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And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest wo
She bore her lofty part;
But oh! with such a glazing eye,
With such a curdling cheek-
Love, love! of mortal agony,

Thou, only thou shouldst speak!

The wind rose high,-but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;

While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,
And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low,
Had stilled his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheeks such kisses pressed
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed-one smile in death-
And his worn spirit passed.
While even as o'er a martyr's grave
She knelt on that sad spot,

And, weeping, blessed the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!

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THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN Sir John made attempts to regain it from

CHANDOS.

the French; but St. Julien, who commanded it, rendered them all abortive by This renowned knight was seneschal his watchfulness. The last attempt was of Poictou in the reign of Edward the made on the night preceding the eve of Third, which situation he held with great the year 1370, when Sir John, being in credit to himself, and satisfaction to his the city of Poictiers, determined to make royal master. Many of his actions, in all one more attempt on it. Having secretly of which he behaved valiantly, are re-assembled about three hundred men, tocorded by the old chroniclers; and the gether with several noblemen and knights, French and English historians both agree they left Poictiers in the night, and arriin representing him as the flower of ved before the fort, without being perknighthood. ceived by the enemy; but at the moment During his seneschalship, the fortified they were preparing to scale the walls, a abbey of St. Salvin, in the election of party of nien-at-arms, headed by Carnet Poictiers, was treacherously given up by le Breton, arrived at the fort, the guard a monk to two French knights, named of which blew his horn, to give notice of Louis de St. Julien, and Carnet le Bre- their approach, when the English on the ton. Enraged at the loss of this place, opposite side, thinking they were discov

104

The Death of Sir John Chandos.

ered, drew off to Chauvigny, a town situ-||St. Martin, perceiving this accident,thrust ated abour two leagues from the fort. him in the face with his lance as he

On the troop arriving here, about two stumbled forward. The weapon entered hundred men left Chandos, who, with the below the eye, or rather, the eye-socket remainder of the party, entered a hostelry (for the knight had lost an eye whilst to rest and refresh themselves. After hunting on the heaths of Bordeaux) and waiting for a short time, Lord Thomas penetrated to the brain. Sir John instantPercy, one of the noblemen who had ac-ly fell, and Froissart says, "turned twice companied Sir John,requested permission over in great agony, like one who had reto make an excursion, which was readily ceived his death-wound." The French, granted; and that nobleman, with about pressing forward, attempted to seize him; thirty men-at-arms, left Chauvigny, whilst but his uncle, Sir Edward Clifford, striSir John and his company remained at ding across his body, kept them off by the inn, much depressed in spirits for the the heavy stroke of his sword, so that ill success of their expedition. none came within the sweep without suf

Not long after the departure of Lord fering for their temerity. During the Percy, news came to Sir John, as he sat conflict, Lord Thomas Percy, owing to with his friends by the fire, that Carnet le the height of the bridge which interposed Breton and Louis de St. Julien,had taken between them and the French, had not the field in search of him. After some perceived the combat; but on the conconsultation with his companions, he de-trary, thinking the enemy had declined termined to set out and meet them, and the contest, he drew off his company.leaving Chauvigny, he took the road to- The English were like men distracted on wards Poictiers, along the banks of the seeing their leader fall; whilst the French river Shortly after day-break, they ap- jeered them, crying out, "my lords of proached the bridge of Lusac,upon which England, you will all stay with us, for Lord Thomas Percy and his party were you cannot now escape."

