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III. “ Daughter of kings! a holier love

Will thy maturer thoughts employ ;
Faith such as cloistered maidens prove,

Exalts the heart to mightier joy;
Lo! brightly glows each glorious shrine;

Lo! countless splendours round thee rise!” “ But will they ever learn to shine · Bright as mine own sweet mother's eyes?


“ I shall not grieve for fair array,

I shall not iniss my toys of gold, Mother! I shall but pine away

In secret tears, in grief untold ;-
Pine, but to feel our hands enlaced

Softly, as tenderly as now;
Or know thine own more firmly placed,

In silent blessings, on my brow!


“Oh, mother! wipe not thence the tears,—

They are our last together shed ! Mine, must be nursed in lonely fears,

Thine, like the summer dew-drops fed. But wilt thou weep, in sooth ? Ah! no,

Thou wouldst not part me from thy side Were but one pleading tear to flow, And thaw thy bosom's frozen tide!

VI. “ Send me not forth! I'll sit so still

Beside thee -watch thy looks, thy words With prompter zeal, with readier will

Than all the slaves thy state affords. They may be, like thy gem-wreathed crown,

Lost, laid aside, or spurned as vain; But Nature binds me as thine own,

By ties 't were sin to rend in twain.


“ Send me not forth! I may not dwell

'Mid' yon cold, lowering looks I see.” “ Peace, gentlest babe! nor thus rebel

Against Heaven's unreversed decree. Nor grieve thee, pretty one! nor weep;

A mother's arms await thee here,— A mother's love will watch thy sleep, A mother's voice thy tasks endear.

VIII. “ Mighty to aid-prompt to forgive

Who, ere she sought her kindred sky, In pity unto all who live,

Resigned her Son, that none might die;Who, from her bright beatitude,

Long-suffering, tender, meek and mild, Gives ease to hearts by grief subdued

Gives shelter to the orphaned child !”


“ Sister! repeat those words of peace !

Oh! guide me to that mother's feet ; There my repining tears shall cease,

There shall I find her service sweet! There shall I breathe, with humblest zeal,

Fond prayers for her who gave me birth; Content to win her heavenly weal,

By rendering up mine own on earth.”


How oft in youth I loved to muse beneath
The shadow of this ancient cloister dim;
And through that ivied arch, shattered and grim,
Mark, 'mid the gloom, yon river's shining breadth,
Like hope on Sorrow smiling !—But, time fleeth!
Now with vain bitterness my eyelids swim-
These peopled quays, towers, bridge, no more to him
Give joy, whose hope lies yonder veiled in death.
Yet let me wrestle with these pangs—and look
Steadfast to heaven, with hand upon that book,
Whence not alone through holy lips are heard
Precept and law of sage and saint departed,
But the deep breath of God's consoling word,
Out-pouring, sweet as tears, to soothe the weary-hearted.



There is a legend connected with the Church of Notre-Dame, that one of the earlier French kings rode into that cathedral after a victorious battle, and left there his horse and arms, as an offering to God and the Virgin for his success. Up to the period of the first Revolotion, there existed an equestrian statue of a knight armed cap-a-pee, who is supposed to have been this hero. Historians are agreed as to the fact, but differ respecting the identity of the individual.

There came a knight in his armour dight, to the

Church of Notre-Dame; The victor heir of proud Navarre, and the sun-bright

Oriflamme; The chancel rang 'neath his courser's tread, where the

priests were bowed in prayer, And the mitred Abbot raised his head, for a princely

guest was there.


He greeted not that holy band, but made the accus

tomed sign, And reined his barb with a practised hand, at the foot

of St. Mary's shrine; Then lightly leaped from his saddle down, the monks

stood mute the while, And his kingly brow was lighted now, with a bright

triumphant smile.


As he bowed him there on the altar-stair, and his

devoir duly paid, For added glory to his crest, and fame to his battle

blade; Then laid aside his helm of pride, nor shunned the

gazing crowd, But kneeling near, where all might hear, his homage

breathed aloud :


“ Mother of God! to thee I bring this hacked and

dinted shield, And this red reaping-hook of death, from Cassel's

bloody field; These trophies true are sure thy due, to whom all

honour be; The strife is done, the battle won, by might derived from thee!

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