Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple-Bar, And he he turns, he flies,-shame to those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.. Ho! comrades, scour the plain: and, ere ye strip the slain, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. Fools, your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When ye kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades? Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown, With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope; There is woe in Oxford Halls: there is wail in Durham's Stalls: The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope. And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, Arl tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword; And the Kings of earth in fear, shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the T. M. Word. 326 THE FIRST LOVE OF HENRI QUATRE. ALL the world has heard of the fair Gabrielle-but it is not of her that I am about to speak She was exactly fitted for what she was a maitresse en titre; and by no means fitted for the heroine of a tale of true and devoted love, such as mine is going to be. My story is of one whose name has never been recorded in history; she was little known and less remembered; sweet and lovely as the violet, she resembled it also in being hidden from the eye of day. When Henri Quatre was about fifteen, Charles IX. came to pay a visit to the Court of Navarre. He was then Prince of Béarn, and was already distinguished for brilliancy, and enterprise, and graceful courage. During the stay of the French king, there were all kinds of games and fêtes, to celebrate his visit to Nérac. In all these Henri shone. One day there was a match of archery. Charles IX. was fond of this exercise-perhaps, to keep himself in practice to shoot his subjects out of the window. When kings play at bowls, they give the lie to the proverb, and seldom meet with rubbers. When Louis XIV. danced in the ballets at Versailles, no dancer could cut so high an entre-chat by several inches. In like manner, when his ancestor drew his bow at Nérac, no arrow went half so near the mark as his. But Henri was sadly deficient in knowledge of the bienséances due to royal competitors, and made no scruple of out-shooting the king. An orange was the mark, and the young prince's arrow pierced it through and through. The next day, the game was to be renewed; and all the inhabitants of the country around flocked to see the sport. The ladies of the court were there, in their ruffs and fardingaleshabits unbecoming enough, but you and I know, reader, that beauty gives for the time its own charm to any attire, however awkward-to every fashion, however absurd. For my own part, I confess I love to see a beautiful throat, rising like an ivory pillar from the sloping shoulders; I love also to look on the natural girdling of a "clipsome waist," and consequently I am well contented that the costume of which I have spoken has become obsolete. But I never heard that the young Navarrois nobility objected to it upon this occasion; for, though I readily believe that the beauties I have mentioned were considered beauties even then, yet they no more dared to hope for their being exposed to view than we do for a fashion which would display a beautiful leg somewhat higher than the ankle. Young nobles were there, too, in all the bravery of slashed velvets, and gold chains, and peaked beards, nursed with the care and tenderness which, in all ages, have, in some shape or other, been bestowed upon this attribute and ornament of manhood. And there were young peasant girls, with no satins but that of their smooth fresh skins, and no brilliants but those of their glancing eyes, and no perfumes but that of their hay-like breaths, and, perhaps, of a bunch of summer flowers. And peasant youths were also there, whose only nobility was their brave hearts, and whose only adornment was their manly forms. And there were old men, who looked on with smiles of complacency, and sighs of regret for the past time, when arrows were longer, and bows tougher, and their own arms sinewy and young. And old women were there, whom many a daughter and many a youth wished that the rheumatism had that day kept at home. But great was the disappointment when it was announced that the king did not intend to shoot, or even to honour the assembly with his presence. The arrow of the young prince which carried away the orange, had carried away the king's temper also he remained within. But the Duc de Guise steps forth as his representative. He had no idea that provincial clods, and Huguenots into the bargain, should bear away the prize from Parisians and true Catholics,-so he draws his arrow to the head, and away flies the orange split into two pieces. It was now Henri's turn-he looks round for another mark to be erected, but there is no second orange to be found. What is to be done? The spirit of fifteen prompts him with an expedient. In the inner circle of spectators stood a young girl of perhaps fourteen years. Her hair and brows were dark like those of her country, but she had the blue eye of the north. The face and arms were embrowned with a hue of healthful labour, but the kerchief gave a glimpse of a downy whiteness of skin, which shewed how delicate Nature had meant that this creature should be. The limbs, it is true, wanted their full roundness, but there was certain indication that they would not want it long-and the kerchief which I have mentioned was swelled gently forth (like a sail softly breathed into by