PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.*
"From their spheres

The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, wither'd and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own."-Wordsworth.

SCENE-Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the
Reign of Terror.

D'AUBIGNE, an aged Royalist-BLANCHE, his daughter, a young girl.

Blanche. What was our doom, my father? In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour,
Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?

Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?

D'Aubigne.

They send us home.
Blanche.

Yes, my poor child!

Oh! shall we gaze again

On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire,
And the grey turrent of our own chateau,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,

The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last?-But how is this?
Father, thy glance is clouded-on thy brow
There sits no joy!

D'Aubigne.

Upon my brow, dear girl, There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace As may befit the Christian, who receives,

And recognises, in submissive awe,

The summons of his God.

Blanche.

No, no! it cannot be !-Didst thou not say

They sent us home?

D'Aubigne.

Thou dost not mean

Where is the spirit's home ?

Oh! most of all, in these dark evil days,

Where should it be-but in that world serene,

Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power

Where, but in Heaven?

Blanche.

D'Aubigne.

My father!

We must die.

We must look up to God, and calmly die.

*The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they every night sung to gether in a low and restrained voice,

PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.

Come to my heart, and weep there!--for awhile
Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart!

Do I not know thee ?-Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche?

Blanche. (falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child!-Hide, hide me in thine arms-
Father!

D'Aubigne. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go→
Young, and so fair!-Yet were it worse, methinks,
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave,
Tre loyal-hearted and the chivalrous,

And they that loved their God, have all been swept,
Like the sere leaves, away.-For them no hearth
Through the wide land was left inviolate,
No altar holy; therefore did they fall,
Rojoicing to depart.-The soil is steep'd

In noble blood; the temples are gone down;
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully

Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt.-Why, who would live?
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,

To quit for ever the dishonor'd soil,

The burden'd air?-Our God upon the cross

Our king upon the scaffold*-let us think

Of these and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!

Blanche.

A dark and fearful way!

An evil doom for thy dear honor'd head!

Oh! thou, the kind, the gracious!-whom all eyes
Bless'd as they look'd upon!-Speak yet again-

Say, will they part us?

Say; Aubigne.

No, my Blanche; in death

We shall not be divided.
Blanche.

Thanks to God!

He, by thy glance, will aid me-I shall see
His light before me to the last.-And when-
O pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!-
When shall the hour befall?

D'Aiubgne.

Oh! swiftly now,

And sudenly, with brief dread interval

Comes down the mortal stroke.—But of that hour

As yet I know not.-Each low throbbing pulse

Of the quick pendulum may usher in

Eternity

475

Blanche, (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand

* A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and her ing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:-My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross-your king upon the scaffold-and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a man."

On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are call'd.

D'Aubigne.

If I may speak through tears!-
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!-thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love!
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widow'd house,

There springing up-with soft light round thee shed-
For immortality!-Meek child of God!

I bless thee-He will bless thee !-In his love
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world
To thy Redeemer's breast!-And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived-my duteous, holy Blanche !
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.

Blanche, (rising.)

Now is there strength

Infused through all my spirit.—I can rise

And say," Thy will be done!"

D'Aubigne, (pointing upwards.) See'st thou, my child, Yon faint light in the west? The signal star

Of our due vesper service, gleaming in

Through the close dungeon grating!-Mournfully

It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice

Of adoration in our narrow cell,

As if unworthy fear or wavering faith

Silenced the strain ?-No! let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,

In its dark hour once more!-And we will sleep-
Yes-calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.

[They sing together.

PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN

We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God! the sunset dies ;
How every color'd hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,

Though man hath barr'd it from our sight.

We know Thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, th' All just

And bless thee stih with free and boundless trust!

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS,

We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild evil days.
The red sword in the oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last-
And by the hope which finds no ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark-
We trust thee !-As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose

His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud.

We know thou reign'st--All holy one, all just!
And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh,

When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer-and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on-
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment-

And by his parting word, which rose

Through faith victorious o'er all woes

We know that Thou may'st wound, may'st break

The Spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!

Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,

In our deep need to Thee we turn!

To whom but Thee !-All merciful, all just!

In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!

477

YMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF

PERSECUTION

"Thanks be to God for the mountains."-Howitt.

FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

Thou hast made thy children mighty,

By the touch of the mountain sod.

Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge
Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

We are watchers of a beacon

Whose light must never die;
We are guardians of an altar
'Midst the silence of the sky:
The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

For the dark resounding caverns,

Where thy still, small voice is heard;
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stir'd:
For the storms, on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad :

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

The royal eagle darteth

On his quarry from the heights,
And the stag that knows no master,
Seeks there his wild delights;
But we, for thy communion,

Have sought the mountain sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

The banner of the chieftain,
Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Cannot reach our lofty caves:

Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold
Of freedom's last abode;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

For the shadow of thy presence,

Round our camp of rock outspread;

For the stern defiles of battle,

Bearing record of our dead;

For the snows and for the torrents,

For the free heart's burial-sod ;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.*

"But by my wrongs and by my wrath,

To-morrow Areouski's breath

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light me to the foe!"

Indian Song in "Gertrude of Wyoming.” SCENE.-The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and

* Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded, are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.