THE marriage blessing on their brows, Across the Channel seas And lands of gay Garonne, they reach He into boyhood born again, A son of joy and life, And she a happy English girl, A happier English wife. They loiter not where Argelés, The chestnut-crested plain, Unfolds its robe of green and gold In pasture, grape, and grain; THE TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE. But on and up, where Nature's heart They pause, contented with the wealth There is a lake, a small round lake, The child of rains and melted snows, A mirror where the veteran rocks Oh gaily shone that little lake, Put on a sparkling countenance To greet that merry pair; How light from stone to stone they leapt, How trippingly they ran; To scale the rock and gain the marge Was all a moment's span! "See, dearest, this primæval boat, So quaint, and rough, I deem Across the Stygian stream: Step in, I will your Charon be, I was a famous rower once In college days of old. "The clumsy oar! the laggard boat! How slow we move along, The work is harder than I thought, A song, my love, a song!" RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. Then, standing up, she carolled out He, tranced in joy, the oar laid down, And swayed in cadence to the song The boat from side to side; Then clasping hand in loving hand, And felt as safe in that mid-lake As on the firmest ground. One poise too much!-he headlong fell,— She, stretching out to save A feeble arm, was borne adown Within that glittering grave:— One moment, and the gush went forth Of music-mingled laughter,— The struggling splash and deathly shriek Were there the instant after. Her weaker head above the flood, That quick engulfed the strong, Like some enchanted water-flower, Waved pitifully long: Long seemed the low and lonely wail Athwart the tide to fade; Alas! that there were some to hear, But never one to aid. Yet not, alas! if Heaven revered The freshly-spoken vow, And willed that what was then made one Should not be sundered now, THE TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE. If She was spared, by that sharp stroke, Love's most unnatural doom, The future lorn and unconsoled, The unavoided tomb! But weep, ye very rocks! for those, Who, on their native shore, Await the letters of dear news, That shall arrive no more; One letter from a stranger hand, Few words are all the need; And then the funeral of the heart, The course of useless speed! The presence of the cold dead wood, Of her so loved and beautiful, That handiwork divine! The weary search for his fine form And late success,-Oh! leave the ring And if in life there lie the seed Of real enduring being; If love and truth be not decreed To perish unforesceing; This Youth, the seal of death has stamped, Now time can wither never, This hope, that sorrow might have damped, Is fresh and strong for ever. IN the far south, where clustering vines are hung I stood one day. The warm blue June was spread All still, all silent, save the sobbing rush Of rippling waves, that lapsed in silver hush Upon the beach; where, glittering towards the strand, |