THE FRENCH EXILE.

My Mary! wipe those tears away

That dim thy lovely eyes,

Nor, on that wild, romantic lay,

That leads through fairy worlds astray,

Waste all thy human sighs.

Come hither on the lightsome wing

Of innocence, and with thee bring

Thy smiles that warmly fall

Into the heart with sunny glow;

When once he tunes his harp to sing,

Thou wilt not be in haste to go.—

— The Minstrel's in the Hall!

Quickly she started from her seat,

With blushing, virgin-grace;

Her long hair floating like a stream,

While through it shone with tender gleam

Her calm and pensive face!

Soon as she heard the Minstrel's name,

Across her silent cheek there came

A blythe yet pitying ray;

For often had she heard me tell

Of the French Exile, blind and lame,

Who sung and touched the harp so well —

— Old Louis Fontenaye.

Silent he sat his harp beside,

Upon an antique chair;

And something of his country's pride

Did, exiled though he was, reside

Throughout his foreign air!

A snow-white dog of Gascon breed,

With ribbands deck'd, was there to lead

His dark steps,— and secure

The paltry alms that traveller threw,

Alms that in truth he much did need,

For every child that saw him, knew

That he was wretched poor.

His harp with figures quaint and rare

Was deck'd, and strange device;

There, you beheld the mermaid fair

In mirror braid her sea-green hair,

In wild and sportive guise.

There, on the imitated swell

The Tritons blew the wreathed shell

Around some fairy isle;

— He framed it, when almost a child,

Long ere he left his native dell:

Who saw the antic carving wild

Could scarce forbear to smile.

With silver voice, the lady said,

She knew how well he sung!—

— Starting, he raised his hoary head,

To hear from that kind-hearted maid

His own dear native tongue.

He seem'd as if restored to sight,

So suddenly his eyes grew bright

When that music touch'd his ear;

The lilied fields of France, I ween,

Before him swam in softened light,

And the sweet waters of the Seine

They all are murmuring near.

Even now, his voice was humbly sad,

Subdued by woe and want;

So crush'd his heart, no wish he had

To feel for one short moment glad,

That hopeless Emigrant!

— The aged man is young again,

And cheerily chaunts a playful strain

While his face with rapture shines;—

How rapidly his fingers glance

O'er the glad strings! his giddy brain

Drinks in the chorus and the dance,

Beneath his clustering vines.

We saw it was a darling tune

With his old heart,— a chear

That made all pains forgotten soon;—

Gay look'd he as a bird in June

That loves itself to hear.

Nor undelightful were the lays

That warm and flowery sung the praise

Of France's lovely queen,

When with the ladies of her court,

Like Flora and her train of fays,

She came at summer-eve to sport

Along the banks of Seine.

But fades the sportive roundelay;

Both harp and voice are still;

The dear delusion will not stay,

The murmuring Seine flows far away,

Sink cot and vine-clad hill!

Though his cheated soul is wounded sore,

His aged visage dimm'd once more,

The smile will not depart;

But struggles‘ mid the wrinkles there,

For he clings unto the parting shore,

And the morn of life so melting-fair,

Still lingers in his heart.

Ah me! what touching silentness

Slept o'er the face divine

Of my dear maid! methought each tress

Hung‘ mid the light of tenderness,

Like clouds in soft moonshine.

With artful innocence she tried

In languid smiles from me to hide

Her tears that fell like rain;—

But when she felt I must perceive

The drops of heavenly pity glide,

She own'd she could not chuse but grieve,

So gladsome was the strain!

If when his griefs once more began,

His eyes had been restored,

And met her face so still and wan,

How had that aged, exiled man

The pitying saint adored!

Yet though the angel light that play'd

Around her face, pierced not the shade

That veil'd his eyeballs dim,—

Yet to his ear her murmurs stole,

And, with a faultering voice, he said

That he felt them sink into his soul

Like the blessed Virgin's hymn!

He pray'd that Heaven its flowers would strew

On both our heads through life,

With such a tone, as told he knew

She was a virgin fond and true,

Mine own betrothed wife!

And something too he strove to say

In praise of our green isle,— how they

Her generous children, though at war

With France, and both on field and wave

Encountering oft in fierce array,

Would not from home or quiet grave

Her exiled sons debar!

Long was the aged Harper gone

Ere Mary well could speak,—

So I cheer'd her soul with loving tone,

And, happy that she was my own,

I kiss'd her dewy cheek.

And, when once more I saw the ray

Of mild-returning pleasure play

Within her glistening eyes,

I bade the gentle maiden go

And read again that Fairy lay,

Since she could weep,‘ mid fancied woe,

O'er real miseries.