Part 58 (1/2)

Blind, as was Homer; as Belisarius, blind, But one weak child to guide his vision dim.

The hand which dealt him bread, in pity kind-- He'll never see; G.o.d sees it, though, for him.

H.L.C., ”_London Society._”

THE QUIET RURAL CHURCH.

It was a humble church, with arches low, The church we entered there, Where many a weary soul since long ago Had past with plaint or prayer.

Mournful and still it was at day's decline, The day we entered there; As in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine, The fires extinguished were.

Scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound, Scarcely some low breathed word, As in a forest fallen asleep, is found Just one belated bird.

A STORM SIMILE.

_(”Oh, regardez le ciel!”)_

[June, 1828.]

See, where on high the moving ma.s.ses, piled By the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild, Present strange shapes to view; Oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds, As though some air-born giant 'mid the clouds Sudden his falchion drew.

DRAMATIC PIECES.

THE FATHER'S CURSE.

_(”Vous, sire, ecoutez-moi.”)_

[LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act I.]

M. ST. VALLIER (_an aged n.o.bleman, from whom King Francis I.

decoyed his daughter, the famous beauty, Diana of Poitiers_).

A king should listen when his subjects speak: 'Tis true your mandate led me to the block, Where pardon came upon me, like a dream; I blessed you then, unconscious as I was That a king's mercy, sharper far than death, To save a father doomed his child to shame; Yes, without pity for the n.o.ble race Of Poitiers, spotless for a thousand years, You, Francis of Valois, without one spark Of love or pity, honor or remorse, Did on that night (thy couch her virtue's tomb), With cold embraces, foully bring to scorn My helpless daughter, Dian of Poitiers.

To save her father's life a knight she sought, Like Bayard, fearless and without reproach.

She found a heartless king, who sold the boon, Making cold bargain for his child's dishonor.

Oh! monstrous traffic! foully hast thou done!

My blood was thine, and justly, tho' it springs Amongst the best and n.o.blest names of France; But to pretend to spare these poor gray locks, And yet to trample on a weeping woman, Was basely done; the father was thine own, But not the daughter!--thou hast overpa.s.sed The right of monarchs!--yet 'tis mercy deemed.

And I perchance am called ungrateful still.