lities of this stanza for poetical effect, with all due deference to the craft, have not been sufficiently considered by our living poets. But to return. Of incident in the Lover's Complaint there is very little, almost nothing-less even than in Longfellow's Kavanagh of which so many have complained, because forsooth the author was better advised than to make a shilling novel for the newsboys. The poem, in fact, though narrative in its form, is chiefly speculative and intro-versive. The story is of a female, now past the meridian of life, who had been deceived and deserted in youth. She is described as a half-crazed being, with some remains of beauty and of comely apparel still cleaving to her, sitting alone on the margin of a gentle streamlet, bewailing in melancholy tones her sad history. The story opens with the following scene. The poet represents himself as reclining upon a gentle hill, listening to the echo from a "sistering" vale. The echo thus brought to his ears was a "plaintful" story, which on directing his eyes thither, he found to proceed from the half-crazed person already described. "From off a hill whose concave womb re-worded "Upon her head a platted hive of straw, "Oft did she heave her napkin* to her eyne, "Sometimes her levelled eyes their carriage ride, "Her hair, nor loose, nor tied in formal plat, Napkin, handkerchief. + Conceited characters, fanciful figures. Laundring, washing. Pelleted, formed into pellets or small balls. Sheaved, made of straw collected from sheaves. THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLÈ. (From the Gascon of Jasmin.) BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. I. Ar the foot of the mountain height When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve: While the bride, with roguish eyes, Sporting with them, now escapes and cries: "Those who catch me Married verily This year shall be!" And all pursue with eager haste, And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, Meanwhile, whence comes it that among What lovers! they give not a single caress! These are grand people, one would say. It is, that half way up the hill, And you must know, one year ago, All at the father's stern command was changed; Returned but three short days ago, The golden chain they round him throw, To marry Angela, and yet Then suddenly a maiden cried, Here comes the cripple Jane!" And by a fountain's side It is that Jane,-the cripple Jane, And the bride a lovely boy straightway. All comes to pass as she avers; She never deceives, she never errs. But for this once the village seer And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom, And she was silent; and the maidens fair What are two drops of turbid rain? Of verdurous valleys, With merry sallies, They sang the refrain : "The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, II. And by suffering worn and weary, But beautiful as some fair angel yet, Thus lamented Margaret, In her cottage lone and dreary : "He has arrived! arrived at last! Yet Jane has named him not these three days past; And knows that of my night he is the star! For ever night! for ever night! No more of grief! no more of lassitude! Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call! "Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken! Ah! wo is me! then bear me to my grave! O God! what thoughts within me waken! Away! he will return! I do but rave! He will return! I need not fear! But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see! And that deceives me not! 'tis he! 'tis he!" And the door ajar is set, And poor, confiding Margaret Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes; "Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries: "Angela the bride has passed, I saw the wedding guests go by; Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked? For all are there but you and I!" "Angela married! and not send To tell her secret unto me! O speak! who may the bridegroom be?" "My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend!" A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said; A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks; Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, At length, the bridal song again Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. "Hark! the joyous airs are ringing! I would don my hose of homespun gray, Mastered again; and its hand of ice "Paul, be not sad! "Tis a holiday; "Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat! I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! I thought my turn would come ere long, To me such joy they prophesy, Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide When they behold him at my side. And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou? It must seem long to him;-methinks I see him now!" We must not trust too much to happiness;— It is no sin, for God is on my side!" It was enough; and Jane no more replied. Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold; So that, departing at the evening's close, She says, "She may be saved! she nothing knows!" Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress! Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess! III. Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, How differently! Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, The one puts on her cross and crown, The other, blind, within her little room, Has neither crown nor flower's perfume; But in their stead for something gropes apart, That in a drawer's recess doth lie, And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, Convulsive clasps it to her heart. The one, fantastic, light as air, 'Mid kisses ringing, And joyous singing, Forgets to say her morning prayer! The other, with cold drops upon her brow, And then the orphan, young and blind, And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, Near that castle, fair to see, And proud of its name of high degree, A little chapel, almost bare At the base of the rock, is builded there; Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, "Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!" Thus Margaret said. "Where are we? we ascend ' Dost thou remember when our father said, NOTES. Come in! The bride will be here soon: Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!" She could no more, the blind girl, weak and weary! A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, "What wouldst thou do, my daughter ?"—and she started; And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted; But Paul, impatient, urges ever more Her steps towards the open door; And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid At length the bell, With booming sound, Sends forth, resounding round, Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, "How beautiful! how beautiful she is!" But she must calm that giddy head, For already the Mass is said; At the holy table stands the priest; The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it; He must pronounce one word at least! And while the wedding guests all hold their breath, Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see! "Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my death, As holy water be my blood for thee!" And calmly in the air a knife suspended! At eve, instead of bridal verse, No, ah no! for each one seemed to say : "The roads should mourn and be veiled in gloom, of France what Burns is to the south of Scotland,-the representative of the heart of the people,-one of those [This poem should have been translated into Lowland happy bards, who are born with their mouths full of birds Scotch; for only in that dialect could the simplicity and (la bouco pleno d'aouzelous). He has written his own biotenderness of the Gascon be given. Jasmin is to the southgraphy in a poetic form, and the simple narrative of his |