Blanche. What was your doom, my father? In thine arms

I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?

Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?

D'Aubigné. Yes, my poor child!
They send us home.

Blanche. Oh! shall we gaze again

On the bright Loire ? Will the old hamlet spire,
And the gray turret of our own chateau,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,

The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last? But how is this?
Father! thy glance is clouded-on thy brow
There sits no joy!

D'Aubigné. Upon my brow, dear girl!
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian who receives,
And recognises in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.

Blanche. Thou dost not mean

No, no! it cannot be ! Didst thou not say
They sent us home?

1 The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they sang together in a low and restrained voice every night.

2 A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and

D'Aubigné. Where is the spirit's home? Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days, Where should it be-but in that world serene, Beyond the sword's reach and the tempest's power, -Where, but in heaven?

Blanche. My father!

D'Aubigné. We must die.

We must look up to God, and calmly die.
Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile
Give nature's passion way; then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart.
Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche ?

Blanche, (falling on his bosom.) Oh! claspme fast! Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine armsFather!

D'Aubigné. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go-Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks, To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous, And they that loved their God, have all been swept, Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth Through the wide land was left inviolate, No altar holy; therefore did they fall, Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steep'd In noble blood; the temples are gone down; The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully [live Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, To quit for ever the dishonour'd soil, The burden'd air! Our God upon the cross→→ Our king upon the scaffold 2-let us think Of these and fold endurance to our hearts, And bravely die!

Blanche. A dark and fearful way!

An evil doom for thy dear, honour'd head!
O thou, the kind, the gracious! whom all eyes
Bless'd as they look'd upon! Speak yet again-
Say, will they part us?

D'Aubigné. No, my Blanche; in death,
We shall not be divided.

Blanche. Thanks to God!

He, by thy glance, will aid me--I shall see
His light before me to the last. And when-
Oh, pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child !--
When shall the hour befall?

D'Aubigné. Oh! swiftly now,

And suddenly, with brief, dread interval,

hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:"My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross-your king upon the scaffold-and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him, Meet your faves becomes a man."

Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour
As yet I know not. Each low throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity!

[hand
Blanche, (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness-
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are call'd.

D'Aubigné. If I may speak through tears!-
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart !-thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love!
Thou, that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widow'd house,
There springing up, with soft light round thee shed,
For immortality! Meek child of God!

I bless thee-He will bless thee! In his love
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world
To thy Redeemer's breast! And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived-my duteous, holy Blanche !
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of heaven.

Blanche, (rising.) Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit. I can rise
And say, "Thy will be done!"

[child!
D'Aubigné, (pointing upwards.) See'st thou, my
Yon faint light in the west? The signal star
Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon-grating! Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,

As if unworthy fear or wavering faith
Silenced tho strain? No! let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,

In its dark hour once more! And we will sleep,
Yes-calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.
[They sing together.

PRISONER'S EVENING SONG.

We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God! the sunset dies;
How every colour'd hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though man hath barr'd it from our sight.

We know thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, the All-just!

And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!

We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild, evil days.
The red sword in the oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last-
And by the hope which finds no ark
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark-
We trust thee! As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose

His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud,
We know thou reign'st, All-holy One, All-just!
And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer-and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on;
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment;

And by his parting word, which rose
Through faith victorious o'er all woes-
We know that thou may'st wound, may'st break
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to thee we turn!
To whom but thee? All-merciful, All-just!
In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION.

"Thanks be to God for the mountains!"

HowITT's "Book of the Seasons,"

FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty,

By the touch of the mountain-sod.
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

swift canoe

[world,

Shooting across the waters?-No, a flash
From the night's first, quick fire-fly, lost again
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark
Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange
Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems
The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The desert's own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst

The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald-they little know
Of what is solitude! In hours like this,
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,

On the home-path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,
The cluster'd faces of his children shine

To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain, earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be fill'd! Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnise
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
The offering of one heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!

Hark! a step,
An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound-

I must begone.

[stay! Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior! thou must The Mighty One hath given me power to search Thy soul with piercing words-and thou must stay, And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart Be grown thus restless, is it not because Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up Some burning thought of ill?

[I rest? Enonio, (with sudden impetuosity.) How should Last night the spirit of my brother came, An angry shadow in the moonlight streak, And said, "Avenge me!" In the clouds this morn I saw the frowning colour of his bloodAnd that, too, had a voice. I lay at noon Alone beside the sounding waterfall, And through its thunder-music spake a toneA low tone piercing all the roll of wavesAnd said "Avenge me!" Therefore have I raised The tomahawk, and strung the bow again, That I may send the shadow from my couch, And take the strange sound from the cataract, And sleep once more.

Herrmann. A better path, my son! Unto the still and dewy land of sleep,

My hand in peace can guide thee-e'en the way Thy dying brother trod. Say, didst thou love That lost one well?

Enonio. Know'st thou not we grew up Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness? Unto the chase we journey'd in one path; We stemm'd the lake in one canoe; we lay Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand Was still beneath my head; my brother's robe