with this circumstance. In order to excite the public sym pathies to the utmost, the widowed duchess, with her children, appeared repeatedly in the streets, and courts of justice, in gloomy mourning procession. On all these occasions the young duke held a prominent position at the side of his Italian mother. His father's murderer and kinsman, however, was too powerful for legal punishment; a few years later he fell under the dagger of the assassin on the bridge of Montereau, and in the presence of the dauphin. The consequences of these crimes were ruinous to France; the powerful house of Burgundy, after the murder of Duke John, rose in open rebellion, and Henry V. of England, through their means, obtained what without them he would scarcely have dared seriously to aim at-possession of the throne of St. Louis. On the famous field of Agincourt, Charles d'Orleans, sharing the fate of so many others, was made prisoner. He was immediately sent to England, where his captivity and exile were prolonged through a period of nearly five and twenty years, and varied only by removals from one stronghold to another. During part of that time he was confined in Pontrefact Castle, where his cousin, Queen Katherine, the wife of Henry V., paid him a visit in one of her progresses. Captivity, as in the case of several other royal and princely exiles, led him to seek consolation and amusement from poetical composition. His verses are very pleasing indeed, full of the simplicity of natural feeling, with much ease and grace of expression. Absence does not appear to have diminished his love of country; he cherished a longing desire to return to France, and envied, as he tells us, even the birds which were flying toward his native shores. At length, after a captivity extending over half a lifetime, he was liberated, and returned to France. Having some claims upon the Duchy of Milan, through his mother, a Visconti, he raised troops, not iong after his return to Paris, and led an expedition into Italy, but failed to conquer the ducal crown. He was more successful as a poet than as a soldier; but he left, however, a reputation superior to either of these distinctions, that of a good and honest man. His death took place in the year 1461. The Duke of Orleans, who figures in Shakspeare's drama of Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt, was this same poetprince. His character is not unworthily sketched in the play, where he appears loyal and brave, superior to the other French princes figuring in the same scenes. When the French are already in full flight, he exclaims: "We are enough yet living in the field To which the Duke of Bourbon is made to reply, very expressively: "The devil take order now! I'll to the throng; Let life be short, else shame will be too long." Shakspeare was probably not aware that the duke was a poet, else he would doubtless have made an allusion to the fact in Act iii., Scene vii., where some pleasantry occurs between the dauphin and his companions regarding a sonnet he had himself written to his horse. SONG. FROM THE FRENCH. I stood upon the wild sea-shore, My straining eyes were turned once more I saw the sea-bird hurry by Along the waters blue; I saw her wheel amid the sky, Onward she darts, secure and free, O Heaven! It were enough to die Were worth whole years to come! Translation of MISS COSTELLO. CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS, 1391-1467. SONG OF COLMA OSSIAN. It is night, I am alone; forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain, The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds! Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him unstrung; his dogs panting 'round him. But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar-why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock, and there the tree! Here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar! Cease a little while, O wind! Stream, be thou silent awhile! Let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar, it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo, the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep; I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone! Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love, and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me; I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar, hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! What shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands! He was terrible in the fight! Speak to me; hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent; silent forever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay! Oh! from the rock on the hill-from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale; no answer half-drowned in the storm! I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream; why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill; when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends pleasant were her friends to Colma ! : JAMES MACPHERSON, 173S-1796. SONG. FROM "CYNTHIA'S REVELS." Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears; Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs! List to the heavy part the music bears; Woe weeps out her division when she sings. Fall grief in showers- Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, Since summer's pride is now a withered daffodil. BEN JONSON, 1574-1637. LINES. "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee;" The western wind was wild and dark wi' foam, The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er, and o'er the sand, And 'round, and 'round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land, "O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair A tress o' golden hair— O' drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee. C. KINGSLEY. LETTER OF ST. BASIL, DESCRIBING HIS HER MITAGE. TO ST. GREGORY NAZIANZEN. I believe I may at last flatter myself with having found the end of my wanderings. The hopes of being united with thee-or, I should rather say, my dreams, for hopes have been justly termed the waking dreams of men-have remained unfulfilled. God has suffered me to find a place, such as has often flitted before our imaginations; for that which fancy has shown us from afar is now made manifest to me. A high mountain, clothed with thick woods, is watered to the north by fresh and everflowing streams. At its foot lies an extended plain, rendered fruitful by the vapors with which it is moistened. The surrounding forest. crowded with trees of different kinds, incloses one as in a strong fortress. This wilderness is bounded by two deep ravines; on the one side the river, rushing in foam down the mountain, forms an almost impassable barrier, while on the other all access is impeded by a broad mountain-ridge. My hut is so situated on the summit of the mountain, that I can overlook the whole plain, and follow throughout its course the Iris, which is more beautiful, and has a more abundant body of water than the Strymon, near Amphipolis. The river of my wilderness, which is more impetuous than any other that I know of, breaks against the jutting rock, and throws itself foaming into the abyss below-an object of admiration to the mountain wanderer, and a source of profit to the natives from the numerous fishes that are found in its waters. Shall I describe to thee the fructifying vapors that rise from the moist earth, or the cool breezes wafted over the rippled face of the waters? Shall I speak of the sweet song of the birds, or of the rich luxuriance of the flowering plants? What charms me beyond all else is the calm repose of the spot. It is only visited occasionally by huntsmen; for my wilderness nourishes herds of deer and wild goats, but not bears and wolves. |