compelled to struggle fruitlessly with Fate, until, with Thor’s dread hammer in his hand, he yields, and breathes his last beneath the arm of liberated Locke!

All! all contention!—Our very nature refuses credence in annihilation! Then⁠—

“When coldness wraps this suffering clay,Ah! whither flies the immortal mind!”

“When coldness wraps this suffering clay,

Ah! whither flies the immortal mind!”

Is there no place of rest?—no truth in the visions which haunt us as the sun declines, and the rich hues of evening fade away—when the spirits of those we have loved “sit mournfully upon their clouds,” gazing, with a chastened melancholy which refines but cannot darken the calm bliss of Paradise, upon the ceaseless, bootless turmoil of their once cherished friends? Mythology presents us with no brighter future than the wild riot of the Hall of Odin, the lethean inanity of Hades, or the sensual and unmanly luxury of the Moslem Bowers of the Blest.

But hark! A manly voice, speaking of a loftier philosophy, rises upon the clear air from the very bowels of the vessel.

“And the earth,” it cries, “was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep: and the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.”

Slowly and in measured cadence poured forth, from the lips of one who felt the truths he uttered, the exposition of the order of creation and the high destinies of the creature. ’Tis a layman’s effort, clothed in language suited to the rude ideas of simple-minded men:—I am not of his faith,—and cannot crowd my thoughts within the narrow compass of our wooden walls:—aloft in air, my temple is the canopy of heaven!—my hymn—the wild tone of the ocean-wind with the low rushing of the billows!—the symphony of Nature!—yet, as the words of prayer ascend upon the gale, my own thoughts follow them.—I know them for the pure aspiration of the heart,—the breathing of a contrite spirit!—They are registered above!

All is still!—But, again, the harmony of many voices strikes the ear. A hymn of praise from the wide bosom of the southern ocean!—No hearer but the spirit to whose glory these sweet notes are tuned! The distance, and the deadening influence of the narrow hatches, render words inaudible; but, such as this, their tenor might have been.

Being of almighty power,On the wide and stormy sea,In thy own appointed hour,Here, we bow our hearts to thee!What is man, that he should dareAsk of Thee a passing thought?Ruling ocean, earth, and air,Thou art all—and he is naught!Like a mote upon the earth!(Earth—a mote in space to Thee!)What avails his death or birth!What, his hopes or destiny?Yet, a spirit Thou hast givenTo thy creature of the clay,Ranging free from Earth to Heaven,Heir of an eternal day!In thy image Thou hast made,Not the body, but the mind!That shall lie defiled—decayed!This to loftier fate consigned,Shall, above the tempest roar,Viewless, gaze on all below,And, its mundane warfare o’er,Calmly watch Time’s ceaseless flow!Aid us! Father! with thy power!(Without Thee our strength is naught!)Thus, in Nature’s dreaded hour,We may own the peaceful thought,That, our blinded efforts here,May not mar Thy great design,And each humble work appearWorthy of a child of Thine!

Being of almighty power,On the wide and stormy sea,In thy own appointed hour,Here, we bow our hearts to thee!

Being of almighty power,

On the wide and stormy sea,

In thy own appointed hour,

Here, we bow our hearts to thee!

What is man, that he should dareAsk of Thee a passing thought?Ruling ocean, earth, and air,Thou art all—and he is naught!

What is man, that he should dare

Ask of Thee a passing thought?

Ruling ocean, earth, and air,

Thou art all—and he is naught!

Like a mote upon the earth!(Earth—a mote in space to Thee!)What avails his death or birth!What, his hopes or destiny?

Like a mote upon the earth!

(Earth—a mote in space to Thee!)

What avails his death or birth!

What, his hopes or destiny?

Yet, a spirit Thou hast givenTo thy creature of the clay,Ranging free from Earth to Heaven,Heir of an eternal day!

Yet, a spirit Thou hast given

To thy creature of the clay,

Ranging free from Earth to Heaven,

Heir of an eternal day!

In thy image Thou hast made,Not the body, but the mind!That shall lie defiled—decayed!This to loftier fate consigned,

In thy image Thou hast made,

Not the body, but the mind!

That shall lie defiled—decayed!

This to loftier fate consigned,

Shall, above the tempest roar,Viewless, gaze on all below,And, its mundane warfare o’er,Calmly watch Time’s ceaseless flow!

Shall, above the tempest roar,

Viewless, gaze on all below,

And, its mundane warfare o’er,

Calmly watch Time’s ceaseless flow!

