I see them wandering among Domremy woods and meadows,—­around the castle of Picardy,—­talking of Joan.  I see them resting by the graves they find in two ancient villages.  I see them walk in sunny places; they are not called to toil; they may gather all the blossoms that delight their eyes.  Their love grows beyond childhood,—­does not die before it comes to love’s best estate.  Happy bride and bridegroom!  But I see them as through a cloud whose fair hues are transient.

From the meadow-lands and the vineyards and the dark forests of the mountains, from study and from rest, I see them move with solemn faces and calm steps.  Brave lights are in their eyes, and flowers that are immortal they carry in their hands.  No distillation can exhaust the fragrance of those blooms.

What dost thou here, Victor?  What dost thou here, Jacqueline?

This is the place of prisons.  Here they light again, as they have often lighted, torch and fagot;—­life must pay the cost!  Angry crowds and hooting multitudes love this dreary square.  Oh, Jacqueline and Victor, what is this I behold?

They come together from their prison, hand in hand.  “The testimony of Jesus!” Stand back, Mazurier!  Retire, Briconnet!  Here is not your place,—­this is not your hour!  Yet here incendiaries fire the temples of the Holy Ghost!

The judges do not now congratulate.  Jacqueline waits not now at midnight for the coming of Le Roy.  Bride and bridegroom, there they stand; they face the world to give their testimony.

And a woman’s voice, almost I deem the voice of Elsie Meril, echoes the mother’s cry that followed John Leclerc when he fought the beasts at Meaux,—­

“Blessed be Jesus Christ, and His witnesses.”

So of the Truth were they borne up that day in a blazing chariot to meet their Lord in the air, to be forever with their Lord.

* * * * *

ON A MAGNOLIA-FLOWER.

  Memorial of my former days,
  Magnolia, as I scent thy breath,
  And on thy pallid beauty gaze,
  I feel not far from death!

  So much hath happened! and so much
  The tomb hath claimed of what was mine! 
  Thy fragrance moves me with a touch
  As from a hand divine: 

  So many dead! so many wed! 
  Since first, by this Magnolia’s tree,
  I pressed a gentle hand and said,
  A word no more for me!

  Lady, who sendest from the South
  This frail, pale token of the past,
  I press the petals to my mouth,
  And sigh—­as ’twere my last.

  Oh, love, we live, but many fell! 
  The world’s a wreck, but we survive!—­
  Say, rather, still on earth we dwell,
  But gray at thirty-five!

SOME NOTES ON SHAKSPEARE.

In 1849, the discovery by Mr. Payne Collier of a copy of the Works of Shakspeare, known as the folio of 1632, with manuscript notes and emendations of the same or nearly the same date, created a great and general interest in the world of letters.