"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!" This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, When lo! a merry company Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, Each one with her attendant swain, Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain; Resembling there, so near unto the sky, Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent For their delight and our encouragement. Together blending, And soon descending The narrow sweep Of the hill-side steep, They wind aslant Towards Saint Amant, Through leafy alleys Of verdurous valleys With merry sallies Singing their chant : "The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home! Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!" It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom, The sun of March was shining brightly, And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly Its breathings of perfume. When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is! To sounds of joyous melodies, That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, A band of maidens Gayly frolicking, A band of youngsters Wildly rollicking! Kissing, Caressing, With fingers pressing, Till in the veriest Madness of mirth, as they dance, They retreat and advance, Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest; While the bride, with roguish eyes, Sporting with them, now escapes and cries: "Those who catch me Married verily This year shall be ! " And all pursue with eager haste, And all attain what they pursue, Meanwhile, whence comes it that among These youthful maidens fresh and fair, So joyous, with such laughing air, Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue ? And yet the bride is fair and young ! Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall? , no! for a maiden frail, I trow, Never bore so lofty a brow! What lovers! they give not a single caress! These are grand people, one would say. What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress It is, that, half way up the hill, In yon cottage, by whose walls Stand the cart-house and the stalls, Dwelleth the blind orphan still, And you must know, one year ago, Was the village pride and splendor, And Baptiste her lover bold. Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; But alas! the summer's blight, The dread disease that none can stay, 2 |