drawn up on foot to oppose the crossing In the mean time,a squire of Sir John's of the French, who arrived at the bridge thrust his lance through the thighs of the just after they had gained it. The French man who had wounded his master, who dismounted also, and leaving their horses nevertheless continued to fight bravely. in the care of their servants, they advan- Although the English maintained the eed to attack the English with their lan- fight courageously, they were in the end ces. At this juncture, Sir John Chandos compelled to surrender, when the Poicarrived, with his banner displayed, and touvins, who had left their brave but now emblazoned with his arms-a pile gules disabled leader at Chauvigny,fortunately on a field argent, borne by James Allen, arrived to rescue them. The French bea powerful man-at-arms. The French ing without their horses, could not esservants, who had been left with their cape; so turning to the English, they be masters' horses, seeing the approach of sought them to tell the Poictouvins the the English, fled, and Sir John coming reverse of what had happened: namely, up, began to rail at the French in bitter that the English had defeated and taken terms, telling then that the day had ar- them prisoners. The English assented rived when they would see which was the to this, and the Poictouvins shortly arri strongest. As he spoke, a Breton in the|ved with couched lances, shouting their troop of the French knights, drew his war cry; but the Bretons and French resword, and struck an English squire, na- treating on one side, cried out, "Stop, my med Simpkin Dodenhale, from his horse; lords, we are prisoners already." Carnet upon which Sir John, bidding his men le Breton was prisoner to Sir Bertrand de dismount, advanced firmly upon the Carsilies, and Sir Louis de St. Julien to French, although a hoar frost had made Sir John Chambo.

the ground slippery, and after rescuing Nothing could exceed the grief of the the squire, attacked them fiercely. friends of Sir John Chandos, when they Sir John wore over his armor a long beheld him lying on the ground unable surtout of white sarcenet, upon the breast to speak. "Flower of knighthood! oh, and back of which his arms were embla-Sir John Chandos! cursed be the forging zoned. The length of this surtout proved of that lance which has thus endangered fatal to him; for as he advanced upon the thy life," were the exclamations of the French, his legs became entangled in it, barons and knights of Poictou: to which and a French squire, named Jacques de he being unable to articulate,only replied

by groans, whilst those of his household no caress; his manners assumed a cast wrung their hands, and tore their hair of defiance. She strove not to perceive with all the demonstrations of violent the alteration, or sadly solaced herself grief. After being disarmed by his ser- with the reflection, that "it was the navants, he was laid upon shields, and borne ture of boys."

to the fort of Mortemer, whilst the other He grew boisterous and disobedient. barons and knights returned to Poictiers His returns to their humble cottage bewith their prisoners. Jacques de St. Mar-came irregular. She sat up late for him, tin, who wounded Sir John, died a few and when she heard his approaching days after, of the wounds he received in footstep, forgot her weariness, and welthe skirmish. Sir John Chandos lived a comed him kindly. But he might have day and a night in great agony, when seen reproach written on the paleness of death ended his sufferings. He was her loving brow, if he would have read deeply regretted by the English, and ma-its language. During those long and ny French knights lamented his loss.

The Mother.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

lonely evenings, she sometimes wept as she remembered him in his early years, when he was so gentle, and to her eye so beautiful. "But this is the way of young men,' said her lame philosophy. So, she armed herself to bear.

And

I have seen a mother's love endure erAt length, it was evident that darker ery test unharmed, and come forth from vices were making him their victim. The habit of intemperance could no lonthe refiner's furnace, purged from that dross of selfishness, which the heart is ger be concealed, even from a love that blinded itself. The widowed mother rewont to find among its purest gold. A monstrated with unwonted energy. She widow expended on her only son, all the fulness of her affection, and the little was answered in the dialect of insolence and brutality. gains of her industry. She denied herHe disappeared from her cottage.-self every superfluity, that he might receive the benefits of education, and the What she dreaded had come upon her. In his anger, he had gone to sea. indulgences that boyhood covets. She sat silently by her small fire, and lighted now, every night, when the tempest her single candle, and regarded him with howled, and the wind was high, she lay intense delight, as he anused himself sleepless, thinking of him. She saw him, in her imagination, climbing the slippery with his books, or sought out the lessons for the following day. The expenses shrouds, or doing the bidding of rough, of his school were discharged by the la-unfeeling men. Again, she fancied that bor of her hands, and glad and proud was he was sick and suffering, with none to she to bestow on him privileges which watch over him, or have patience with her own youth had never been permitted his waywardness, and her head which silver hairs began to sprinkle, gushed to share. She believed him to be diliforth, as if it were a fountain of waters.