Aid us! Father! with thy power!(Without Thee our strength is naught!)Thus, in Nature’s dreaded hour,We may own the peaceful thought,

Aid us! Father! with thy power!

(Without Thee our strength is naught!)

Thus, in Nature’s dreaded hour,

We may own the peaceful thought,

That, our blinded efforts here,May not mar Thy great design,And each humble work appearWorthy of a child of Thine!

That, our blinded efforts here,

May not mar Thy great design,

And each humble work appear

Worthy of a child of Thine!

The voices have ceased.—The service, in which all the company except the helmsman and myself had joined, is ended; and, one by one, the officers of the vessel, followed by the watch on duty, in their well blanched trousers and bright blue jackets, appear on deck; their sobriety of mien, and cheerfulness of countenance speaking volumes in favor of the benign influence of Christianity, even when acting upon what are erroneously considered by many, the worst materials.

ROSALINE.

———

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

———

Thoulook’d’st on me all yesternight,Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was brightAs when we murmured our trothplightBeneath the thick stars, Rosaline!Thy hair was braided on thy headAs on the day we two were wed,Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead⁠—But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline!The deathwatch tickt behind the wall,The blackness rustled like a pall,The moaning wind did rise and fallAmong the bleak pines, Rosaline!My heart beat thickly in mine ears:The lids may shut out fleshly fears,But still the spirit sees and hears,Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!A wildness rushing suddenly,A knowing some ill shape is nigh,A wish for death, a fear to die,⁠—Is not this vengeance, Rosaline!A loneliness that is not lone,A love quite withered up and gone,A strong soul trampled from its throne,⁠—What would’st thou further, Rosaline!’Tis lone such moonless nights as these,Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,And the leaves shiver in the trees,And then thou comest, Rosaline!I seem to hear the mourners go,With long black garments trailing slow,And plumes anodding to and fro,As once I heard them, Rosaline!Thy shroud it is of snowy white,And, in the middle of the night,Thou standest moveless and upright,Gazing upon me, Rosaline!There is no sorrow in thine eyes,But evermore that meek surprise,⁠—Oh, God! her gentle spirit triesTo deem me guiltless, Rosaline!Above thy grave the robin sings,And swarms of bright and happy thingsFlit all about with sunlit wings,⁠—But I am cheerless, Rosaline!The violets on the hillock toss,The gravestone is o’ergrown with moss,For Nature feels not any loss,⁠—But I am cheerless, Rosaline!Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred?Why was my pride galled on to wedHer who brought lands and gold insteadOf thy heart’s treasure, Rosaline!Why did I fear to let thee stayTo look on me and pass awayForgivingly, as in its May,A broken flower, Rosaline!I thought not, when my dagger strook,Of thy blue eyes; I could not brookThe past all pleading in one lookOf utter sorrow, Rosaline!I did not know when thou wert dead:A blackbird whistling overheadThrilled through my brain; I would have fledBut dared not leave thee, Rosaline!A low, low moan, a light twig stirredBy the upspringing of a bird,A drip of blood,—were all I heard⁠—Then deathly stillness, Rosaline!The sun rolled down, and very soon,Like a great fire, the awful moonRose, stained with blood, and then a swoonCrept chilly o’er me, Rosaline!The stars came out; and, one by one,Each angel from his silver throneLooked down and saw what I had done:I dared not hide me, Rosaline!I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cryAgainst me to God’s quiet sky,I thought I saw the blue lips tryTo utter something, Rosaline!I waited with a maddened grinTo hear that voice all icy thinSlide forth and tell my deadly sinTo hell and Heaven, Rosaline!But no voice came, and then it seemedThat if the very corpse had screamedThe sound like sunshine glad had streamedThrough that dark stillness, Rosaline!Dreams of old quiet glimmered by,And faces loved in infancyCame and looked on me mournfully,Till my heart melted, Rosaline!I saw my mother’s dying bed,I heard her bless me, and I shedCool tears—but lo! the ghastly deadStared me to madness, Rosaline!And then amid the silent nightI screamed with horrible delight,And in my brain an angel lightDid seem to crackle, Rosaline!It is my curse! sweet mem’ries fallFrom me like snow—and only allOf that one night, like cold worms crawlMy doomed heart over, Rosaline!Thine eyes are shut: they nevermoreWill leap thy gentle words beforeTo tell the secret o’er and o’erThou could’st not smother, Rosaline!Thine eyes are shut: they will not shineWith happy tears, or, through the vineThat hid thy casement, beam on mineSunfull with gladness, Rosaline!Thy voice I nevermore shall hear,Which in old times did seem so dear,That, ere it trembled in mine ear,My quick heart heard it, Rosaline!Would I might die! I were as well,Ay, better, at my home in Hell,To set for ay a burning spell’Twixt me and memory, Rosaline!Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,Wherein such blessed memories,Such pitying forgiveness lies,Than hate more bitter, Rosaline!Woe’s me! I know that love so highAs thine, true soul, could never die,And with mean clay in church-yard lie⁠—Would God it were so, Rosaline!

