Jasmin: Barber, Poet, Philanthropist Part 27

Oh, yes! I read it in thine eyes!

Though thou sing'st, art gay, thy secret bravely keeping, That I may not be sad, yet all alone thou'rt weeping-- My head aches for thy misery; Yet leave her, for thine own good, my dear Pascal; She would so greatly scorn a working smith like thee, With mother old in penury; For poor we are--thou knowest truly.

"How we have sold and sold fill scarce a scythe remains.

Oh, dark the days this house hath seen Since, Pascal, thou so ill hast been; Now thou art well, arouse! do something for our gains Or rest thee, if thou wilt; with suffering we can fight; But, for G.o.d's love, oh! go not forth to-night!"

And the poor mother, quite undone, Cried, while thus pleading with her son, Who, leaning on his blacksmith's forge The stifling sobs quelled in his gorge.

"'Tis very true," he said, "that we are poor, But had I that forgot?... I go to work, my mother, now, be sure!"

No sooner said than done; for in a blink Was heard the anvil's clink, The sparks flew from the blacksmith's fire Higher and still higher!

The forgeman struck the molten iron dead, Hammer in hand, as if he had a hundred in his head!

But now, the Busking was apace, And soon, from every corner place The girls came with the skein of their own making To wind up at this sweethearts' merry meeting.

In the large chamber, where they sat and winded The threads, all doubly garnished, The girls, the lads, plied hard their finger, And swiftly wound together The clews of lint so fair, As fine as any hair.

The winding now was done; and the white wine, and rhymsters, Came forth with rippling gla.s.s and porringers, And brought their vivid vapours To brighten up their capers-- Ah! if the prettiest were the best, with pride I would my Franconnette describe.

Though queen of games, she was the last, not worst, It is not that she reigned at present, yet was first.

"Hold! Hold!" she cried, the brown-haired maid, Now she directed them from side to side-- Three women merged in one, they said-- She dances, speaks, sings, all bewitching, By maiden's wiles she was so rich in; She sings with soul of turtle-dove, She speaks with grace angelic; She dances on the wings of love-- Sings, speaks, and dances, in a guise More than enough to turn the head most wise!

Her triumph is complete; all eyes are fixed upon her, Though her adorers are but peasants; Her eyes are beaming, Blazing and sparkling, And quite bewitching; No wonder that the sweetheart lads are ravished with her!

Then Thomas rose and, on the coquette fixing His ardent eyes, though blus.h.i.+ng, In language full of neatness, And tones of lute-like sweetness, This song began to sing:

THE SYREN WITH A HEART OF ICE.

"Oh, tell us, charming Syren, With heart of ice unmoved, When shall we hear the sound Of bells that ring around, To say that you have loved?

Always so free and gay, Those wings of dazzling ray,

Are spread to every air-- And all your favour share; Attracted by their light All follow in your flight.

But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again?

"You've seen how full of joy We've marked the sun arise; Even so each Sunday morn When you, before our eyes, Bring us such sweet surprise.

With us new life is born: We love your angel face, Your step so debonnaire, Your mien of maiden grace, Your voice, your lips, your hair, Your eyes of gentle fire, All these we now admire!

But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again?

"Alas! our groves are dull When widowed of thy sight, And neither hedge nor field Their perfume seem to yield; The blue sky is not bright When you return once more, All that was sad is gone, All nature you restore, We breathe in you alone; We could your rosy fingers cover With kisses of delight all over!

But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again?

"The dove you lost of late, Might warn you by her flight, She sought in woods her mate, And has forgot you quite; She has become more fair Since love has been her care.

'Tis love makes all things gay, Oh follow where she leads-- When beauteous looks decay, What dreary life succeeds!

And ah! believe me, perfect bliss, A joy, where peace and triumph reign, Is when a maiden, loved like this, Has learnt 'tis sweet to love again!"

The songster finished, and the ardent crowd Of listeners clapped their hands in praises loud.

"Oh! what a lovely song!" they cried. "Who is the poet?"

"'Tis Pascal," answered Thomas, "that has made it!"

"Bravo! Long live Pascal!" exclaimed the fervent crowd.

Nothing said Franconnette; but she rejoiced--was proud-- At having so much love evoked, And in a song so touching, Before this crowd admiring.

