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VOL. 11.
nnlv Seven Years Old when She
u * Died.
Only seven years old when she died!
Surely the angels must love her dearly !
Bright golden-haired and violet-eyed,
None could e'er look on her face severely!
There are children as many as the
flowers,
But never was one more sweet than
ours,
The latest bud on an aged tree
Where never blossom again may be.
Once I held up my head with the best,
(Jrowned with three flowers of promise
bright;
Two—two of the fairest—-Death tore from
my breast
Five years ago, in the self-same night.
She was the only one left to me,
And 1 prayed with groans of agony
That burst from my heart, a mingled
prayer *
Os hope and doubting and black de
spair,
That He who doth wisely whatever betide,
Would be willing to leave her aye by my
side,
Still blessing her richly with increase
of days.
It may be He heard me—but ah! His
ways *
Are not as ours—from the heavenly
place
Perhaps she lightened our life with
grace.
Only seven years old when she died !
Yet the hones of two lifetimes died with
her!
We have not a wish in the world wide
Save that we had gone out on the tide
with her!
The tide that has borne them all away,
Sybil and Avis, now little May ;
The ebb that never knows turn or How
However the full moons come or go!
But 1 would not murmur—no complaint
Breaks from the lips, asleep or awake,
Os the mother who bore them, a
feint
Os being content for my love’s sake.
But sometimes her hand clings to her
heart,
And at certain hours she sits apart;
And the golden light of sunset skies
Brings a far-off look into her eyes;
And I fear me much that her treasure in
heaven
Her heart from its earth-hold has almost
riven,
And soon, hearing the voice of her
children three,
She, too, will drift out to that unknown
sea—
“ The sea of glass” for her it should
be—
God help me ! what then will become
of me ?
Only seven years old when she died !
How our old hearts took young delight
in her,
Bur only pleasure, our hope, our pride!
W ell! He who made her had the most
right in her!
We took her from him thanksgivingly,
W e gave her back—no, not willingly,
But not with repining—God forbid!
et I think he pardons that we did
baiter a while and fail in our praise,
Missing the key to which it was set
lor a sweet child-treble in happier days,
lbe old tune haunts our memory yet,
And we scarce can read, for tears, the
page
Ot blessings left to our altered age.
( 'ur ‘‘lines” once “fallen in pleasant
places,”
Blankly stare in our darkened faces,
And our harps on the willows of grief hang
low;
''nt God, omniscient, has known what we
know.
( >nce the harpings of Heaven ceased
suddenly
And His heart was thrilled by a bitter
cry—
ihe cry of His Son’s last agony:
He knows what we felt when we saw
her die.
(,I W V seven years old when she died!
Bussed from the earth ere she learned its
history!
. ow she stands up with the glorified,
Indy as wise in the heavenly mystery
As they who through great tribulation
fought their way up from every nation,
~.T ?r Beavened the world with their life
blood warm,
Carried the kingdom of God by storm.
Sometimes still they talk of their story—
How they suffered and conquered and
died;
Cleft a path on through the cloud to the
glory :
She stands listening, wondering-eyed.
Naught she knew of toil or endeavor—
Mother's arms were around her ever;
Little of sorrow, doubt, or despair.
Half she questions her right to be
there —
She who has nothing either suffered or
done ;
Till, suddenly smiling, she looks to the Son,
And, folding her pretty hands rever
ently,
Lisks out her child-creed most confi
dently—
The same she learned at her mother’s
knee—
“lie said: ‘Let the little ones <?ome to
me/ ”
Only seven years old when she died!
Seventy long years, yea, and more years
still,
We have clambered and clung to the side—
She stands even now at the top of the
hill,
Bright in the beams of the morning
light!
Ours, at the best, is a starry night.
We toiled on through the dust and the
heat;
She sitteth calm at the Master's feet
Beading the truth of His lovelit face;
Answering Him back glad smile for
smile.
TVe tremblingly shriek out for grace—
“ Lord! more grace!”
I)reading to meet His look all the while,
So spotted our souls, and moiled with
sin.
She shows stainless without and with
in—
A snow-white soul in a robe like snow.
Weary, and way-worn, and sad we go,
Sorely doubting if, after our course be run,
Our life-las: ing journey well battled and
done,
When the Judge stands up the awards
to divide,
We shall he worthy to stand by her
side,
Whose sword was ne'er flesh* and, whose
strength was ne’er tried—
Who was only seven years old when
she died!
Tor the Banner of the South.]
The Executioner's Bride.
BY MISS ANNIE M. BVRNWELL, BEAUFORT,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
[concluded.]
The clock slowly tolled the hour of
eleven on the 29th of April, 1455. The
same vast, eager crowd that had gath
ered to see Isabelle die, one short year
before, now thronged once more around the
scaffold, which was erected on the same
spot. On a tall, snow-white horse, close
beside the scaffold, sat Louis, Dauphin
of France, who, afterwards as Louis XI.,
is known to us in history, as the most
cruel, base, and crafty of monarehs.
Around him were a group of his friends
—or, I should rather say, followers, for
such men as Louis have dupes, flatterers
and accomplices, but no friends—and a
troop of horsemen, were drawn up be
hind him. On the scaffold stood two
men, the assistant executioner, and a
tall, erect form, his l ight arm grasping a
glittering axe, and his face completely
hidden by a thick black mask. Behind
this mask were concealed the pale and
noble features of Ogier, Arm, yet marked
by the reluctance which Filled his breast.
