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
As she sat pensive, touching broken chords
Of half remorseful thoughts, while the hoarse surge
Howl'd a sad concert to her broken words.

"Ah, my poor husband! we had five before—
Already so much care, so much to find,
For he must work for all. I give him more.
What was that noise, his step? Ah no, the wind.

"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
Noisily in the dawn-light, scarcely clear ;
And the good fisher, dragging his damp nets,
Stands on the threshold with a joyous cheer.

"'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?
Oh, nought-I sew'd, I watch'd, I was afraid,
The waves were loud as thunders from the sky;
But it is over." Shyly then she said—

"Our neighbour died last night, it must have been
When you were gone.
She left two little ones-
So small, so frail-William and Madeline.
The one just lisps, the other scarcely runs."

The man looked grave, and in the corner cast
His old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea,
Mutter'd awhile, and scratch'd his head; at last,

"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
No bigger than my fist? 'Tis hard to read :

A learned man might understand, perhaps.
So little, they can neither work nor need.

"Go fetch them, wife; they will be frighten'd sore
If with the dead alone they waken thus.
That was the mother knocking at our door,
And we must take the children home to us.

"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:
Where shall I go to look for God?" The mount
With its obstructed gorges, and its sides

Deform'd and black, hid in a flight of clouds,
Answer'd, "I know not, spectre; I am here."
He left the icy mountain, and alone,

With his brow raised, and white snow winding-sheet,
Beyond the isles and the Norwegian sea

Pass'd into the grand silence of the night.
Behind him the dim world went slowly out.
He found himself a ghost, a soul, a king
Without a kingdom, naked, face to face
With an impalpable immensity.

He pass'd on, saying, "'Tis the tomb; beyond

Is God." When he had made three steps, he call'd.
But night is silent as the sepulchre,

And nothing answer'd. Under his white shroud
Went on Canute. The whiteness of the sheet
Gave hope to the sepulchral journeyer,
And he went on-when, suddenly, he saw
Upon that strange white veil, like a black star,
A point that grew, grew slowly, and Canute
Felt with his spectral hand, and was aware
That a blood-drop had fallen on his shroud.
His haughty head, that fear had never bent,
He raised, and stared right forward at the night.
But he saw nothing; space was black-no sound.
Forward," said Canute, raising his proud head.
There fell a second stain beside the first,

66

Then it grew larger; and the Cimbrian chief
Stared at the thick vague darkness, and saw nought.
Still, as a bloodhound follows on his track,
Sad he went on there fell a third red stain

On the white winding-sheet. He had never fled;