gently acquiring the knowledge which But hope of his return, began to cheer she respected, but was unable to com- her. When the new moon looked with prehend. His teachers, and his idle its slender crescent in at her window, companions, knew otherwise. He indeed learned to astonish his simple and she said, "I think my boy will be here, ere that moon is old." And when it admiring parent, with high-sounding epi-waned and went away, she sighed and thets, and technical terms, and to de

spise her for not understanding them.-- said "My boy will remember me." When she saw him discontented, at com- Years fled, and there was no letter, no paring his situation with that of others, recognition. Sometimes she gathered who were above him in rank, she denied tidings from a comrade, that he was on herself almost bread, that she might add some far sea, or in some foreign land.-a luxury for his table, or a garment to his But no message for his mother. When wardrobe. he touched at some port in his native She erred in judgment, and he in con- country, it was not to seek her cottage, duct; but her changeless love surmount-but to spend his wages in revelry, and ed all. Still, there was little reciprocity, re-embark on a new voyage.

and every year diminished that little, in Weary years, and no letter. Yet she his cold and selfish heart. He returned had abridged her comforts, that he might

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be taught to write, and she used to ex-struck his heated brain, and he lay a hibit his penmanship with such pride.- bloated and hideous carcase.

But she dismissed the reproachful thought. The poor mother faded away and fol"It was the way with sailors." lowed him She had watched over him,

REMEMBERED MUSIC."
The music we were wont to love
In days of bliss gone by,
In after years the soul can move
Almost to agory!

Amid all these years of neglect and with a meek, nursing patience, to the cruelty, the mother's love lived on.- last.-Letters to Mothers. When Hope refused its nourishment, it asked food of Memory. It was satisfied with the crumbs from a table which must! never be spread again. Memory brought the broken bread which she had gathered into her basket, when the feast of innocence was over, and Love received it as a mendicant, and fed upon it and gave thanks. She fed upon the cradle-smile, upon the first caress of infancy, upon the And in the joys of youth I proved loving years of childhood, when putting Its facinating powers. his cheek to hers, he slumbered the live-It was a witching melody, long night, or when teaching him to walk, he tottered with out-stretched arms to her bosom, as a new-fledged bird to its

nest.

There was a song I dearly lov'd,
In boyhood's happy hours-

Like music in a dream-
As sadly sweet as minstrelsy
Sighs o'er a summer stream.

And cares came rushing on

But religion found this lonely widow,But when the smiling years flew by, and communed with her at deep midnight, while the storm was raging with

out. It told her of a "name better than of sons or of daughters,' and she was comforted. It bade her resign herself to the will of her Father in Heaven, and she found peace.

When life look'd on a cloudy sky,

Where not a sun-beam shone-
Ah! then the warblers of that song,
With deeper thrillings came,
They wakened mem'ries hoarded long,
And breathed a treasured name.
Within my breast still lingering,
Those hallow'd visions dwell,

It was a cold evening in winter, and the snow lay deep upon the earth. The widow sat alone by her little fire-side.--As mournful echoes fondly cling The marks of early age had settled upon ber. There was meekness on her brow, The Sabbath vesper chime will cease, and in her hand a book from whence that|| Its sounds be hush'd at lastmeekness came.

A heavy knock shook her door, and ere she could open it, a man entered.

Around the minster bell;

But ne'er will come my bosom's peace,
Till I forget the past.

He moved with pain, like one crippled. This heart, this care-worn heart of mine, and his red and downcast visage was Responds that melting strain; partially concealed by a torn hat. Among As Eolian strings at day's decline, those who had been familiar with his youthful countenance, only one save the Being who made him, could have recognized him, through his disguise and misery. The mother looking deep into his eye, saw a faint tinge of that fair blue, which had charmed her, when it unclosed from the cradle-dream.

To night winds wake again.
The harp will sigh to Zephyr's kiss,
Till all its cords decay-
That song will call up thoughts of bliss,
Till memory fades away.

THE

Moral Cales.

For the Ladies' Pearl. EMIGRANTS-A DOMESTIC TALE.

BY DANIEL WISE.

Eliza Ellis was the wife of a young me

"My son! My son !” Had the prodigal returned by a late repentance, to atone for years of ingratitude and sin? I will not speak of the revels that shook the peaceful roof of his widowed parent, or of the profanity that chanic, who resided in the ancient town disturbed her repose. The remainder of of Phis history is brief. The effects of vice had debilitated his constitution, and once. as he was apparently recovering from a fant just merging from its babyhood inJong paroxysm of intemperance,appoplexyspired her heart with the rich, deep swel

(England.) Two years had

passed since her union and one sweet in

lings of a mother's love.

Her husband slumbered the hope of her heart, Eliza was poor, but a natural and holy affection cast a glance of investigation around her joined their hearts with a tie more strong apartment, and then, as if satisfied, her -more indissoluble than the legal bond bright black eye rested upon her babe. that had made them one in law. They 'How happy am I,' said she to herself, had spent the months of their married life the wife of so kind a husband-the in unity and peace. The soul's bright mother of so sweet a babe,' and the rich sunshine had illumined their humble overflowings of a mother's heart sent a dwelling, and shed its rays of purity and stream of joyous tears to her eyes-tears joy upon their happy lives. Contented such as the innocent and happy alone

with the allotments of Divine Provi- can weep.

dence, their lives were gliding smoothly Just then, her husband's step greeted onwards, undisturbed by those eruptions her ready ear. True, it was heavier than and storms which so commonly break up usual, but it was her husband's and she the surface of connubial bliss in the more prepared to receive him with one of those polished but, alas, less happy circles of smiles that make a husband's home the society. But even humble virtue will not dearest place to him on earth. always secure perennial joy. Misfortune, Henry Ellis entered his room, but his wily and relentless robber that she is, will brow was clouded,his eye was downcast. rob even the poor of their happiness and Scarcely speaking,he took his accustomplunge the good into a charybdis of trou-ed seat and fell into a troubled reverie. ble, or a fiery flood of sorrow. Thus. This was extraordinary conduct for with the humble subjects of our story,vir-him and it went to the heart of Eliza, as tue, religion and lowly birth did not se- the night-wind falls on the feeble lamb in cure them perpetual bliss-their sky was overcast, but, like the sun in the elemental conflict, though obscured from human

gaze he still shines beyond and soon breaks through the mists that confuse his glories, so in the deepest gloom of the night of their misfortune, it will be seen that Eliza and her husband maintained a peace within.

My tale opens on a Saturday afternoon. Eliza had just finished cleaning her little room, which served the double purpose of parlor and kitchen. It was plainly but neatly furnished. True, no soft carpet spread its flowing colors to the

early spring. After a few moments she approached her husband and imprinting a kiss upon his lips, took him by the hand and with gentle voice and manners said: 'Henry you are troubled, do tell me what is the matter?"

He shook his head and was silent; but urged by strong affection she continued, 'Will not my husband tell his sorrows to his wife? Come Henry let me share your griefs; your joys I have already shared, and you shall find me as willing, yes just as willing, to share your sorrows.'

The troubled husband took the hand of

eye, but a floor, white as cleanliness,told the spectator of the industry of the occu- his wife and pressed it to his lips; then pant-a few old-fashioned chairs-an brushing away a tear he replied, oaken bureau and table that shone like a 'I am troubled, much and deeply troupolished mirror-a neat dresser with rows bled. This afternoon I was discharged. of clean white plates,and a small looking Mr Mills has nothing to do, the other glass, suspended from the wall, com-builders are equally destitute of work,the prised its principal garniture. Sitting winter is just setting in and there is litdown beside the wicker cradle, in which tle prospect but that I shall be out of em

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