I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. Was there not mercy, father? Will they not D'Aubigné. Yes, my poor child! Blanche. Oh! shall we gaze again On the bright Loire ? Will the old hamlet spire, The loving laughter in their children's eyes, D'Aubigné. Upon my brow, dear girl! Blanche. Thou dost not mean No, no! it cannot be ! Didst thou not say 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. Blanche, (falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me fast! Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine armsFather! D'Aubigné. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to goYoung, 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 crossOur 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 againSay, will they part us? D'Aubigné. No, my Blanche; in death, We shall not be divided. Blanche. Thanks to God! Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour [hand 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 As if unworthy fear or wavering faith PRISONER'S EVENING SONG. 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 His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud We feel no more that aid is nigh, And by his parting word, which rose Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn, HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION. We see no more in thy pure skies, "Thanks be to God for the mountains!" HowITT'S" Book of the Seasons." FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee, By the touch of the mountain-sod. Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God! THE INDIAN'S REVENGE. SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY. [Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.] "But by my wrongs and by my wrath, That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Indian Song in "Gertrude of Wyoming." SCENE. The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees. HERRMANN, the missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight. Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone, swift canoe [world, Shooting across the waters?-No, a flash The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts! Hark! a step, An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound 'Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass Gliding so serpent-like. (He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior armed.) Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form [eye Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine Discerns thy face. Enonio. My father speaks my name. Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase return'd? The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad? Herrmann. The forest way is long From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile Enonio. Tell me not of rest! My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift. 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 |