Wherefore then did they make as though they heard not me, Standing death-still? At last arose my mother dear,

Most anxiously, most tenderly.

"Why are we tarrying?" said she,

"No more will come. Our all is here."

But I, "No more of what? Ah, tell me, for God's sake!".
Sorely the mystery made me quake,—

"What wast thou waiting, mother mild?”

I trembled, for I guessed. And she, "The loaf, my child!"
So I had ta'en their bread away! O squalor and distress!
Accursed sweetmeats! Naughty feet!

I am base indeed! O silence full of bitterness!
Gentles, who pitying weep for every woe ye meet,
My anguish ye may guess!

No money and no loaf! A sorry tale, I ween.
Gone was my hunger now, but in my aching heart
I seemed to feel a cruel smart,

A stab as of a brand, fire-new and keen,
Rending the scabbard it is shut within.

Silent I stood awhile, and my mother blankly scanned,
While she, as in a dream, gazed on her own left hand;
Then put her Sunday kerchief by,

And rose and spake right cheerily,

And left us for a while; and when she came once more,
Beneath her arm a little loaf she bore.

Then all anew a-talking fell,

And to the table turned. Ah, well!

They laughed, but I was full of thought,

And evermore my wandering eyes my mother sought.
Sorry was I, and mute, for a doubt that me possessed,
And drowned the noisy clamor of the rest.
But what I longed to see perpetually withdrew
And shyly hid from view,

Until at last, soup being done,

My gentle mother made a move

As she would cut the loaf, signing the cross above.
Then stole I one swift look the dear left hand upon,

And ah, it was too true!-the wedding-ring was gone!

One beauteous eve in summer, when the world was all abroad,

Swept onward by the human stream that toward the palace bore, Unthinkingly the way I trod,

And followed eager hundreds o'er

The threshold of an open door.

Good Heaven! where was I? What might mean
The lifting of that linen screen?

O lovely, lovely vision! O country strange and fair!
How they sing in yon bright world! and how sweetly talk they too!
Can ears attend the music rare,

Or eyes embrace the dazzling view?

"Why, yon is Cinderella!" I shouted in my maze.
"Silence!" quoth he who sat by me.

"Why, then? Where are we, sir? What is this whereon we gaze?» "Thou idiot! This is the Comedy!»

Ah, yes! I knew that magic name,

Full oft at school had heard the same;

And fast the fevered pulses flew

In my low room the dark night through.

"O fatherland of poesy! O paradise of love!

Thou art a dream to me no more! Thy mighty spell I prove.
And thee, sweet Cinderella, my guardian I make,
And to-morrow I turn player for thy sake!"

But slumber came at dawn, and next the flaming look

Of my master, who awoke me. "Where wast thou yesternight?

How like a leaf I shook!
Answer me, ne'er-do-weel!

And wherefore home at midnight steal?"

"O sir, how glorious was the play!"

"The play, indeed! 'Tis very true what people say:
Thou art stark crazy, wretched boy,

To make so vile an uproar through all the livelong night!
To sing and spout, and rest of sober souls destroy.
Thou who hast worn a cassock, nor blushest for thy plight!
Thou'lt come to grief, I warn thee so!

Quit shop, mayhap, and turn thyself a player low!"
"Ay, master dear, that would I be!"

"What, what? Hear I aright?" said he.
"Art blind? and dost not know the gate
That leadeth to the almshouse straight?"

At this terrific word, the heart in me went down
As though a club had fallen thereon;
And Cinderella fled her throne in my light head.
The pang I straightway did forget;

And yet, meseems, yon awful threat
Made softer evermore my attic bed.

Translation of Harriet Waters Preston, in Troubadours and Trouvères'
Copyright 1876, by Roberts Brothers

Yet hark to one who proves thee

Thy victories are vain,

Until a heart that loves thee

Thou hast learned to love again!

Thy pet dove, in his flitting,

Doth warn thee, lady fair!
Thee, in the wood forgetting;
Brighter for his dim setting

He shines, for love is there!
Love is the life of all:

Oh, answer thou his call,

Lest the flower of thy days fall,

And the grace whereof we wot
Be forgot!

For, till great love shall move thee,
Thy victories are vain.

'Tis little men should love thee:
Learn thou to love again.

Translation of Harriet Waters Preston, in Troubadours and Trouvères.
Copyright 1876, by Roberts Brothers

THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLÉ

ONLY the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright:

Let me attempt it with an English quill;

And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.

I

T THE foot of the mountain height

AR

Where is perched Castel-Cuillé,

When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree

In the plain below were growing white,

This is the song one might perceive

On a Wednesday morn of St. Joseph's Eve:

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,
Seemed from the clouds descending;

When lo! a merry company

Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,

Each one with her attendant swain,
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;
Resembling there, so near unto the sky,
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent
For their delight and our encouragement.
Together blending,

And soon descending
The narrow sweep
Of the hillside steep,
They wind aslant
Towards St. Amant,
Through leafy alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies

Singing their chant:

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

It is Baptiste and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal laden!

The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,
The sun of March was shining brightly,
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly
Its breathings of perfume.

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,-
A rustic bridal, ah, how sweet it is!

To sounds of joyous melodies,

That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, Gayly frolicking,

A band of youngsters,

Wildly rollicking!

Kissing,
Caressing,

With fingers pressing,

Till in the veriest

Madness of mirth, as they dance,

They retreat and advance,

Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest,