Know'st thou the source of all these ills?

Must I, tho' harsh, the truth reveal?
List, though my soul thy anguish chills,
List, for I counsel for thy weal:
Thy tow'ring pride has been the cause,
Thy luxury, too great and high,
Injustice, and contempt of laws,

Thy cost, and sloth, and vanity,
Have drawn God's anger and mischance
On thee, brave Christian realm of France.

But yet despair not, Heaven has store
Of mercy for the weak and frail;
Go, plead for grace, thy sins deplore,
And God thy late remorse will hail.
For he has promised, and will hear,

If humbly thou approach his throne;
Joy is in Heaven to heal and cheer,
And in that trust is hope alone;
For God bore crosses and mischance
For all-and thee, brave realm of France.

Oh! call to mind thy war-cry bold,
Montjoy St. Denis! and thy shield,
Where three fair lily-flowers of gold
Shine brightly in an azure field;
Oh! call to mind the holy sign

Heaven in the Oriflamme display'd,
And how thy kings, with oil divine,
Were by its virtue sacred made:

MILL SONG.

Heaven loves, and will thy power advance,
Dear, bold, brave land of Christian France.

I, Charles of Orleans, captive still

In youth's gay season, sing for theeFor thee exert my minstrel's skill,

And fain would hail thee blest and free. Long ere my fleeting youth is past,

May peace, my own dear land, be thine; May I behold thee saved at last,

Whatever adverse fate be mine;

And bless the close of thy mischance,

229

Dear, bold, brave, Christian realm of France.

DUKE CHARLES D' ORLEANS.

MILL SONG.

MERRILY the mill sail

Turneth round and round,

With a breezy motion

And a busy sound.

Merrily the miller

Standeth at the door,

Humming pleasant ditties

From his ancient store.

Merrily, oh merrily, all the summer's day, Hums that burly miller, while the mill-sails play.

At the open lattice,

In the little homestead near,
Sits the miller's good wife,

With face of blythesome cheer;
And round about the gateway
A little sturdy throng

Of rosy knaves are sporting,

With laughter loud and long;

And merrily, right merrily, at close of summer's day,

Aye laughs the miller's children the while the mill-sails play.

Good luck befall thee, miller,

With thy frank and hearty smile;
Good luck befall thy dear ones all,
That know nor grief nor guile.
When worldly cares beset us,
And worldly hopes decline,
'Tis well, I wot, to linger

By simple hearts like thine,

And merrily, still merrily, to pass the live-long day,

Midst happier thoughts and better hopes, the while the mill-sails play.

T. WESTWOOD.

IF THY DREAM WOULD NOT FORSAKE

THEE.

I thy dream would not forsake thee,
Thou couldst count but endless bliss;
But too soon will sorrow wake thee
From that fairy realm to this;
Young of heart-thou seest around the
Kindest friends and forms most fair:

Would those spells which now have bound thee
Might not vanish into air!

He thou lov'st-confiding maiden,
See'st thou in life's happy spring;
But the flowers, with sweets o'erladen,
Oft contain the fatal sting;
Should another form and fairer
Chance to meet his roving eye,

E'en love's links may chafe the wearer;
Thine perchance may broken lie.

Friends will die-and forms will vanish,
That seem all devoted now;

Then the marks of care will banish

Hope from heart, and joy from brow.
Lightly let the hours roll o'er thee,
Youth but little knows of pain;
Wintry days are all before thee,
Spring will ne'er return again.

CARPENTER.

THE MOTH AND THE TAPER.

As the loved one to the lover,

As a treasure, once your own, That you might some way recover, Seems to him that fiery cone.

Round he whirls with pleasure tinglingShrinks aghast-returns again—

Ever wildly intermingling

Deep delight and burning pain.

Highest nature wills the capture,
"Light to light," the instinct cries,
And, in agonizing rapture,

Falls the moth, and bravely dies!

Think not what thou art, Believer;

Think but what they mayst become;

For the world is thy deceiver,

And the light thy only home!

R. M. MILNES.