No more of grief! no more of lassi

tude!

To-morrow put on thy doublet gay! But leave me now for a while alone.' Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul,

And, as he whistled along the hall, Entered Jane, the crippled crone.

"Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat! I am faint, and weary, and out of breath!

But thou art cold, art chill as death;

My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?"

"Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;

And, as I listened to the song,
I thought my turn would come
erelong,

Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide.
Thy cards forsooth can never lie,
To me such joy they prophesy,
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and
wide

When they behold him at my
side.

And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou?

It must seem long to him;- methinks I see him now!"

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth

prophetess!

room,

Has neither crown nor flower's perfume; But in their stead for something gropes apart,

That in a drawer's recess doth lie, And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,

Convulsive clasps it to her heart.

The one, fantastic, light as air,

'Mid kisses ringing, And joyous singing, Forgets to say her morning prayer!

The other, with cold drops upon her brow,

Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,

And whispers, as her brother opes the door,

"O God! forgive me now!"

And then the orphan, young and
blind,
Conducted by her brother's hand,

But brumal vapors gray.

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!"

A voice seemed crying from that grave

so dreary,

"What wouldst thou do, my daugh

ter?" and she started,

it,

He must pronounce one word at

least!

'Tis spoken; and sudden at the grooms

man's side

hearted;

Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning,

No,

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 simple hearse
To the churchyard forth they bear;
Village girls in robes of snow
Follow, weeping as they go;
Nowhere was a smile that day,
ah no! for each one seemed to
say:

"The road should mourn and 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!"

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

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;

BARÔZAI.

I HEAR along our street Pass the minstrel throngs; Hark! they play so sweet, On their hautboys, Christmas songs! Let us by the fire Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

In December ring

Every day the chimes; Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes.

INTRODUCTION.

SHOULD you ask me, whence these stories?

Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest,

With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations,
As of thunder in the mountains?

I should answer, I should tell you, "From the forests and the prairies, From the great lakes of the Northland, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fenlands,

Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Nawadaha,
The musician, the sweet singer.'

Should you ask where Nawadaha Found these songs, so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions,

I should answer, I should tell you,
"In the bird's-nests of the forest,
In the lodges of the beaver,
In the hoof-prints of the bison,
In the eyry of the eagle!

"All the wild-fowl sang them to him,
In the moorlands and the fen-lands,
In the melancholy marshes;
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!'

If still further you should ask me,
Saying, "Who was Nawadaha?
Tell us of this Nawadaha,"

I should answer your inquiries
Straightway in such words as follow.
"In the Vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,
And beyond them stood the forest,
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees,
Green in Summer, white in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing.