Fair, little stars that faintly gleam Like planets sunset-dimmed, The dearer for their glory scant On barren heavens limned. Pale May-flowers, whose stainless cheek Seems born of winter snow— One rosy drop of living blood Flushing the veins below.
Whose faint-breathed perfume seems to rise Like prayer of anchorite, The heart that pours its incense forth Low hidden from our sight; Whose sweetness seems like nimbus pale Crowning some saintly head, The light of self-forgotten life In holy odor shed.
Kind Mother, see, these little flowers Our land is given to wear, When still the forest arches stand Of leafy tracery bare; When still the heavens’ softened blue Grows dim with wind-swept snow, And lonely-seeming Phœbe chants Disconsolate and low.
This precious bloom bears thy dear name— Though given unaware— And in its gentle life we trace The gleam of thine more fair. In France’s thoughtful land they give Bright flowers to be thine eyes, Within their blue forget-me-nots Thy glance’s calmness lies.
Upon our matin blossom rests No depth of peaceful blue, Yet breaks the rosy dawn of love Its cheek’s pure whiteness through. Amid the darkened leaves it lies In blest humility, A lowly handmaid of the Lord, Unstained of earth, like thee—
A hidden life e’er pouring forth An offering pure of prayer; The sweet unconsciousness of grace Soft’ning the rude, bleak air. The blood-stained heart the sword hath pierced The spotless breast within, The quiet shining on a world Bitter and drear with sin.
A crown of stars that perfects all With heaven-won aureole— Let France’s blossom claim thine eyes, Claim ours thy spotless soul; Whose gracious blessing ever rest On this broad land of ours, That not in vain her poets’ shield Be quartered with May-flowers.
This article is condensed from one which appeared in the _Revue Canadienne_, by M. de Bellefeuille.
“Ah! little think the gay, licentious crowd, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround— Ah! little think they, while they dance along, How many pine! how many drink the cup Of baleful grief! how many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind!”
“In a rage, I returned to my dwelling-place, crying aloud: 'Woe unto thee, leper! Woe unto thee!' And as if the whole world united against me, I heard the echo through the ruins of the Château de Bramafan repeat distinctly: 'Woe unto thee!' I stood motionless with horror on the threshold of the tower, listening to the faint tones again and again repeated from the overhanging mountains: 'Woe unto thee!'”