"Too dearly dost thou love him, child;

Too fondly dost thou lay Thy hopes upon a broken reed: Kneel down, kneel down, and pray."

"The more I pray, the more I love,

A sin it cannot be, For surely, Jeanne, Baptiste is kind, And ever true to me e?"

No answer; all is over then;

Her last faint hope is gone, And true the fatal tale that turn'd Her tender heart to stone.

But wildly smiled poor Marguerite,
And laugh'd, and questioned on,
The while a hectic flush arose
Her pallid cheek upon.

And well till night, when Jeanne withdrew,

The orphan play'd her part; And little thought poor Jeanne she left

Behind a breaking heart.

Alas! poor Jeanne the witch, 'tis clear
No magic arts are thine;
Nor can thy simple skill the depths
Of grief like hers divine.

Perchance this morn thy full heart found

By yonder well side's brink
A clearer view of future woe
Than even thyself could think.

Slow dawns the day; the clock has struck

The hour of nine; meanwhile Two maidens in their cottage homes The weary hours beguile.

Queen of the day, the one displays

Her crown of orange flower; The golden cross, and gay attire, Must grace the bridal hour.

And gazing on the lovely form

Reflected in her mirror, smiles, And, pleased, rehearses all her store

Of beauty's playful wiles;

But no bright flowery wreath adorns
The other maiden's brow;
And 'tis no golden cross, I ween,

Her pale hands clasp e'en now,

The day was foggy, damp the air,
Perfumed with laurel came,
And with it deadly shivers brought,
That wrung her feeble frame.

Not far from where the ruins stand
Of Castel Cuille's tower,
The little Gothic church erects
Its weather-beaten spire;

Around whose cloud-enveloped height
The ocean eagle sings,

Whilst underneath its time-worn roof Her brood the swallow brings.

"Hush, Paul!" the maiden cries; "methinks

The steep ascent we reach." "Oh, yes! we're come, and, sister, hark, I hear the ospray screech.

"I hate that dark, ill-omen'd bird, Ill luck it surely brings, And some misfortune follows still Whene'er it hoarsely sings. "Dost thou remember, sister dear, What time our father died, When, kneeling by his bedside, both

The live-long night we cried.

"We cried all night, but chiefly when
He kiss'd us both, and said,-
'Take care of Paul, my girl, for I
To-morrow shall be dead.'

"Oh, how we wept; and, sure enough
He died; and on the roof
The ospray sung-I marked it well-
As now she sings aloof.

"Ah! sister, do not clasp me so;
You hurt me, Marguerite!
You stifle me with kisses:-see,
The bridal-train we meet!

“But, pale thou art, and trembling

too,

I fear me thou wilt swoon." And true it was, the maiden's strength

O'ertask'd, must fail her soon.

The chord her brother's words have wrung,

Has snapp'd with sudden pain; Affrighted, back she starts, but Paul Has urged her on again.

And when the poor bewilder'd girl
The laurel trod beneath

Her feet, and 'gainst her head had struck

The porch's hanging wreath,

A change came o'er her; on she rush'd

The moving crowd among-
As if to some gay festive scene,―
The narrow aisle along.

But, lo! with joyous peal, and loud,
The marriage-bells resound,
And, far and wide, through rock and
vale,

Awake the echos round.

The clouds have pass'd away, the sun
In splendour beams again,
As, winding through the portal gate,
Appears the bridal train.

But, gloomy still, as yester eve
The false one's cheek grew pale,
As in that nuptial hour he mused
On Jeanne's prophetic tale.

Whilst Angèle recks of little else

Her golden cross beside; Enough for her, she moves along, The fair and envied bride;

And shakes her pretty head and smiles,

As all around her say,"Was ever bride as fair as her Whom Baptiste weds to-day?"

And now high mass is said, and near
The altar stood the priest;
Betwixt his trembling fingers held
The spousal ring, Baptiste.

But, while his bride's expecting hand
The glittering pledge awaits,
He needs must speak the few short
words

That seal their mutual fates.

'Tis done; and lo! a voice has struck The bridegroom's ear, and chill'd His heart's warm blood, and wildly through

The wond'ring crowd has thrill'd, Who from some dark, sequester'd shrine,

Behold, with sudden fear,
The waving arms, and face insane
Of Marguerite appear.

"Baptiste has will'd my death!" she cried :

"This, this shall set me free! At this gay wedding blood must needs The holy-water be."

And as she spoke, a knife she drew
That in her bosom lay;
But ere the fearful deed was done
Her spirit pass'd away.

And God in mercy call'd her home

"Where those who mourn are blest, Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest."

That eve, in place of bridal songs,
The "De Profundis" rose,
As borne by weeping girls along
A coffin churchward goes.

And village maids, in white attire,
Around in silence drew,
And then, in murmur'd accents low,
Their dirge-like chaunt renew.

"Peach, and pear, and almond trees,

Away your snowy blossoms hide, For death has woo'd the sweetest flower That grew on Castel Cuillé's side.

"Mountain paths, and hedges wild, Weep, that never wept before; Wave your darkest cypress boughs, Wave them yonder pathway o'er."