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The Mouse, that in its winding mazes shows, As on the farther bank, the distant towers Of Vaucouleur? there in the hamlet Arc My father's dwelling stands; a lowly hut, Yet nought of needful comfort did it lack. For in Lorraine there lived no kinder Lord Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques In flocks and herds was rich; a toiling man. Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart Affection had no root. I never knew A parent's love; for harsh my mother was, And deem'd the care which infancy demands Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were, And would have made me fear them; but my soul Possess'd the germ of inborn fortitude. And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke And angry chastisement. Yet was the voice That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet To my young heart; how have I felt it leap With transport, when my Uncle Claude approach'd! For he would take me on his knee, and tell Such wondrous tales as childhood loves to hear. Listening with eager eyes and open lips Devoutly in attention. Good old man! Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven Unhallow'd by the grateful thought of him, Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it I He was a parent to me, and his home Was mine, when in advancing years I found No peace, no comfort in my father's house. With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours. By day I drove my father's flock afield, And this was happiness.

"Amid these wilds Often to summer pasture have I driven The flock; and well I know these woodland wilds, And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream Is dear to memory. I have laid me down Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd The beck roll glittering to the noon-tide sun, And listen'd to its ceaseless murmuring. Till all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul, Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds Over the vale at eve; their fleeting hues The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye. Yet he remembers well how fair they were. How beautiful.

"In solitude and peace Here I grew up, amid the loveliest scenes Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was. As the white mists of morning roll'd away, To see the upland's wooded heights appear Dark in the early dawn, and mark the slope With gorse-flowers glowing, as the sun illumed Their golden glory with his deepening light; Pleasant at noon beside the vocal brook To lay me down, and watch the floating clouds, And shape to fancy's wild similitudes Their ever-varying forms; and oh how sweet! To drive my flock at evening to the fold. And hasten to our little hut, and hear The voice of kindness bid me welcome home. "Amid the village playmates of my youth Was one whom riper years approved a friend. A gentle maid was my poor Madelon; I loved her as a sister, and long time Her undivided tenderness possess'd. Until a better and a holier tie Gave her one nearer friend; and then my heart Partook her happiness, for never lived A happier pair than Arnaud and his wife.

"Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her youth Went Arnaud to the war. The morn was fair. Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerfully. And all the fields seem'd joyous in the spring; But to Domremi wretched was that day. For there was lamentation, and the voice Of anguish, and the deeper agony That spake not. Never can my heart forget The feelings that shot through me, when the horn Gave its last call, and through the castle-gate The banner moved, and from the clinging arms Which hung on them, as for a last embrace. Sons, brethren, husbands, went.

"More frequent now Sought I the converse of poor Madelon, For now she needed friendship's soothing voice. All the long summer did she live in hope Of tidings from the war; and as at eve She with her mother by the cottage door Sat in the sunshine, if a traveller Appear'd at distance coming o'er the brow, Her eye was on him, and it might be seen By the flush'd cheek what thoughts were in her heart, And by the deadly paleness which ensued, How her heart died within her. So the days And weeks and months pass'd on; and when the leaves Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope That reason own'd not, that with expectation Did never cheer her .as she rose at morn. Still linger'd in her heart, and still at night Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came. But Arnaud never from the war return'd; He far away had perish'd; and when late The tidings of his certain death arrived, Sore with long anguish underneath that blow She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day Upon the past, and talk of happiness That never could return, as though she found Best solace in the thoughts which minister'd To sorrow : and she loved to see the sun Go down, because another day was gone. And then she might retire to solitude And wakeful recollections, or perchance To sleep more wearying far than wakefulness. Dreams of his safety and return, and starts Of agony; so neither night nor day Could she find rest, but pined and pined away.

" to the happy thou art terrible; But how the wretched love to think of thee, Oh thou true comforter, the friend of all Who have no friend beside! By the sick bed Of Madelon I sat, when sure she felt