"It is my royal state that yields

This bitterness of woe."-WORDSWORTH.

The unfortunate Queen is here supposed to be contemplating a miniature of herself, formerly worn by Louis the Sixteenth, the night previous to her execution.

And was I ever thus? Did my cheek glow
With roseate hue, as represented here?

Did these dim eyes, from which such torrents flow,
E'er shine as laughingly, as sparkling clear?
Or could my tresses, now of silv'ry white,
Have ever waved like these, so golden bright?
Ah! mother mine, who playful bade me choose
Upon the mimic world where I would reign;
And when my childish finger did refuse

All realms save this, with infantine disdain,
Proudly exclaim'd, "France only merits thee!"
You knew not of the cup it held for me!
They say the fault was mine, that 'twas my pride
Brought all the ruin on this beauteous land.
True: to sustain the royal pow'r I tried,

And would have govern'd with a firmer hand :
If wrong I counsell'd, 'twas with hope to save-
I little thought the end would be his grave!
Was it a crime that I was young and gay,

And that he cherish'd me with tenderness?
Yet often have I heard the invidious say,

He had been happier, had he prized me less.
They knew not that a future hour would prove
All things could turn inconstant, but my love!
My children! oh! my children! but for you
Gladly would I await the fatal blow

With calmness, e'en with joy the hour would view
That by my husband's side would lay me low;
But wrong'd, oppress'd, insulted, can I bear
To leave you destitute of every care?

You, who were nursed so tenderly, nor knew
What misery and grief were, but by name!
In your own realms, my darling ones, are few
Who to more sympathy can not lay claim!
All have some comfort; but when I am gone,
My own unhappy children will have none !
And after ages will they kinder be?

And this fair country I have loved so well,
Will it with pity ever think of me,

As one who, if she err'd in judgment, fell
With all the best and noblest in the land,
When vice and tyranny alone could stand?
The night is spent-the morning star appears-
The last on earth shall meet my earnest gaze.
Farewell for ever to these foolish tears!

1 feel within the pride of former days.

Vainly my foes on me their terrors try

As Queen of France I lived-as Queen of France will die!

[NOTE. We have been surprised, without being pleased, at not having heard

further from the author of these beautiful lines.-ED.]

THE LOVERS OF NORMANDIE.

BY MRS. S. C. HALL.

SUNDAY is, as everybody knows who has ever been in France, the great holiday of the country-the jour de fête for old and young, rich and poor. This is not a fitting place to discuss the wisdom of the law which says, "Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath-day;" nevertheless, although I am far from defending the manner in which it is too generally spent, I may express my belief that the God, whose sun shines equally upon the just and the unjust, never could consider it a crime for the pent-up artisan to leave his close and narrow dwelling on the Sabbath, and wander with his children and the partner of his toils amid green hedge-rows and verdant fields. We know that the blue sky, the perfumed flowers, the fresh air, the music of the bird, the bee, and the dancing rill, must elevate the mind, must bear it upward, must decoy it from the small, low, creeping things of life to those which lead from time into eternity. I always pray that the Sabbath sun may shine bright and warm, so that our labourers, our servants-those who toil in comparative darkness all the week-may be reminded that God made the Sabbath for them, and that our waysides, fields, and woods, may be filled by an outpouring of cheerful and happy people. It is not Sabbathbreaking to enjoy the sun, the light, the air of heaven. Our Saviour himself walked in the fields of Judea on that blessed day, and gathered with his own hands the ears of corn.

With such feelings, it is not likely I should find fault with our continental neighbours for rejoicing and being glad of heart on their Dimanche; but I do find great fault with the laws which permit continued labour on that sacred festival. There is no tranquillity in the streets, no rest for man or beast; the shops are open, the horses at work, the din of masons, mills, slaters, carpenters, and carriers as usual: at Hâvre I really think they made more noise on Sunday than on any other day of the seven. I have seen laundresses washing at their tubs, and at the public fountains, while the bells of Notre Dame called to prayers. Let them do away altogether with the Sabbath rather than treat it with such insolent mockery, as to mingle the noise of the hammer and the anvil with the deep and holy music of the church-bell; it is so completely and palpably giving the upper hand to the cares and business of life, to its money-changing and its loaves and fishes, that the insulted Sabbaths of France grate upon my memory more than anything I can remember of any country I ever visited. As the evening approaches the streets become more tranquil, the artisans wash and dress, and the shop is left to the care of one person. Men and women troop away by scores, looking happy and joyous. Then, indeed, it is impossible not to rejoice with them, and wish that so volatile a people might devote the morning of the day to that repose which is the high way to reflection. I thought of the calm, well-ordered Sabbath mornings of England, and prayed that they might always lead to innocent and cheerful evenings.

