“Hark! the joyous airs are ringing! 
    Sister, dost thou hear them singing? 
    How merrily they laugh and jest! 
    Would we were bidden with the rest! 
    I would don my hose of homespun gray,
    And my doublet of linen striped and gay;
    Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed
    Till to-morrow at seven o’clock, it is said!”

    “I know it!” answered Margaret;
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,
    Mastered again; and its hand of ice
Held her heart crushed, as in a vice! 
    “Paul, be not sad!  ’T is a holiday;
    To-morrow put on thy doublet gay! 
    But leave me now for a while alone.” 
    Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul,
    And, as he whistled along the hall,
    Entered Jane, the crippled crone.

    “Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat! 
    I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! 
    But thou art cold,—­art chill as death;
    My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?”
“Nothing!  I heard them singing home the bride;
    And, as I listened to the song,
    I thought my turn would come erelong,
    Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 
    Thy cards forsooth can never lie,
    To me such joy they prophesy,
    Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide
    When they behold him at my side. 
    And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou? 
It must seem long to him;—­methinks I see him now!”
    Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press: 
    “Thy love I cannot all approve;
We must not trust too much to happiness;—­
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!”
    “The more I pray, the more I love! 
It is no sin, for God is on my side!”
It was enough; and Jane no more replied.

Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;
    But to deceive the beldame old
    She takes a sweet, contented air;
    Speak of foul weather or of fair,
    At every word the maiden smiles! 
    Thus the beguiler she beguiles;
So that, departing at the evening’s close,
    She says, “She may be saved! she nothing knows!”

    Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess! 
This morning, in the fulness of thy heart,
    Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!

III

Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating,
And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky,
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,
      How differently!

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,
    The one puts on her cross and crown,
    Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,
    And flaunting, fluttering up and down,
    Looks at herself, and cannot rest,
    The other, blind, within her little room,
    Has neither crown nor flower’s perfume;
But in their stead for something gropes apart,
    That in a drawer’s recess doth lie,
And, ’neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,
    Convulsive clasps it to her heart.