In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay,
For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day,
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning,
Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning.
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;
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it,

He must pronounce one word at least!

'Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman's side ""Tis he!" a well-known voice has cried.

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!

Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,
For anguish did its work so well,
That, ere the fatal stroke descended,
Lifeless she fell!

At eve, instead of bridal verse,
The De Profundis filled the air;
Decked with flowers a simple hearse
To the churchyard forth they bear;
Village girls in robes of snow
Follow, weeping as they go;

Nowhere was a smile that day,

No, ah, no! for each one seemed to say :

"The roads should mourn and be veiled in gloom,

So fair a corpse shall leave its home!

Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away!
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!"

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

FROM THE NOËL BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BARÔZAL.

I HEAR along our street
Pass the minstrel throngs;
Hark! they play so sweet,

On their hautboys, Christmas songs!

Sing them till the night expire!

These good people sang

Songs devout and sweet;
While the rafters rang,

There they stood with freezing feet.
Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire.

Nuns in frigid cells

At this holy tide,

For want of something else, Christmas songs at times have tried. Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

Washerwomen old,

To the sound they beat
Sing by rivers cold,

With uncovered heads and feet.

Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire.

Who by the fireside stands
Stamps his feet and sings;
But he who blows his hands

Not so gay a carol brings.
Let us by the fire

Ever higher

Sing them till the night expire!

TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN.

PRELUDE.

THE WAYSIDE INN.

ONE Autumn night, in Sudbury town,
Across the meadows bare and brown,
The windows of the wayside inn

Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves

Their crimson curtains rent and thin.

As ancient is this hostelry

As any in the land may be,
Built in the old Colonial day,

When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality;

A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,
Now somewhat fallen to decay,
With weather-stains upon the wall,
And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
And creaking and uneven floors,

And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.

A region of repose it seems,

A place of slumber and of dreams,
Remote among the wooded hills!
For there no noisy railway speeds,

Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;
But noon and night, the panting teams
Stop under the great oaks, that throw
Tangles of light and shade below,
On roofs and doors and window-sills.

I I