Part 58 (2/2)

Oh, hadst thou come within my dungeon walls, I would have sued upon my knees for death, But mercy for my child, my name, my race, Which, once polluted, is my race no more.

Rather than insult, death to them and me.

I come not now to ask her back from thee; Nay, let her love thee with insensate love; I take back naught that bears the brand of shame.

Keep her! Yet, still, amidst thy festivals, Until some father's, brother's, husband's hand ('Twill come to pa.s.s!) shall rid us of thy yoke, My pallid face shall ever haunt thee there, To tell thee, Francis, it was foully done!...

TRIBOULET _(the Court Jester), sneering._ The poor man raves.

ST. VILLIER. Accursed be ye both!

Oh Sire! 'tis wrong upon the dying lion To loose thy dog! _(Turns to Triboulet)_ And thou, whoe'er thou art, That with a fiendish sneer and viper's tongue Makest my tears a pastime and a sport, My curse upon thee!--Sire, thy brow doth bear The gems of France!--on mine, old age doth sit; Thine decked with jewels, mine with these gray hairs; We both are Kings, yet bear a different crown; And should some impious hand upon thy head Heap wrongs and insult, with thine own strong arm Thou canst avenge them! _G.o.d avenges mine!_

FREDK. L. SLOUS.

PATERNAL LOVE.

_(”Ma fille! o seul bonheur.”)_

[LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act II]

My child! oh, only blessing Heaven allows me!

Others have parents, brothers, kinsmen, friends, A wife, a husband, va.s.sals, followers, Ancestors, and allies, or many children.

I have but thee, thee only. Some are rich; Thou art my treasure, thou art all my riches.

And some believe in angels; I believe In nothing but thy soul. Others have youth, And woman's love, and pride, and grace, and health; Others are beautiful; thou art my beauty, Thou art my home, my country and my kin, My wife, my mother, sister, friend--my child!

My bliss, my wealth, my wors.h.i.+p, and my law, My Universe! Oh, by all other things My soul is tortured. If I should ever lose thee-- Horrible thought! I cannot utter it.

Smile, for thy smile is like thy mother's smiling.

She, too, was fair; you have a trick like her, Of pa.s.sing oft your hand athwart your brow As though to clear it. Innocence still loves A brow unclouded and an azure eye.

To me thou seem'st clothed in a holy halo, My soul beholds thy soul through thy fair body; E'en when my eyes are shut, I see thee still; Thou art my daylight, and sometimes I wish That Heaven had made me blind that thou might'st be The sun that lighted up the world for me.

f.a.n.n.y KEMBLE-BUTLER.

THE DEGENERATE GALLANTS.

_(”Mes jeunes cavaliers.”)_

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