Page:The Lady's Book Vol. V.pdf/36

 34 THEY BADE ME WOO HER, & c.

tender mother. He prayed only, as a recompense for all his hardships and dangers, to see her once more, to press her again to his heart, before either should quit this life."

Adjoining to the tomb of two princesses, and surrounded by persons of high rank, lies a shoemaker, with his wife by his side. Seeing that equality reigns among the dead, we are not surprised at this contiguity. But, if there is a place where humility ought to be practised with rigour, and above all, by one whose occupation was not the most dignified, surely it is where dust comes to dust. Agrecably to the usual custom, M. Sebastien Schacherer caused an epitaph to be engraved upon the tombstone of his wife, and, according to the common practise also, she is there eulogised. Nobody has a right to complain of this. But the smile forces itself upon us on reading how pompously he has detailed his title as shoemaker by brevet to her Royal Highness, Mademoiselle D'Orleans, conceiving, no doubt, that he should command the respect of posterity by so doing: -

“Here reposes Marie Anne Lauvaureux, wife of Sebastien Schacherer, shoemaker by brevet to her Royal Highness Mademoiselle D'Orleans; died 21st Feb. 1818, aged 39 years. She was a dutiful daughter, a tender mother, a sincere friend, and a model of virtue and piety. Her loss is deeply felt by her husband, her children, and her friends, whose happiness she alone constituted. Revered wife, object of my most tender affection, accept upon this tomb, now bedewed with our tears, the afflicting adieus of your inconsolable husband and children, until death shall re unite us in the presence of our Creator. "

But the most singular part of this story is, that this good husband was so sure of being shortly seized by the grim tyrant, after he had lost his better half, that he looked upon himself as dead; and, therefore, he deemed it prudent to compose his own epitaph, and have it engraved upon the stone, so that for some time before his death, we read the following inscription, in which he had not omitted any of the good qualities or estimable virtues of which he thought himself the legitimate possessor: -

“To the memory of Sebastien Schacherer, shoemaker by brevet to her Royal Highness Mademoiselle D'Orleans. An obedient and affectionate son, a good husband, a kind father, a sincere and constant friend, he devoted his life to the good of his family and friends, by whom he is sincerely regretted. By his talents and his social virtues he gained the esteem of many persons of high distinction. Every day of his life was marked by some good action. He erected this humble monument to the memory of his lamented and respected wife, in the hope of being united to her in eternity."

The hopes of this good husband were not disappointed, as he did not long survive his wife, leaving his children and relatives to add, that he was consigned to the grave on the 18th of February, 1820.

THEY BADE ME WOO HER.

“What are a thousand living loves To that which cannot quit the dead? "

BYRON.

THEY bade me woo her to broad lands They say that she is heir; And many a gem of priceless worth Gleams in her raven hair.

They thought I loved her as I looked Upon her radiant face-

But surely, in that saddened glance, No passion they could trace.

Yet to me she is beautiful:

Each smile each thrilling toneBrings back a smile of other daysA voice like music's own.

I gaze upon her eyes, till mino Are filled with memory's tears, She is so like the gentle girl I loved in earlier years.

She stood within a lordly hall,

And to the proud ones near: She sung the lay, I once so loved From other lips to hear.

It seemed, as meant, to mock my heart

I could not bear to stay, And listen to that hallowed strain, Breathed in a scene so gay.

And there were dark and star like eyes, And forms of beauty rareBut my lone spirit sadly turn'd From mirth I could not share. To dwell beside a lowly grave, Ah! far more dear I prize The memory of my buried one Than any living love.

THE HUMMING BIRD.

THE humming bird! -the humming bird! So fairy like and bright;

It lives among the sunny flowers,

A creature of delight!

In the radiant islands of the east, Where fragrant spices grow,

A thousand, thousand humming birds Are glancing to and fro.

Like living fires they flit about, Scarce larger than a bee, Among the dusk palmetto leaves, And through the fan palm tree. And in the wild and verdant woods, Where stately moras towerWhere hangs from branching tree to tree The scarlet passion flowerWhere on the mighty river banks, La Plate or Amazon,

The cayman, like a forest tree,

Lies basking in the sun-

There builds her nest the humming bird Within the ancient wood,

Her nest of silky cotton down,

And rears her tiny brood.

She hangs it to a slender twig, Where waves it light and free, As the campanero trolls his song, And rocks the mighty tree.

All crimson is her shining breast, Like to the red, red rose; Her wing is the changeful green and blue That the neck of the peacock shows.

Thou happy, happy humming bird, No winter round thee lowersThou never saw'st a leafless tree, Nor land without sweet flowers!