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'Aubigné. 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,
The 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,
Rejoicing 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 dishonour'd soil,
The burden'd air?—Our God upon the cross—
Our King upon the scaffold*[1]—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 honour'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?
D'Aubigné.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—
—Oh! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!—
When shall the hour befall?
D'Aubigné.Oh! swiftly now,
And suddenly, 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!
Blanche (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand
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'Aubigné.If I may speak through tears!
—Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!—thou who didst 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
- ↑
* A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hearing 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."
