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That bears upon the argument.

Huon. Oh, much,

Durst but my heart explain.

Coun. Has thou a heart?

I thought thou wast a serf; and, as a serf,
Had'st thought and will none other than thy lord's,
And so no heart-that is, no heart of thine own.
But since thou say'st thou hast a heart, 'tis well,—
Keep it a secret; let me not suspect

[smiles. What, were it e'en suspicion, were thy death. [Huon Sir, did I name a banquet to thee now,

Thou lookedst so?

Huon. To die for thee were such.

Coun. Sir?

Huon. For his master oft a serf has died,

And thought it sweet; and may not, then, a serf
Say, for his mistress 'twere a feast to die?

Coun. Thou art presumptuous-very-so, no wonder
Thou'dst do well

If I misunderstood thee.

To be thyself, and nothing more.

Huon. Myself!

[thou

Coun. Why, art thou not a serf? What right hast

To set thy person off with such a bearing?

And move with such a gait? to give thy brow
The set of nobles, and thy tongue his phrase?

Thy betters' clothes sit fairer upon thee

Than on themselves, "and they were made for them.'
I have no patience with thee-can't abide thee!
There are no bounds to thy ambition, none!
How durst thou e'er adventure to bestride
The war-horse-sitting him, that people say
Thou, not the knight, appear'st his proper load?
How durst thou touch the lance, the battle-axe,
And wheel the flaming falchion round thy head,
As thou would'st blaze the son of chivalry?

I know! my father found thy aptitude,

And humored it, to boast thee off! He may chance To rue it; and no wonder if he should,

If others' eyes see that they should not see,

Shown to them by his own.

Huon. Oh, lady

Coun. What?

Huon. Heard I aright?

Coun. Aright-what heard'st thou, then?
I would not think thee so presumptuous
As through thy pride to misinterpret me.
It were not for thy health,-yea, for thy life!
Beware, sir. It would not set my quiet blood,
On haste for mischief to thee, rushing through
My veins, did I believe!-Thou art not mad;
Knowing thy vanity, I aggravate it.

Thou know'st 'twere shame, the lowest free-woman
That follows in my train should think of thee!
Huon. I know it, lady.

Coun. That I meant to say,

No more. Don't read such books to me again.
I would you had not learned to read so well,
I had been spared your annotations.

For the future, no reply, when I remark,

Hear, but don't speak-unless you're told-and then
No more than you are told; what makes the answer up,
No syllable beyond.
[Huon retires up, c.

Enter Falconer with hawk, R.

My Falconer! So.

An hour I'll fly my

hawk.

Falconer. A noble bird,

[Crosses, L.

up,

My lady, knows his bells, is proud of them.
Coun. They are no portion of his excellence :
It is his own! 'Tis not by them he makes
His ample wheel; mounts up, and up, and
In spiry rings, piercing the firmament,
Till he o'ertops his prey; then gives his stoop,
More fleet and sure than ever arrow sped!
How nature fashioned him for his bold trade
Gave him his stars of eyes to range abroad,
His wings of glorious spread to mow the air,
And breast of might to use them! I delight
To fly my hawk. The hawk's a glorious bird;
You may be useful, sir; wait upon me.
Obedient-yet a daring, dauntless bird!

KNOWLES.

THE IDIOT LAD.

The vesper hymn had died away.
And the benison had been said,
But one remained in church to pray,
With a bow'd and reverent head.
He could not frame in words the prayer
Which reached the Throne of Grace,
But the Love and Pity present there
Saw the pleading of his face.

In many curls hung his hair of gold,
Round a brow of pearly white;
His face was cast in a graceful mould,
And his eyes were strangely bright.
Gentle his white hand's touch-his smile
Was tender and sweet and sad,
Nought knew the whole of fraud and guile
Of poor Dick, the idiot lad,

"My boy," I said, "the tired sun

Sinks low on the west sea's breast;

The shades which fall when the day is done Woo the weary earth to rest.

In the vesper zephyr's gentle stir

The sleepy tree-tops nod

Why wait you here?" and he said, "Oh, sir, I would see the face of God!

"If the sun is so fair in his noon-day pride, And the moon in the silver night;

If the stars which by angels at eventide
Are lighted can shine so bright!
If wood and dell, each flow'r and tree,
And each grass of the graveyard sod,
Are so full of beauty, oh, what must it be
To look on the Face of God.

"I have sought for the vision wide and near, And once, sir, I travell'd far

To a mighty city long leagues from here,

Where men of the great world are.
But the faces I saw were false and mean,

And cruel, and hard, and bad;

And none like the Face the saints have seen
Saw poor Dick, the idiot lad.

"In the night, sir, I wander away from home;
Down the lanes and the fields I

go

Thro' the silent and lonely woods I roam,
Patient, and praying, and slow.
In the early morn on the hills I stand,
Ere yet the mists have past;

And I eagerly look o'er sea and land
For the wonderful vision at last.

"When the lightning's flash and the thunders roar, And the ships fly in from the gale;

When the waves beat high on the shrinking shore,
And the fishing boats dare not sail;

I seek it still, in the storm and snow,
Lest it may happen to be,

That then it will please the great God to show
His beautiful Face to me.

"I seek it still when God's gleaming pledge In the bright'ning sky appears,

And from tree and flower, and sparkling hedge Earth is weeping her happy tears;

For I sometimes think that I may behold,

After yearning years of pain,

The Face of my God in the quivering gold
Of the sunshine that follows rain.

"When the fishers return on the homeward tide, I ask them nothing but this:

'Have you seen it out there on the ocean wide,
Where the sky and the water kiss?'

But they smile, and Poor Dick' I hear them say,
And they answer me always 'No.'
So I think I must be still farther away
Then even the fishing boats go."

That night while the simple fisher-folk slept,
From the dreams of the mighty free,
Down to the beach the Idiot crept,
And launched on the summer sea.
And the boat sped on, and on, and on,
From the ever-receding shore,

And brighter and brighter the moonbeams shone,
Which for him were to shine no more.

Far out at sea his boat was found,
And the tide, which bore to land
The village fleet from the fishing ground,
Laid softly upon the sand

The white wet face of the idiot boy,
Not yearning and wistful now,
For perfect peace, and rest, and joy
Were written upon his brow.

In the poor lad's eyes seem'd still the glow
Of a new and wondrous light:

And down on the beach the women knelt low
As they gaz'd on the holy sight.

As the fishermen walk'd to the smiling dead,
Softly their rough feet trod;

And bared was each head, as one slowly said,
"He was look'd on the Face of God!"

OVERTON.

THE LOVERS.

THE LADY OF LYONS.-Act II.-Scene 1.

Melnotte. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position to merit,—not birth. Pauline. Why, yes; but still-

Mel. Still what, Pauline?

Pauline. There is something glorious in the Herit

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