That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,

A band of maidens
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; While the bride, with roguish eyes, Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:

"Those who catch me
Married verily

This year shall be !"

And all pursue with eager haste, And all attain what they pursue, And touch her pretty apron fresh and

new,

And the linen kirtle round her waist.

Meanwhile, whence comes it that among

These youthful maidens fresh and fair,

So joyous, with such laughing air, Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue?

And yet the bride is fair and young!

Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall? O, no! for a maiden frail, I trow, Never bore so lofty a brow! What lovers! they give not a single caress!

To see them so careless and cold today,

These are grand people, one would say. What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress?

It is, that, halfway up the hill,
In yon cottage, by whose walls
Stand the cart-house and the
stalls,

Dwelleth the blind orphan still,
Daughter of a veteran old;
And you must know, one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and
tender,

Was the village pride and splendor,

And Baptiste her lover bold. Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ;

For them the altar was prepared; But alas! the summer's blight, The dread disease that none can stay,

The pestilence that walks by night,

Took the young bride's sight

The golden chain they round him
throw,

He is enticed, and onward led
To marry Angela, and yet
Is thinking ever of Margaret.

Then suddenly a maiden cried, "Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate! Here comes the cripple Jane!" And by a fountain's side

A woman, bent and gray with
years,

Under the mulberry trees appears,
And all towards her run, as fleet
As had they wings upon their feet.

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. She telleth fortunes, and none complain.

She promises one a village swain, Another a happy wedding-day, And the bride a lovely boy straightway.

All comes to pass as she avers; She never deceives, she never

errs.

But for this once the village seer Wears a countenance severe, And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white

Her two eyes flash like cannons bright

Aimed at the bridegroom in waist-
coat blue,

Who, like a statue, stands in view;
Changing color, as well he might,
When the beldame wrinkled and

gray

Takes the young bride by the hand,

And, with the tip of her reedy wand

Making the sign of the cross, doth say:

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

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

Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear;

But on a little streamlet silver-clear, What are two drops of turbid rain?

Saddened a moment, the bridal train

Resumed the dance and song again;

The bridegroom only was pale with

So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,

So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

II.

And by suffering worn and weary, But beautiful as some fair angel yet, Thus lamented Margaret,

In her cottage lone and dreary: —

"He has arrived! arrived at last! Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;

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 may keep the faith to thee I plighted!

What joy have I without thee? what delight?

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,

A heaven all happiness, like that above,

No more of grief! no more of lassitude!

Earth I forget, and heaven, and all distresses,

When seated by my side my hand he presses;

"Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!

Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave!

O God! what thoughts within me waken!

Away! he will return! I do but rave! He will return! I need not fear! He swore it by our Saviour dear; He could not come at his own will;

Is weary, or perhaps is ill! Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,

Prepares for me some sweet surprise!

But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!

And that deceives me not! 't is he! 't is he!"

And the door ajar is set,

And poor, confiding Margaret Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes;

"T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:

"Angela the bride has passed! I saw the wedding guests go by; Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked?

For all are there but you and I!"

"Angela married! and not send To tell her secret unto me! O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?"

"My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend!"

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said;

A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;

An icy hand, as heavy as lead,
Descending, as her brother speaks,
Upon her heart, that has ceased
to beat,

Suspends awhile its life and heat. She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,

A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.

At length, the bridal song again Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.

"Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!

Sister, dost thou hear them singing?

How merrily they laugh and jest!

Would we were bidden with the rest!

I would don my hose of homespun gray,

And my doublet of linen striped and gay;

Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed

Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said!"

"I know it!" answered Margaret ; Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,

Mastered again; and its hand of

ice

Held her heart crushed, as in a vice! "Paul, be not sad! 'T is a

holiday; 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
ere long,

Thou knowest it is at Whitsun-
tide.

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

Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,

And flaunting, fluttering up and down,

Looks at herself, and cannot rest.