"Too dearly dost thou love him, child; Too fondly dost thou lay Thy hopes upon a broken reed: Kneel down, kneel down, and pray." "The more I pray, the more I love, A sin it cannot be, For surely, Jeanne, Baptiste is kind, And ever true to me e?" No answer; all is over then; Her last faint hope is gone, And true the fatal tale that turn'd Her tender heart to stone. But wildly smiled poor Marguerite, And well till night, when Jeanne withdrew, The orphan play'd her part; And little thought poor Jeanne she left Behind a breaking heart. Alas! poor Jeanne the witch, 'tis clear Perchance this morn thy full heart found By yonder well side's brink Slow dawns the day; the clock has struck The hour of nine; meanwhile Two maidens in their cottage homes The weary hours beguile. Queen of the day, the one displays Her crown of orange flower; The golden cross, and gay attire, Must grace the bridal hour. And gazing on the lovely form Reflected in her mirror, smiles, And, pleased, rehearses all her store Of beauty's playful wiles; But no bright flowery wreath adorns Her pale hands clasp e'en now, The day was foggy, damp the air, Not far from where the ruins stand Around whose cloud-enveloped height Whilst underneath its time-worn roof Her brood the swallow brings. "Hush, Paul!" the maiden cries; "methinks The steep ascent we reach." "Oh, yes! we're come, and, sister, hark, I hear the ospray screech. "I hate that dark, ill-omen'd bird, Ill luck it surely brings, And some misfortune follows still Whene'er it hoarsely sings. "Dost thou remember, sister dear, What time our father died, When, kneeling by his bedside, both The live-long night we cried. "We cried all night, but chiefly when "Oh, how we wept; and, sure enough "Ah! sister, do not clasp me so; “But, pale thou art, and trembling too, I fear me thou wilt swoon." And true it was, the maiden's strength O'ertask'd, must fail her soon. The chord her brother's words have wrung, Has snapp'd with sudden pain; Affrighted, back she starts, but Paul Has urged her on again. And when the poor bewilder'd girl Her feet, and 'gainst her head had struck The porch's hanging wreath, A change came o'er her; on she rush'd The moving crowd among- But, lo! with joyous peal, and loud, Awake the echos round. The clouds have pass'd away, the sun But, gloomy still, as yester eve Whilst Angèle recks of little else Her golden cross beside; Enough for her, she moves along, The fair and envied bride; And shakes her pretty head and smiles, As all around her say,"Was ever bride as fair as her Whom Baptiste weds to-day?" And now high mass is said, and near But, while his bride's expecting hand That seal their mutual fates. 'Tis done; and lo! a voice has struck The bridegroom's ear, and chill'd His heart's warm blood, and wildly through The wond'ring crowd has thrill'd, Who from some dark, sequester'd shrine, Behold, with sudden fear, "Baptiste has will'd my death!" she cried : "This, this shall set me free! At this gay wedding blood must needs The holy-water be." And as she spoke, a knife she drew And God in mercy call'd her home "Where those who mourn are blest, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest." That eve, in place of bridal songs, And village maids, in white attire, "Peach, and pear, and almond trees, Away your snowy blossoms hide, For death has woo'd the sweetest flower That grew on Castel Cuillé's side. "Mountain paths, and hedges wild, Weep, that never wept before; Wave your darkest cypress boughs, Wave them yonder pathway o'er." IZAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS. BY EDWARD JESSE, ESQ. AUTHOR OF GLEANINGS IN NATURAL HISTORY," ETC. THE English, perhaps, more than any other nation, are capable of appreciating the charms of Nature, and those thousand beauties which are to be found in our little sequestered dells, and in the smiling valleys through which many of our pretty trout-streams find their way. The secret satisfaction and complacency which arise from a contemplation of the beauties of the works of creation, our walks in verdant fields and shady woods, the song of birds, and the calmness and stillness of Nature in her most sequestered spots, all these have been dwelt upon and described both by naturalists and poets. It is indeed impossible to see the verdure of our fields and woods, to hear the melodious songs of birds, to witness the fertility of the earth, and to view the order and economy which pervade all Nature, without appreciating the charms of Walton's pastoral, or the tranquil pursuits of Gilbert White. We have often thought that the amusement of angling has been too much despised by those who are not anglers themselves. If all the pleasure of the pursuit consisted in dragging a fish to shore, or in watching a float to see it go under water, we might join in the ridicule which has been bestowed on the "brethren of the rod and line." The pleasure of angling, however, takes a far wider range, and we are convinced that the mere act of fishing is only a secondary consideration with those who join with it a fondness for the charms of Nature. The enjoyment of air and exercise as the angler pursues his course through flowery meadows, and fields covered with herds and flocks, listening to the unseen lark, or watching the varied movements of the swallows as they glide around him in every direction, has charms which add a relish to his walk, and harmonize with every kindly feeling of his heart. Walton, perhaps more than any other writer we are acquainted with, appreciated the delight of thus strolling on the banks of a river. His charming pastoral is a proof of this, and we are convinced that he merely made angling a secondary consideration in describing those scenes in which he so much delighted. While he amuses he also instructs his readers; and his fervent and unaffected piety, the simplicity of his taste, the benevolence of his mind, and the contentedness of his spirit, are apparent in every thought and expres sion. We are aware that in describing the character of Walton, we have to encounter the serious charge of a want of humanity, which has been brought against him.* We are anxious to rescue "our good father" from this charge, and we are afraid that we can only do it at the expense of his piscatory skill. In expressing our opinion that * We have been assured that the two stanzas in Byron's "Don Juan," in which Walton's supposed cruelty is so severely censured, were written by Mr. Leigh Hunt, and also the note which is subjoined to them. |