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drops of a half hidden fountain sparkled and revelled in the sunbeams, and filled the heart with all soft images of peace and hope. For one moment, as I listened to the trickling waters, and looked on the quiet bower, I longed to be the denizen of so sweet a resting place; but I thought of its three last owners, - Marie Louise, Josephine, and Antoinette, and checked the idle wish.
"It is pleasant," said Lady Julian, "thus to pursue royalty into its retirement. Yet, I confess, this royal workyday room, pleases me less than the one we visited at Brussels. Do you remember, May, how every thing there seemed to intimate that a queen could occupy, as well as amuse, her leisure? Do you recollect, Violet, the old piano, and the Raffaelle hanging near the door, with a copy opposite, painted by the queen of the Netherlands, and how we all fancied her and the princess Mary, divested of white satin and pearls, sitting down to their quiet employments, and to the enjoyment of each other's society?"
"Mamma, dear," said Emily, "I wish we had some employment now, for I am tired of listening to that fountain, and looking on those fading trees. Oh! mamma, the red portfolio! why should we not look at it now? I am sure there must be something in it by this time."
So the precious case was sent for, and soon made its appearance. Sir Mark, our guard, guide, and director, stretched himself in the sunniest corner of the softest couch for a doze, and Frà Diavolo, the most sensible spaniel that ever set forth to see the world, followed his example.
Lady Julian took the portfolio, which, composed of such heterogeneous materials, had been finished with some degree of elegance by the neat-handed May; and after a little rustling and turning of leaves, said, inquiringly, "Poetry or prose, good people?"
"Ye gods! what a question," answered Harry, "in so poetical a spot. Why, there is poetry all around us; she sighs among those wavering autumn leaves, bends over the murmuring fountain, smiles pensively in the half averted countenance of the graceful statue, and flutters in every throb of every pulse that animates my fair and right well beloved cousin Violet Fane. Poetry, by all manner of means! But what is this?" he continued, after a moment's pause, "May has not half finished her work; what is a book without a motto ?—a bottle of wine without a corkscrew a box of money without a key — a play without a bill of fare. Here is a sentence which I cut out of a right venerable volume, written by one Simon Waterson, in the year 1623; just the thing. 'Booke makers are full wise folke, who paine and pine themselves away by writing to subject themselves to the censure of such, who will pick and pull them by their words, phrases, and lines, when some of them themselves have not one graine of honesty ; unmannerly guests, who, when they have been well and kindly entertained, flinch away, never giving thanks, but despising and dispraising their courteous entertainment.””
Lines suggested by a Painting representing Louise la Vallière at the age of sixteen, receiving a coral cross from the hands of Pére Anselme, as the reward of a charitable action.
Beautiful! beautiful! thy pensive face,
who could dream of sin while gazing on thee now !
Soft are they, soft and pure, those orient pearls
In the deep quiet of thy dove-like eye!
Whose sweetest task it is to watch and bless
And thou, in all the pride of youth didst kneel
By the rude couch where Want his watch was keeping,
The wounds of her whose tears that couch were steeping,
For thou didst tell her of a home on high,
It is deep grief and bitterness to turn
And he thy monarch-suitor - loved to raise Blushes of beauty on thy soft rose-cheek,
Waked by the warmth of his impassioned praise, And sought sweet words of blandishment to speak, The which to disbelieve, thy heart was all too weak.
Few years are pass'd no more a village maid;
Where softest flowers of foreign nurture grow,
Waking sweet melody. While o'er them bent,
Hang Parian statues,- wanting but the glow
Of life to make them perfect; here are blent
All things that make life sweet-save one, the heart's content.
And thou art queen-like in thy rich array,
Thy vest of satin, and thy pearl decked zone ;
Gem, palace, fountain, flower, all are thine own;
For desert were to thee his home and throne;
If he - thy fond heart's idol were not nigh,
To give thee smile for smile, and tender sigh for sigh.
A festival! —and thou art gayest there,
By the fixed pleasure of their steadfast glance,
The beauty and the brilliance of the scene;
While he looks on, more proudly pleased, perchance, To think his Eden hath so fair a queen,
Than in the battle field, where he hath victor been.
Thine after hour,—and passed the pageant by
Thy wearied hand supports thy snowy brow. What! tears upon thy cheek! and thy deep eye Droops it in sorrow more than langour now? Gone are the flatterers of thy midnight show, Absent the idol of thy erring heart;
And, hushed the pleading of his passioned vow, Memory hath no pure pleasures to impart,
To one who dwells from virtue's holy ways apart.
And what is that on which thy tearful gaze
a record of thine early days,
Ere splendour thy life's happiness had bought, And mournful visions to thy soul are brought, Of fair green fields, and gay and sunny skies; Of a bright hearth at home, where love, untaught By worldly love, made its own paradise ;
a coral cross - before thy tear-dimmed eyes
Has placed these memories of bye-gone days,
And thou, enfettered by its golden chain