But Marcel,furious,mad with rage,exclaimed,"Oh!could I stab and kill them!But I'm maimed!"Only a gesture of his lord Restrained him,hand upon his sword.
Then did he grind his teeth,as he lay battered,And in a low and broken voice he muttered:
"They love each other,and despise my kindness,She favours him,and she admires his fondness;Ah,well!by Marcel's patron,I'll not tarry To make them smart,and Franconnette No other husband than myself shall marry!"SECOND PART.
The Enamoured Blacksmith--His Fretful Mother--The Busking Soiree--Pascal's Song--The Sorcerer of the Black Forest--The Girl Sold to the Demon.
Since Roquefort fete,one,two,three months have fled;The dancing frolic,with the harvest ended;
The out-door sports are banished--
For winter comes;the air is sad and cold,it sighs Under the vaulted skies.
At fall of night,none risks to walk across the fields,For each one,sad and cheerless,beelds Before the great fires blazing,Or talks of wolfish fiends[3]amazing;And sorcerers--to make one shudder with affright--That walk around the cots so wight,Or 'neath the gloomy elms,and by farmyards at night.
But now at last has Christmas come,And little Jack,who beats the drum,Cries round the hamlet,with his beaming face:
"Come brisken up,you maidens fair,A merry busking[4]shall take place On Friday,first night of the year!"Ah!now the happy youths and maidens fair Proclaimed the drummer's words,so bright and rare.
The news were carried far and near Light as a bird most fleet With wings to carry thoughts so sweet.
The sun,with beaming rays,had scarcely shone Ere everywhere the joyous news had flown;At every fireside they were known,By every hearth,in converse keen,The busking was the theme.
But when the Friday came,a frozen dew was raining,And by a fireless forge a mother sat complaining;And to her son,who sat thereby,She spoke at last entreatingly:
"Hast thou forgot the summer day,my boy,when thou didst come All bleeding from the furious fray,to the sound of music home?
How I have suffered for your sorrow,And all that you have had to go through.
Long have I troubled for your arm!For mercy's sake Oh!go not forth to-night!I dreamt of flowers again,And what means that,Pascal,but so much tears and pain!""Now art thou craven,mother!and see'st that life's all black,But wherefore tremble,since Marcel has gone,and comes not back!""Oh yet,my son,do you take heed,I pray!
For the wizard of the Black Wood is roaming round this way;The same who wrought such havoc,'twas but a year agone,They tell me one was seen to come from 's cave at dawn But two days past--it was a soldier;now What if this were Marcel?Oh,my child,do take care!
Each mother gives her charms unto her sons;do thou Take mine;but I beseech,go not forth anywhere!""Just for one little hour,mine eyes to set On my friend Thomas,whom I'm bound to meet!""Thy friend,indeed!Nay,nay!Thou meanest Franconnette,Whom thou loves dearly!I wish thou'd love some other maid!
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 God'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 ****** 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 glass 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 blushing,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.