They'll talk of him, and of his glory, The cottage hearth, at eve, around; Fifty years hence no other story Shall 'neath the lowly thatch resound. Then shall the villagers repair To some gray ancient dame, And bid her long-past times declare, And tell his deeds, his fame. "Ah, though it cost us life and limb," They'll say, "our love is still the same, And still the people love his name; Good mother, tell of him!"
My children, through this very region He journey'd with a train of kings, Followed by many a gallant legion! (How many thoughts to me it brings, That tell of days so long gone by!) He climbed on foot the very hill Where, seated on the bank, was I To see him pass. I see him still; The small, three-coloured hat he wore, And the surtout of gray. I trembled at his sight all o'er!— Cheerful he said, "My dear, good day!" "Mother, he spoke to you, you say?" "Ay, said 'good day' once more."
Next year at Paris, too, one morning, Myself, I saw him with his court, Princes and queens his suite adorning, To Notre Dame he did resort; And every body blest the day And prayed for him and his; How happily he took his way, And smiled in all a father's bliss, For heaven a son bestowed!" "A happy day for you was this, Good mother!" then they say: "When thus you saw him on the road, In Notre Dame to kneel and pray, A good heart sure it showed."
"Alas! ere long, invading strangers Brought death and ruin in our land! (Alone he stood and braved all dangers, The sword in his unconquer'd hand.) One night, (it seems but yesterday,) I heard a knocking at the door— It was himself upon his way, A few true followers, no more, Stood worn and weary at his side. Where I am sitting now he sat— 'Oh what a war is this!' he cried. Oh what a war!'" "Mother, how's that? Did he, then, sit in that same chair?" "My children, yes!—he rested there!"
"I'm hungry," then he said, "and gladly I brought him country wine and bread; The gray surtout was dripping sadly; He dried it by this fire. His head, He leaned against this wall, and slept— While, as for me, I sat and wept. He waked and cried, 'Be of good cheer! I go to Paris, France to free, And better times, be sure, are near!' He went, and I have ever kept The cup he drank from—children, see! My greatest treasure!" "Show it me," "And me!"—"and me!" the listeners cry— "Good mother, keep it carefully!"
"Ah, it is safe! but where is he? Crowned by the pope, our father good, In a lone island of the sea The hero died. Long time we stood Firm in belief he was not dead, And some by sea, and some by land— But all, that he was coming, said. And when, at length, all hope was o'er, Than I, were few that sorrowed more!" "Ah, mother, well we understand! Our blessings on you; we too weep, We will pray for you ere we sleep!"
THE HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
BY JOHN INMAN.
Nay, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain— Not often will my feelings speak in smooth and measured strain. The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee, Too deeply in that heart is shrined, by words expressed to be; And thousand thoughts of tenderness, that in my bosom throng, Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song. This is thy birth-day, dearest—the fairest of the year— To many giving gladness, but to me of all most dear; The birth-day of my happiness, which sprang to life with thee, As hope springs in the captive's breast with the hour that sets him free. I hail its happy dawning, with a love like that which fills My heart for thee, my pure one, when thy kind voice in it thrills. I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give, Is fervent as the dying man's to him who bids him live— But the joy I have in thee, dear love, speaks not in echoes loud, Nor will its tranquil flowing be revealed before a crowd.