Our friends had fixed on an excursion to a place called Gourlay, beyond the ancient town of Harfleur, whose church is one of the most beautiful I ever saw, and in every respect interesting to us from its con

nection with English history. The town is prettily situated; the French, who get into ecstacies about everything, call it superbe! magnifique! and charmante!--but it is much more easy to forgive a person for being too easily pleased than for not being pleased at all; and if they do indulge in pleasurable exaggeration, I must confess that we are too apt to indulge in a contrary course, and go through the world gathering thorns. instead of roses.

The town of Harfleur is, as I have correctly said, only prettily situated : the steeple of the church is worth half a day's journey over their bad roads to see; our antiquarians would exceedingly delight in its noble and venerable architecture, though the exterior is far more beautiful than the interior; the houses, however, crowd too closely upon it-so perfect a building deserves space that it may be viewed from all points. The congregation were about to depart when we entered the church, and the hot, rich perfume of the incense was almost suffocating, after the pure air through which we had passed; the last chaunt pealed, the blessing was bestowed, and the crowd dispersed; there were banners, and trophies, and ancient monuments, and altars, with the usual garnishings of tapers, and flowers, and pictures, and offerings of all kinds, but none so touching as those in the Chapel of our Lady of Grace at Honfleur.

Having looked and wandered about, we re-entered our carriages, and, leaving Harfleur, proceeded on our way to the château of Gourlay, in the grounds of which we were to spend the day. A gentleman of our party felt so exceedingly overcome by the heat of the sun, that he rang at the gate, and requested the servant to give him a glass of water-the request was refused; she said that her mistress might be angry if she gave water to a stranger!

This was very inhospitable, certainly, and afforded the English of the party an opportunity of railing at France, to their hearts' content-it seemed to refresh and animate them exceedingly, and gave them an excellent appetite for the sumptuous entertainment which was spread in the orchard of a pretty farm-house, by a brave and generous Frenchman, whose pâtés, and confitures, and fruit, and champagne, forced the most John-Bullish of the party to confess that he really fancied himself in England. Dear, good-natured man-it was the first intimation I had ever received of his possessing what is called fancy! The orchard was a very pretty one, close and sheltered, and the farmer, a naturally wellbred person, made ample amends for the churlishness of château Gourlay. I am not quite sure that the English gentleman, who was so angry at first, did not absolutely propose a toast, the purport of which was, that England and France might be united by a bond of brotherly affection: this was, however, in my opinion, an overflowing of the heart, produced by an overflowing of champagne, and ought not to be recorded to the disadvantage of the singularly loyal and John-Bullish gentleman who proposed it.

When our feast was over, we sallied forth into the woods; crossing first a field where the golden ears of corn weighed down the slender stems to the very earth. We passed what was politely termed the high road, and then along a wandering and tangled path, which opened suddenly upon a vista of extraordinary beauty. We stood on the summit of a little hill, whose slopes were thickly wooded-the tall stems of the beech shining like silver wands, while their leaves danced and quivered

in the gentle breeze of evening. Beneath us was a small valley which the eye glanced over at first without observing, so exquisite was the prospect which terminated the rising ground at the opposite side-the boughs of the tall trees interlaced each other in the most fantastic arches, forming a species of forest architecture too difficult for imitation-you looked on, and on, and on, till the distance softened into air-the sun-light glancing between the trees, showed here and there groups of travellers regaling on fruit and wine, or clusters of laughing peasants-whose joyous mirth was repeated by the gentle echo of those lovely glades. There was a harmony throughout this exquisite woodland scenery which I never before saw in either picture or landscape-a shadow more or less would have injured the effect, it was perfect-I cannot describe-but I shall never forget it.

