"Is it possible?" he said; "a scaffold in front of that house where we were wont to meet those old friends! O Constance, are they there to die?—that brave joyous old man, that kind pious soul his wife?"
"Yea," I answered; "and likewise the friend of my young years, good holy Edmund Genings, who never did hurt a fly, much less a human creature. And at Tyburn, Bryan Lacy, my cousin, once your friend, and Sydney Hodgson, and good Mr. Mason, are to suffer."
Hubert clenched his hands, ground his teeth, and a terrible look shot through his eyes. I felt affrighted at the passion my words had awakened.
"Cursed," he cried, in a hoarse voice,—"cursed be the bloody queen which reigneth in this land! Thrice accursed be the tyrants which hunt us to death! Tenfold accursed such as lure us to damnation by the foul baits they do offer to tempt a man to lie to God and to others, to ruin those he loves, to become loathsome to himself by his mean crimes! But if one hath been cheated of his soul, robbed of the hope of heaven, debarred from his religion, thrust into the company of devils, let them fear him, yea, let them fear him, I say. Revenge is not impossible. What shall stay the [{654}] hand of such a man? What shall guard those impious tempters if many such should one day league for to sweep them from earth's face? If one be desperate of this world's life, he becomes terrible. How should he be to be dreaded who doth despair of heaven!"
With these wild words, he left me. He was gone ere I could speak.
TO BE CONTINUED. [Page 759]
From Chambers's Journal.
RESIGNED.
When my weary spinning's done,
And the shades of eve grow deep,
And by the bright hearthstone
The old folk sit asleep;
My heart and I in secret talk, when none can see me weep.
Ofttimes the driving rain,
And sometimes the silent snow,
Beat on the window-pane,
And mingle sad and low
With the hopes and fears, the smiles and tears, of a time long, long ago;
Till they act the tales they tell,
And a step is on the floor,
And a voice I once loved well
Says: "Open me the door."
Then I turn with a chill from the mocking wind, which whispers "Nevermore!"—-
To the little whitewashed room
In which my days are spent;
And, journeying toward the tomb,
My companions gray and bent.
Who haply deem their grandchild's life not joyous, but content.
Ah me! for the suns not set,
For the years not yet begun,
For the days not numbered yet,
And the work that must be done,
Before the desert path is crossed, and the weary web is spun!
Like a beacon in the night,
I see my first grey hair;
And I scarce can tell aright
If it is from age or care,
For time glides silent o'er my life, and leaves no landmark there.
But perchance 'tis for the best.
And I must harder strive,
If life is little blest.
Then not for life to live.
For though a heart has nought to take, it may have much to give.
[{655}]
And they are old and poor.
And bread is hard to win.
And a guest is at the door
Who soon must enter in,
And to keep his shadow from their hearth, I daily toil and spin.
My sorrow is their gain,
And I show not by a tear
How my solitude and pain
Have bought their comfort dear.
For the storm which wrecked my life's best hope has left me stranded here.
But I hear the neighbors say,
That the hour-glass runs too fast,
And I know that in that glad day,
When toil and sorrow are past,
The false and true shall receive their due, and hearts cease aching at last.