'Thoughtless Angela, beware! Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,

Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!" And she was silent; and the maidens fair

Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far! And knows that of my night he is the star!

Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,

And count the moments since he went away! Come! keep the promise of that happier day,

That I What joy have I without thee? what delight?

may keep the faith to thee I plighted!

Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;

Day for the others ever, but for me Forever night! forever night! When he is gone 't is dark! my soul is sad!

I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.

When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;

Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has. blue eyes!

Within them shines for me a heaven of love,

And down green alleys Of verdurous valleys, With merry sallies,

They sang the refrain:

No more of grief! no more of lassi

tude!

Earth I forget, and heaven, and all distresses,

When seated by my side my hand he

presses;

should bloom,

True love, they say, in grief doth more

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 press:

"Thy love I cannot all approve; We must not trust too much to happi

prophetess!

Round her at times exhale,

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

'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 daughter?" and she started,

it,

He must pronounce one word at

least!

hearted;

Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning,

cried.

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.

GUI

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,
Maling, 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.