the wind) in a way which gave token of the commencement of maidenly beauty. Where this was crossed upon the bosom, rested a rose,-shedding a reflected tinge upon that white breast, like the hues of sunset upon the snow of the Alps. I don't know how it is that young eyes catch such objects readily, but it is certain that as Henri looked around for something to replace the orange, he glanced upon this rose ;-in an instant he sprang to the young girl, took it from her bosom without saying a word, and placed it upon the target. The Duc de Guise shoots first-the arrow passes the flower, only shaking its leaves by the disturbance of the surrounding air. Henri now shoots himself-his shaft pierces the stalk-he takes it, with the rose sticking to its point, and presents it to the blushing and delighted owner. There are few sensations more delicious than that which two young people experience, when they look into each other's eyes; and though Henri and the young peasant did not know this, they felt it as their eyes flashed with consciousness upon each other. The first love-beat Of the youthful heart was at that moment experienced by both of them. Love verified the proverb concerning him, expressed so often in the alliterative antithesis," he made equal the prince and the peasant." Henri lost no time in learning who it was whose rose had become the rose d'amour. It appeared that she was the daughter of the gardener of the castle, and was most appropriately named Fleurette. She lived in a cottage at the end of the garden, which cottage still exists at Nérac. The next day the prince suddenly discovered that gardening was the most delightful of all studies and occupations, and that he had for it a peculiar taste. A portion of ground was marked out as his own, close to the fountain in the centre of the garden. He chose this spot, perhaps, on account of the ease it afforded him to fetch water for his plants, for it was hither that the attendants employed in the garden came for water-Fleurette among the rest. About a month after this time the setting sun one evening cast upon the surface of this fountain the shadow of two figures, seated upon its bank. They were slender and youthful, but as the reflection appeared in the water it was not very easy to distinguish the respective outlines of each. These were Henri and Fleurette ;-his arm supported her form, his shoulder was the cushion to her cheek. It might be the reflection of the sunset, but the cheek appeared more flushed than usual, and her eye swam in a glistening moisture, which was unknown to it at the archery contest. One would think that two young persons thus placed would love to gaze upon each other, especially if it be so delightful as I have above asserted it to be. But Fleurette did not look up to the blooming face and flashing eyes which hung over her-her glance was fixed immoveably upon the fountain, and her fingers were employed in plucking the leaves from a rose, one by one, and strewing them upon the water-but it was not the rose. One might conceive, also, that a prince such as he was, though he might have much to bestow, could have nothing to ask from a poor peasant like her-but true it is that the words, which he poured forth with great passion and rapidity, seemed to have a tone of entreaty-his manner appeared to be that of pleading. The prince was in his working dress, which though of more delicate materials and courtly make than those of the real labourer, prevented any striking and unpleasant contrast between the apparent condition of the lovers. It is now about an hour later. The setting sun has gone, or at least there is only a soft-coloured rose-tint spreading over the western part of the heavens, while the bright moon, no longer paled by the stronger light, shines down in full radiance upon that garden and its central fountain. The figures are there still, but their position and their expression are changed. They are still seated side by side, and his arm is still around her, but her head is sunken upon her own breast. Her hair is loose, and hanging over those burning cheeks, and partly hiding those down-looking eyes, from which tears are flowing plentifully but not rapidly. For him, he is still speaking, but in a tone less hurried and softer. His manner has more tenderness and less passion. His eye is bright with love and joy, but not with fervour with happiness, but not with hope. His tone seems now to be that of soothing, and no longer of entreaty. He kisses the tears from her cheek, but they flow the faster for the very kisses. How different were the feelings of the two when they parted that night! He bounded along at a pace between running and leaping-walking was too quiet and vapid for him now. His heart expanded and danced within his breast, with all the bright and exquisite joy of certainty and irrevocableness. He was raised in his own eyes-he almost pitied all others. He could remain in no place-he could continue in no occupation. He could not sleep from excitement and joy. When she parted from him, she walked to her humble home with a trailing and melancholy step, and paused before she crossed its threshold. When she entered, she slunk from her father's notice, and seated herself in a dark part of the room. Here her tears again began to overflow her eyes, and trickle down her hot cheeks, if not with bitterness, at least with deep mournfulShe was sunken in her esteem, and feared the loss of the esteem of all the world. She even envied a deformed and half-idiot girl, who came into the cottage to beg a little milk. ness. |