On his little black nag rides the good Father Paul,
With a bleffing and smile for the villagers all;
"Ah, bless the good father," the old folks say,
As he trots through the village and down the roadway;
"And bless the black nag," cry the children all,
"That carries fo lightly the good Father Paul."
As down the still roadway the good father goes———
A green graffy lane between funny hedgerows,
Where the wild vetch ftretches its tendrils fine
Till its sky-hued blooms with the wild rofe twine—
His little nag fuddenly fwerves and fhies
At a man that asleep by the roadfide lies.
To his feet in a moment he laughingly leaps,
And round his right hand to his forehead he sweeps,
And raises his cap from his curly hair
As he jauntily bends with a courtier's air,
And pleasantly smiles with his bold bright face'Tis Antoine, the well-favoured fcant-of-grace.
"Not here should be lying a widow's fon,
Not thus did your father live, Antoine ;
All day at his work in his field he kept,
And at night at home in his bed he slept,
And duly on Sabbath at church was seen—
But 'tis long fince his fon in that place has been."
True, father, I know I'm an erring sheep-
What a beautiful pony is this you keep !
With his arching neck and his fpringy limb,
And his rounded joint so smooth and flim,
An ear like a squirrel, and what an eye!
Not Bayard himself-" "My fon, fie, fie!
"Liken him not to the Lutin, I pray,
Nor name the horse-fiend in that graceless way,
Left (although you may now my warning flight)
Antoine, left you ride him yourself some night."
Then the good father rattled his bridle-rein,
And trotted away down the greeny lane.
"If he come in the shape of that nag of thine, Or be he a fiend or a sprite divine,
I will mount him, I, come weal or come woe, And give him the rein where he lifts to go; On road or in field, by fun or moonlightPardieu, I would ride him this very night
"He is gone with the foldier's widow to pray,
And will reach her cottage at twilight grey;
An hour at the least he will there remain,
And will leave the pony to feed in the lane :
There's a path through the marsh that is safe by day;
I could reach the cottage as foon as they.
"At Alençon to-morrow is market-day,
And the next but one is the fête of Bernai;
But at either of these he known might be;
I could cross the Seine to the camp at Puys,*
Where the tents are pitched on the cliffy shore;
He will fell for a hundred louis-d'or."
A backward step and a forward bound—
He is over the hedge on the furrowed ground,
And breaks away with the ftride of a deer,
Unheeding a voice that pleads in his ear—
"Antoine, ob Antoine, add not crime to crime,
Stay, stay and repent while there yet is time!"
It is not a voice of mortal breath,
It founds like his father's, long mute in death,
And earnestly, fervently, with him it pleads,
Yet never he halts or its pleading heeds—
"Antoine, ob Antoine, add not crime to crime,
Stay, ftay and repent while there yet is time!"
*The remains of a large intrenched camp are yet to be seen near the village of Puys, on the coast of Normandy.
Monfeigneur's hunter I've ta'en from the ftall, And led him past grooms and lackeys and all; And my Lady's palfrey untied from the gate, While her page with her maid in the arbour fate—” "Antoine, ob Antoine, add not crime to crime, Stay, stay and repent while there yet is time!"
"From the trooper's tent his charger I've led, Though trooper and charger both shared one bed On the farmer's beast I have galloped away, While he stayed for the wine I had drunk to pay—” "Antoine, ob Antoine, add not crime to crime, Stay, ftay and repent while there yet is time !”
Again he comes into the narrow roadway,—
There feeds the black nag in the twilight gray;
He lays his right hand on the shoulder so sleek,
The faddle-girth feels, fets the bridle apeak—
"Antoine, ob Antoine, add not crime to crime,
Stay, ftay and repent while there yet is time !”
On tip-toe he stands and looks carefully round,
Then into the faddle he vaults from the ground-
"Ha, ha, dying folks, for yourselves you must pray!
Fair godmothers, alter the christening day!
Gay bridegroom, your work-a-day jerkin don!
The priest cannot come, for his nag is gone!
Aye, gone like an arrow from archer's bow
When his ftern eye covers the breast of a foe,
And nothing is heeded and nothing is feen
The breaft and the keen arrow-head between ;
So fudden the flight and so great the speed,
So ftraight the course of the little black fteed.
A rife in the faddle the rider just knows,
And over the hedge like a bird he goes;
Though the field in furrows lies fresh and deep,
No swallow did ever its surface sweep
With its jetty wing on its headlong flight,
As the little black fteed skims o'er it to-night.
Again down the echoing road he flies ;
What lights are these that before them rise?
A row on each hand till they both unite-
'Nay, not through Alençon ride we to-night." He stoops and takes in each hand a rein,— But motionless both at his fides remain !
All motionless, arm and hand and rein,
Like the clofed links of an iron chain
That rigidly, helplessly bind him down,
And on they go galloping to the town.—
He must keep the faddle, come weal or come woe,
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