And why doth Janet pass so fast away? What hath she done within that house of dread? What foldeth she beneath her mantle grey, And hurries home, and hides it in her bed, With half averted face, and nervous tread? What hath she stolen from the awful dead? The dawn was whitening over the sea's verge "Ah, my poor husband! we had five before— "That I should be afraid of him I love! I have done ill. If he should beat me now, I would not blame him. Did not the door move? Not yet, poor man." She sits with careful brow, Wrapp'd in her inward grief, nor hears the roar Of winds and waves that dash against his prow, Nor the black cormorant shrieking on the shore. Sudden the door flies open wide, and lets "'Tis thou!" she cries, and, eager as a lover, Leaps up, and holds her husband to her breast; Her greeting kisses all his vesture cover. ""Tis I, good wife;" and his broad face express'd How gay his heart, that Janet's love made light. 66 "What weather was it?" "Hard." "Your fishing?" "Bad. The sea was like a nest of thieves to-night; But I embrace thee, and my heart is glad. "There was a devil in the wind that blew; I tore my net, caught nothing, broke my line; And once I thought the bark was broken too. What did you all the night long, Janet mine?" She, trembling in the darkness, answered, 'I? "Our neighbour died last night, it must have been The man looked grave, and in the corner cast "We have five children—this makes seven," said he. "Already in bad weather we must sleep Sometimes without our supper. Now-Ah well, 'Tis not my fault. These accidents are deep. It was the good God's will. I cannot tell. Why did He take the mother from those scraps A learned man might understand, perhaps. "Go fetch them, wife; they will be frighten'd sore "Brother and sister shall they be to ours, And they will learn to climb my knee at even. When He shall see these strangers in our bow'rs, More fish, more food will give the God of Heav'n. "I will work harder, I will drink no wine. Go fetch them. Wherefore dost thou tarry, dear? Not thus were wont to move those feet of thine." She drew the curtain, saying—“They are here.” THE PARRICIDE. TRANSLATED FROM VICTOR HUGO. NIGHT came. The organ that had mourn'd the dead. Was silent in the sanctuary. The priests, Quitting the high cathedral, left the king Dead in sepulchral peace. Then he got up And girded on his sword, and left the tomb (For walls and doors to phantoms are as mist). He pass'd across the sea, the sea that shows The domes of Altona, and Elsinore, And Aarhus, with their towers upon its face. Night listen'd for the steps of the dark king, But he walk'd silent, being himself a dream. Straight to Mount Savo, gnaw'd by the tooth of time, Canute went on, and his strange ancestor Thus greeted: "Let me for a winding-sheet, O Mountain Savo, whom the storm torments, Cut me a morsel of thy cloak of snow." Him Savo knowing dared not to refuse. Whereupon Canute straightway took his sword, His sword unbreakable, and from the mountThe mount that shook before his warrior form He cut some snow, and gat himself a shroud. He said, "O mountain, death gives little light: Deform'd and black, hid in a flight of clouds, With his brow raised, and white snow winding-sheet, Pass'd into the grand silence of the night. He pass'd on, saying, "'Tis the tomb; beyond Is God." When he had made three steps, he call'd. And nothing answer'd. Under his white shroud 66 Then it grew larger; and the Cimbrian chief On the white winding-sheet. He had never fled; |