Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale,

Round her at times exhale,

And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,
But brumal vapors gray.

Near that castle, fair to see,
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,
Marvels of nature and of art,

And proud of its name of high degree,
A little chapel, almost bare

At the base of the rock, is builded there;
All glorious that it lifts aloof,

Above each jealous cottage roof,

Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,
And its blackened steeple high in air,
Round which the osprey screams and sails.

"Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!"

Thus Margaret said.

66

"Where are we? we ascend!"

Yes; seest thou not our journey's end?

Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry?

The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know!

Dost thou remember when our father said,

The night we watched beside his bed,

O daughter, I am weak and low ;

Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!'
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying?

Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;

And here they brought our father in his shroud.

There is his grave; there stands the cross we set ;

Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?

Come in! The bride will be here soon:

Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!"
She could no more,-the blind girl, weak and weary!

A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,

"What wouldst thou do, my daughter?"—and she started; And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;

But Paul, impatient, urges ever more

Her steps towards the open door;

And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid

THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLÈ.

Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,
And with her head, as Paul talks on again,
Touches the crown of filigrane

Suspended from the low-arched portal,
No more restrained, no more afraid,
She walks, as for a feast arrayed,
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night
They both are lost to sight.

At length the bell,

With booming sound,

Sends forth, resounding round,

Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell.
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain ;
And yet the guests delay not long,
For soon arrives the bridal train,
And with it brings the village throng.

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay,
For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day,
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning,

Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning.

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis;

To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper

Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, "How beautiful! how beautiful she is!"

But she must calm that giddy head,

For already the Mass is said;

At the holy table stands the priest ;

The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it ;
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it,
He must pronounce one word at least!

'Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman's side
""Tis he!" a well-known voice has cried.

And while the wedding guests all hold their breath,

Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see!

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115

Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished As holy water be my blood for thee!"

And calmly in the air a knife suspended!
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,

For anguish did its work so well,
That, ere the fatal stroke descended,
Lifeless she fell!

At eve, instead of bridal verse,
The De Profundis filled the air;
Decked with flowers a single hearse

To the church-yard forth they bear;
Village girls in robes of snow
Follow, weeping as they go;

Nowhere was a smile that day,

No, ah no! for each one seemed to say :

"The roads shall mourn aud be veiled in gloom,
So fair a corpse shall leave its home!

Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away!
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!"

JASMIN, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South of France what Burns is to the South of Scotland, -the representative of the heart of the people,-one of those happy bards who are born with their mouths full of birds (la bouco pleno d'aouzelous). He has written his own biography in a poetic form, and the simple narrative of his poverty, his struggles and his triumphs, is very touching. He still lives at Agen, on the Garonne; and long may he live there to delight his native land with native songs!

Those who may feel interested in knowing something about "Jasmin, Coiffeur"for such is his calling-will find a description of his person and mode of life in the graphic pages of Béarn and the Pyrenees (Vol. i. p. 369, et seq.), by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming pen has done so much to illustrate the French provinces and their literature.

* For an interesting and minute description of Christmas in Burgundy, the curious reader is referred to M. Fertiault's Coup d'œil sur les Noëls en Bourgogne, prefixed to the Paris edition of Les Noëls Bourguignons de Bernard de la Monnoye (Gui Barózai), 1842.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire.

Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang, with many a change, Christmas carols until morn.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

These good people sang

Songs devout and sweet;

While the rafters rang,

There they stood with freezing feet. Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire.

Nuns in frigid cells

At this holy tide,

For want of something else,

Christmas songs at times have tried. Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

Washerwomen old,

To the sound they beat,
Sing by rivers cold,

With uncovered heads and feet.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire.

Who by the fireside stands
Stamps his feet and sings;

But he who blows his hands

Not so gay a carol brings.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!