Then she became more serious as she thought of Pascal; "How brave he is! 'Tis all for him; he has not got his equal!

How he paints love! All praise him without doubt; And his sweet song--so touching!" for now by heart she knows it.

"But if he loves at last, why does he hide away?"

Then turning suddenly, she says-- "Thomas, he is not here, away he stays; I would him compliment; can he not come?"

"Oh! now he cannot; but remains at home."

Then spoke the jealous Lawrence: "Pascal knows He cannot any other songs compose; Poor fellow! almost ruined quite he is; His father's most infirm--stretched out, and cannot rise; The baker will not give him bread, he is constrained to debts."

Then Franconnette grew pale, and said, "And he so very good!

Poor lad! how much he suffers; and now he wants his food!"

"My faith!" said Lawrence, a heart of goodness aping, "They say that now he goes a-begging!"

"You lie!" cried Thomas, "hold thy serpent's tongue!

Pascal, 'tis true, is working, yet with harm, Since, for this maiden, he has suffered in his arm; But he is cured; heed not this spiteful knave!

He works now all alone, for he is strong and brave."

If someone on the girl his eyes had set, He would have seen tears on the cheeks of Franconnette.

"Let's 'Hunt the Slipper!"' cried the maids; Round a wide ring they sat, the jades.

Slipper was bid by Franconnette, But in a twinkle, Marionette-- "Lawrence, hast thou my slipper?" "No, demoiselle!"

"Rise then, and seek it now, ah, well!"

Lawrence, exulting in his features, Said, "Franconnette, hast thou my slipper?"

"No, sir!" "'Tis false!" It was beneath her seat!

"Thou hast it! Rise! Now kiss me as the forfeit!"

A finch, just taken in a net, First tries some gap to fly at; So Franconnette, just like a bird, escaped With Lawrence, whom she hated; Incensed he turned to kiss her; He swiftly ran, but in his pursuit warm, The moment she was caught he stumbled, Slipped, fell, and sudden broke his arm.

Misfortunes ne'er come single, it is said.

The gloomy night was now far spent; But in that fright of frights, quite in a breath, The house-door creaked and ope'd! Was it a wraith?

No! but an old man bearded to the waist, And now there stood before the throng the Black Wood Ghaist!

"Imprudent youths!" he cried; "I come from gloomy rocks up yonder, Your eyes to ope: I'm filled with wrath and wonder!

You all admire this Franconnette; Learn who she is, infatuate!

From very cradle she's all evil; Her wretched father, miserable,

Pa.s.sed to the Hugnenots and sold her to the Devil; Her mother died of shame-- And thus the demon plays his game.

Now he has bought this woman base, He tracks her in her hiding-place.

You see how he has punished Pascal and Lawrence Because they gave her light embrace!

Be warned! For who so dares this maid to wed, Amid the brief delight of their first nuptial night, Will sudden hear a thunder-peal o'er head!

The demon cometh in his might To s.n.a.t.c.h the bride away in fright, And leave the ill-starred bridegroom dead!"

The Wizard said no more; but angry, fiery rays, From scars his visage bore, seemed suddenly to blaze.

Four times he turned his heel upon, Then bade the door stand wide, or ere his foot he stayed; With one long creak the door obeyed, And lo! the bearded ghaist was gone!

He left great horror in his wake! None stirred in all the throng; They looked nor left nor right, when he away had gone, They seemed all changed to stone-- Only the stricken maid herself stood brave against her wrong;

And in the hope forlorn that all might pa.s.s for jest, With tremulous smile, half bright, half pleading, She swept them with her eyes, and two steps forward pressed; But when she saw them all receding, And heard them cry "Avaunt!" then did she know her fate; Then did her saddened eyes dilate With speechless terror more and more, The while her heart beat fast and loud, Till with a cry her head she bowed And sank in swoon upon the floor.

Such was the close of Busking night, Though it began so gay and bright; The morrow was the New Year's day, It should have been a time most gay; But now there went abroad a fearful rumour-- It was remembered long time after In every house and cottage home throughout the land-- Though 'twas a fiction and a superst.i.tion,-- It was, "The De'il's abroad! He's now a-roaming; How dreadful! He is now for lost souls seeking!"