Thoulook’d’st on me all yesternight,

Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright

As when we murmured our trothplight

Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline!

Thy hair was braided on thy head

As on the day we two were wed,

Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead⁠—

But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline!

The deathwatch tickt behind the wall,The blackness rustled like a pall,The moaning wind did rise and fallAmong the bleak pines, Rosaline!My heart beat thickly in mine ears:The lids may shut out fleshly fears,But still the spirit sees and hears,Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!

The deathwatch tickt behind the wall,

The blackness rustled like a pall,

The moaning wind did rise and fall

Among the bleak pines, Rosaline!

My heart beat thickly in mine ears:

The lids may shut out fleshly fears,

But still the spirit sees and hears,

Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!

A wildness rushing suddenly,A knowing some ill shape is nigh,A wish for death, a fear to die,⁠—Is not this vengeance, Rosaline!A loneliness that is not lone,A love quite withered up and gone,A strong soul trampled from its throne,⁠—What would’st thou further, Rosaline!

A wildness rushing suddenly,

A knowing some ill shape is nigh,

A wish for death, a fear to die,⁠—

Is not this vengeance, Rosaline!

A loneliness that is not lone,

A love quite withered up and gone,

A strong soul trampled from its throne,⁠—

What would’st thou further, Rosaline!

’Tis lone such moonless nights as these,Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,And the leaves shiver in the trees,And then thou comest, Rosaline!I seem to hear the mourners go,With long black garments trailing slow,And plumes anodding to and fro,As once I heard them, Rosaline!

’Tis lone such moonless nights as these,

Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,

And the leaves shiver in the trees,

And then thou comest, Rosaline!

I seem to hear the mourners go,

With long black garments trailing slow,

And plumes anodding to and fro,

As once I heard them, Rosaline!

Thy shroud it is of snowy white,And, in the middle of the night,Thou standest moveless and upright,Gazing upon me, Rosaline!There is no sorrow in thine eyes,But evermore that meek surprise,⁠—Oh, God! her gentle spirit triesTo deem me guiltless, Rosaline!

Thy shroud it is of snowy white,

And, in the middle of the night,

Thou standest moveless and upright,

Gazing upon me, Rosaline!

There is no sorrow in thine eyes,

But evermore that meek surprise,⁠—

Oh, God! her gentle spirit tries

To deem me guiltless, Rosaline!

Above thy grave the robin sings,And swarms of bright and happy thingsFlit all about with sunlit wings,⁠—But I am cheerless, Rosaline!The violets on the hillock toss,The gravestone is o’ergrown with moss,For Nature feels not any loss,⁠—But I am cheerless, Rosaline!

Above thy grave the robin sings,

And swarms of bright and happy things

Flit all about with sunlit wings,⁠—

But I am cheerless, Rosaline!

The violets on the hillock toss,

The gravestone is o’ergrown with moss,

For Nature feels not any loss,⁠—

But I am cheerless, Rosaline!

Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred?Why was my pride galled on to wedHer who brought lands and gold insteadOf thy heart’s treasure, Rosaline!Why did I fear to let thee stayTo look on me and pass awayForgivingly, as in its May,A broken flower, Rosaline!

Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred?

Why was my pride galled on to wed

Her who brought lands and gold instead

Of thy heart’s treasure, Rosaline!

Why did I fear to let thee stay

To look on me and pass away

Forgivingly, as in its May,

A broken flower, Rosaline!

I thought not, when my dagger strook,Of thy blue eyes; I could not brookThe past all pleading in one lookOf utter sorrow, Rosaline!I did not know when thou wert dead:A blackbird whistling overheadThrilled through my brain; I would have fledBut dared not leave thee, Rosaline!

I thought not, when my dagger strook,

Of thy blue eyes; I could not brook

The past all pleading in one look

Of utter sorrow, Rosaline!