As we descended into the little valley, the character of the scene changed, and though it was still most beautiful, it was not what it had been at first, when it burst upon us like the Elysium of a fairy tale; the grass in the valley was soft and green as velvet, and our feet sunk in the deep moss-I could imagine the lady in Comus entranced in such a spot; the air was close as if confined by the hills and the luxuriant trees-but we could hear it rustle in the topmost branches-while the chirp of the active grasshopper and the murmur of myriads of insects told how everything around us teemed with life. We had repeated "how beautiful!" more than once, when a man's clear voice broke into the popular little ballad of "Ma Normandie !” In such a spot it was singularly effective, and chorused as it was by the peasant band would have been effective anywhere. We should have lingered long in that spot of sweet enchantment, if not reminded that we had still to traverse the wood, and descend a hill before we could meet our carriages. The path we took wound along high ground, and ever and anon on the left, we had glimpses of verdant valleys and bright corn fields, which shone like patches of gold in the setting sun; the green woodpeckers ran tapping up the beech trees, and every now and then the bright round head, or bushy tail of a squirrel would frisk in the sunshine and then vanish amid the foliage. We did not frighten many birds—indeed the hedge-rows were not crowded with them as they are in England, where their plumage and their music adds so much to the beauty of the landscape; a sudden turn in the path, however, brought us upon a group the study of which was to me far more interesting than that of ornithology-a group of moissonneurs (harvesters) were seated on a circular grass mound, beneath the branches of a spreading oak; they were all well dressed-and with their Sunday clothes had assumed their Sunday smiles; the men and women were both embrowned by labour-and though of different ages, all seemed actuated by the same spirit of joy and good fellowship; they saluted us with perfect frankness-and we were all taken with the healthful beauty of a baby which nestled its laughing rosy face on the shoulder of its young mother-the grandfather of the nursling seemed gratified by our attention, and the tall stalwart grandmother, who did not appear to have numbered forty summers, was evidently the mistress and director of the party, by whom she was called La Mère Françon.

"It is a fine evening, Mesdames," she said; the peculiar tone of Normandie dwelling on her lips;-" and we love to enjoy it-the sun

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gives us labour all the week, and pleasure on this jour de fête; I have heard," she added inquiringly, " that he does not shine as brightly on the land of strangers.'

I replied of course, with a well-merited compliment to "the French sun," giving him the preference over all the suns I had ever the honour of being acquainted with; and the good dame received it en reine, as if quite the right of her country; leaning against the stem of a young oak, who aspired to be as great as his parent, a little apart from the other harvesters, sat two young persons, lad and lass-but so exceedingly alike that they might by the unobservant have been mistaken for twins; the same large black eyes, the same raven hair, the same rich crimson dye on their cheeks-there they sat hand clasped in hand-their large eyes expanded by the display of a particularly fashionable toilette worn by one of our party; and sundry whispers of admiration exchanged between them as to its form and quality; "Brother and sister, I am sure," said a gentleman of our company, smiling as if he had made a praiseworthy discovery or solved a difficult problem. I could not help laughing, but men are very obtuse in love affairs. I wish those who read could have seen the joyous expression of the youth's countenance, as he replied with all the fervour of truth, " Non, Dieu merci!"

La Mère Françon smiled as she looked upon the youthful pair, he had thrown his arm round the girl's waist, as if to draw her more closely to him; and she looked down blushing while trying to escape.

"Look up Marie, ma petite," said la Mère Françon, “look up, you need not be ashamed of your choice-and they make love in Englanddo they not?" She added, her eyes twinkling with an inimitable expression of mischief, as she glanced at our solemn-looking friend, who certainly seemed quite guiltless of the tender passion-"they make love in England sometimes do they not, but not as they do here?"

I assured her as I had no experience in French love-making I could not tell, but that I was certain they managed to make it in some way or other, in all countries.

She seemed to doubt my assertion, assuring me that the French were les plus galants of all the world. She had the credit of her country evidently at heart, and so I did not contradict her, and la Mère Françon thought, as many others do, that because I did not contradict, I agreed with her.

I turned to look at the young couple, they had risen; the girl's hand rested on her lover's arm; they were both graceful and handsome, he particularly so, his countenance was as deeply-toned as one of Murillo's Spanish boys, and Marie was but his softened copy; they are affianced, said la bonne Mère, (as they called the spokeswoman,) and will be married when the harvest is over. We wished the young people joy, and offered the maiden money, but she refused it, with a gentle assurance that she did not want it. I thought of the starving harvesters of Ireland, and my heart sickened at the remembrance of their poverty; yet here was a peasantry, without poor-laws, as well clothed (for their climate), as well fed, and more contented than our English labourers; to be sure I was in Normandie, and that is one of the richest provinces of France; but the remembrance was painful, and I turned for relief to la bonne Mère. The light of day was deepening, in anticipation of a glorious sunset, and the group seemed disposed to journey homeward.