CONSOLATION.

TO M. DU PERRIER, GENTLEMAN, OF AIX IN PROVENCE, ON THE DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTER.

FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANÇOIS DE MALHERBE.

WILL then, Du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal?
And shall the sad discourse

Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal,
Only augment its force ?

Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb descending
By death's frequented ways,

Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending,
Where thy lost reason strays?

I know the charms that made her youth a benediction:
Nor should I be content,

As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction,
By her disparagement.

But she was of the world, which fairest thing exposes
To fates the most forlorn;

A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses,
The space of one brief morn.

Death hath his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling;
All prayers to him are vain;

Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing,
He leaves us to complain.

The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover,
Unto these laws must bend;

The sentinel that guards the barriers of the Louvre
Cannot our Kings defend.

To murmur against death, in petulant defiance,
Is never for the best;

To will what God doth will, that is the only science,
That gives us any rest.

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.

FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN REBOUL.*

AN angel with a radiant face
Above a cradle bent to look,
Seemed his own image there to trace
As in the waters of a brook.

"Dear child! who me resemblest so,"

It whispered, "come, O come with me! Happy together let us go,

The earth unworthy is of thee!

"Here none to perfect bliss attain;

The soul in pleasure suffering lies; Joy hath an undertone of pain,

And even the happiest hours their sighs.

"Fear doth at every portal knock;
Never a day serene and pure

From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock
Has made the morrow's dawn secure.

"What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears
Come to disturb so pure a brow?
And with the bitterness of tears
Those eyes of azure troubled grow?

"Ah no! into the fields of space,
Away shalt thou,escape with me;
And Providence will grant thee grace
Of all the days that were to be.

"Let no one in thy dwelling cower

In sombre vestments draped and veiled;
But let them welcome thy last hour,
As thy first moments once they hailed.

"Without a cloud be there each brow;
There let the grave no shadow cast;
When one is pure as thou art now,
The fairest day is still the last."

And waving wide his wings of white,
The angel, at these words, had sped
Towards the eternal realms of light!-
Poor mother! see, thy son is dead.

*The Baker of Nismes.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

FROM THE NOEL BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BARŌZAI.

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.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

Shepherds at the grange,
Where the Babe was born,
Sang, with many a change,
Christmas carols until morn.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

These good people sang
Songs devout and sweet;
While the rafters rang,

There they stood with freezing feet.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

Nuns in frigid cells

At this holy tide,

For want of something else,

Christmas songs at times have tried.
Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLÈ.

FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN.

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright:

Let me attempt it with an English quill:
And take, O reader, for the deed the will.

JASMIN, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South of France what Burns is to the South of Scotland,-the representative of the heart of the people,-one of those happy bards who are born with their mouths full of birds (la bouco pleno d'aouzelous). He has written his own biography in a poetic form, and the simple narrative of his poverty, his struggles and his triumphs, is very touching. He still lives at Agen on the Garonne; and long may he live there to delight his native land with native songs! Those who may feel interested in knowing something about "Jasmin, Coiffeur "-for such is his calling-will find a description of his person and mode of life in the graphic pages of Béarn and the Pyrenees (Vol. i., p. 369, et seq.), by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming pen has done so much to illustrate the French provinces and their literature.

I.

AT the foot of the mountain height
Where is perched Castèl-Cuillè,

When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree
In the plain below were growing white,
This is the song one might perceive

On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home!

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,
Seemed from the clouds descending;
When lo! a merry company

Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,

Each one with her attendant swain, Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain: Resembling there, so near unto the sky, Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent For their delight and our encouragement. Together blending,

And soon descending
The narrow sweep
Of the hill-side steep,

They wind aslant

Toward Saint Aman
Through leafy alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies,
Singing their chant;

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal laden!

The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,
The sun of March was shining brightly,
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly
Its breathings of perfume.

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,
A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is!

To sounds of joyous melodies,

That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,
A band of maidens

Gaily 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 P
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 to-day,
These are grand people, one would say.
What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress ?
It is, that, half way 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 splendour,
And Baptiste her lover bold.
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;
For them the altar was prepared;