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Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone;
Aloft in Notre Dame to wave;
Nor did thy Cross, St. Louis, rest
And snatched his staff and rushed to save;
Then sunk—and on his threshold cried,
then? “ But stand not there. Away! away! “ Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay.
Though old, and now forgot of men, “ Both must not leave him in a day.” Then, and he shook his hoary head,
Unhappy in thy youth!” he said.
“ Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain;
“ No voice sends back thy name again.
“ To mourn is all thou hast to do;
Thy play-mate lost, and teacher too."
And who but she could soothe the boy, Or turn his tears to tears of joy? Long had she kissed him as he slept, Long o'er his pillow hung and wept; And, as she passed her father's door, She stood as she would stir no more.
But she is
No, never shall they clasp her-never.
Oh! she was good as she was fair.
To know her was to love her.
When little, and her eyes, her voice,
her modest grace, Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace, When, shading with her hand her face,
She half inclined to sadness.
Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted;
Like music to the heart it went.
And her dark eyes-how eloquent!
Her father loved her as his fame;
- And Bayard's self had done the same!
Soon as the sun the glittering pane On the red floor in diamonds threw,
He mused or slumbered to a song.
But she is dead to him, to all!
Her lute hangs silent on the wall;
And on the stairs, and at the door
She, who would lead him where he went,
Charm with her converse while he leant;
Or, hovering, every wish prevent;
(Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old,)
No more the matron in the school
Expects her in the hour of rule,
To sit amid the elfin brood,
Praising the busy and the good.
Not now, to while an hour away,
Where once a wild deer, wild no more,
Her chaplet on his antlers wore,