I did not know when thou wert dead:

A blackbird whistling overhead

Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled

But dared not leave thee, Rosaline!

A low, low moan, a light twig stirredBy the upspringing of a bird,A drip of blood,—were all I heard⁠—Then deathly stillness, Rosaline!The sun rolled down, and very soon,Like a great fire, the awful moonRose, stained with blood, and then a swoonCrept chilly o’er me, Rosaline!

A low, low moan, a light twig stirred

By the upspringing of a bird,

A drip of blood,—were all I heard⁠—

Then deathly stillness, Rosaline!

The sun rolled down, and very soon,

Like a great fire, the awful moon

Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon

Crept chilly o’er me, Rosaline!

The stars came out; and, one by one,Each angel from his silver throneLooked down and saw what I had done:I dared not hide me, Rosaline!I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cryAgainst me to God’s quiet sky,I thought I saw the blue lips tryTo utter something, Rosaline!

The stars came out; and, one by one,

Each angel from his silver throne

Looked down and saw what I had done:

I dared not hide me, Rosaline!

I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry

Against me to God’s quiet sky,

I thought I saw the blue lips try

To utter something, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grinTo hear that voice all icy thinSlide forth and tell my deadly sinTo hell and Heaven, Rosaline!But no voice came, and then it seemedThat if the very corpse had screamedThe sound like sunshine glad had streamedThrough that dark stillness, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grin

To hear that voice all icy thin

Slide forth and tell my deadly sin

To hell and Heaven, Rosaline!

But no voice came, and then it seemed

That if the very corpse had screamed

The sound like sunshine glad had streamed

Through that dark stillness, Rosaline!

Dreams of old quiet glimmered by,And faces loved in infancyCame and looked on me mournfully,Till my heart melted, Rosaline!I saw my mother’s dying bed,I heard her bless me, and I shedCool tears—but lo! the ghastly deadStared me to madness, Rosaline!

Dreams of old quiet glimmered by,

And faces loved in infancy

Came and looked on me mournfully,

Till my heart melted, Rosaline!

I saw my mother’s dying bed,

I heard her bless me, and I shed

Cool tears—but lo! the ghastly dead

Stared me to madness, Rosaline!

And then amid the silent nightI screamed with horrible delight,And in my brain an angel lightDid seem to crackle, Rosaline!It is my curse! sweet mem’ries fallFrom me like snow—and only allOf that one night, like cold worms crawlMy doomed heart over, Rosaline!

And then amid the silent night

I screamed with horrible delight,

And in my brain an angel light

Did seem to crackle, Rosaline!

It is my curse! sweet mem’ries fall

From me like snow—and only all

Of that one night, like cold worms crawl

My doomed heart over, Rosaline!

Thine eyes are shut: they nevermoreWill leap thy gentle words beforeTo tell the secret o’er and o’erThou could’st not smother, Rosaline!Thine eyes are shut: they will not shineWith happy tears, or, through the vineThat hid thy casement, beam on mineSunfull with gladness, Rosaline!

Thine eyes are shut: they nevermore

Will leap thy gentle words before

To tell the secret o’er and o’er

Thou could’st not smother, Rosaline!

Thine eyes are shut: they will not shine

With happy tears, or, through the vine

That hid thy casement, beam on mine

Sunfull with gladness, Rosaline!

Thy voice I nevermore shall hear,Which in old times did seem so dear,That, ere it trembled in mine ear,My quick heart heard it, Rosaline!Would I might die! I were as well,Ay, better, at my home in Hell,To set for ay a burning spell’Twixt me and memory, Rosaline!

Thy voice I nevermore shall hear,

Which in old times did seem so dear,

That, ere it trembled in mine ear,

My quick heart heard it, Rosaline!

Would I might die! I were as well,

Ay, better, at my home in Hell,

To set for ay a burning spell

’Twixt me and memory, Rosaline!

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,Wherein such blessed memories,Such pitying forgiveness lies,Than hate more bitter, Rosaline!Woe’s me! I know that love so highAs thine, true soul, could never die,And with mean clay in church-yard lie⁠—Would God it were so, Rosaline!

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,

Wherein such blessed memories,

Such pitying forgiveness lies,

Than hate more bitter, Rosaline!

Woe’s me! I know that love so high

As thine, true soul, could never die,

And with mean clay in church-yard lie⁠—

Would God it were so, Rosaline!

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