The procession advanced slowly, with
the prisoner in their midst. He too, was
masked, and a cloak was thrown around
his shoulders. As he ascended the scaf
fold, the latter was removed, exposing a
tall, majestic form, advancing, with head
erect, and proud, unfaltering step to
his doom.
A loud c-ry arose from the multitude :
l nmask the prisoner ! Unmask the
noble knight! Let us see his face!”
The mask was removed, and with firm,
undaunted pride, Gaston De Mornay
met their eager gaze.
AUGUSTA, GA, JULY 3, 1869.
Throughout the throng passed a deep,
universal groan, which changed into
loud cries of pity arid admiration. The
Dauphin frowned darkly, and made a
sign for the execution to proceed. The
officer who was in charge, now stepped
hurriedly forward, exclaiming :
“ Your Royal Highness, I know not
what to do. The chief executioner re
fuses to perform his office, and the assist
ant is perfectly inexperienced, and seems
completely unnerved.”
“Pasques Dieu !” cried the Dauphin,
angrily. “This is unheard of insolence
What reason does the fellow assign for
his refusal ?”
“ May it please your Royal Highness,”
said Ogier, calmly, advancing a few
paces nearer to the Dauphin, but with
out removing his mask, “ I cannot be
come the executioner of this noble knight
for three reasons : He insulted me when
I could not revenge it; he challenged mo
to knightly and honorable combat when
I could not fight him; and I have in
jured him, unwittingly, indeed, but very
sorely. Your Royal Highness, as a
knight and gentleman, will understand
my feelings and allow my reasons.”
“ And what have such as you to do
with the feelings of knights and gentle
men ?” shouted the Dauphin. “A base
born, blood-stained hireling, whom the
very rabble loathe and shun; a wretch
who does not remove his mask in the
sight of honest men. Enave, to your
duty,, instantly !”
With a quick, proud gesture, Ogier
tore aside his mask, and stood bare
headed and erect before the Dauphin and
that mighty throng. His tones rang out
clear and undaunted, as he replied ;
“ Had I naught to do with noble and
knightly feelings, I should have struck
this blow; and, in so doing, I should
have won my place among the chivalry
of France. Am I the less fitted for
knighthood and nobility because I will
not commit an act unworthy of a kuight
and noble, even to win those proud titles ?
Had I struck this base blow, no one
henceforward would have so spoken' to
me; yet, should I not have been, in truth,
dishonored ? Your Royal Highness
wrongs me in saying I dare not show my
face. For eleven years I have lived in
Rouen, and yet not one, in all this throng,
can point to me and say, ‘He hath in
jured, insulted, or defrauded me.’ My
liege, I humbly crave your forbearance;
; but, come what may, I will not strike
this blow.”
“ Bind him! Drag him to prison !’’
shouted the Dauphin, fiercely. “ I will
not be defied!”
As they gathered around Ogier to exe
cute the Dauphin’s order, De Mornay
sprang forward, and grasping the execu
tioner’s hand, exclaimed :
“ Noble and generous man, brave and
knightly heart, here, in the presence of
this throng, I retract the bitter and un
just taunts I once heaped upon you, and
declare that Bertrand Ogier is worthy
of a place among the highest and knight
liest nobles of France. And though I
stand upon a scaffold, condemned to die,
it is still Gaston De Mornay who pays
this tribute.”
A loud shout testified the’enthusiasm
of the people, and the prison officers
dragged Ogier hurriedly away, leaving
him no time to reply, save by a warm
pressure of De Mornay’s extended hand.
Turning impatiently to the crowd, the
Dauphin exclaimed :
“Is there no whose arm can
wield an axe, and whose heart is bold
enough to behead a traitor V
A stoutly built young man of middle
size, and with a sullen, downcast coun
tenance, whose lowering brow and cruel
♦ bespoke a heart old in vice and
crime, f-b pjt'd forth from the crowd,
ami bowing low before the Dauphin de*
II .led lnm.-elf ready to undertake the
offi, e Thu axe was placed in his grasp,
«ud, at a Dingle blow the head of the no-
ble and gallant De Mornay rolled upon
the scaffold. The impromptu headsman
shook his bloody axe, and, with a smile
of cruel triumph on his lip, which did
not escape the notice of the Dauphin,
who saw in him one fitted to do his
work. Their names arc linked together
in history as Louis XI. and his favorite
Tristan L’Hermaite, Provost Marshal of
France.
CHAPTER VII.
NOBLE AT LAST.
They dragged Ogier to prison and
placed him in solitary confinement.
Tidings soon reached his wife of what
had occurred, and she strove to be ad
mitted to his cell, but was persistently
refused At length, however, through
the assistance of a turnkey, to whom
Ogier had been kind, she succeeded in
opening a way of communication with
him; which, not to make my tale too
long, I will state briefly, resulted iu his
escape from prison, and flight, with his
wife and child, to the Court of Burgun
dy. Although a prisoner, his property
had not been confiscated, and he was
still very wealthy.
Phillip the Good, Duke of Burgundy,
listened to the recital of his adventures,
with keen interest, having heard of his
conduct at the execution of De Mornay.
That knight had been a marked favorite
with the Duke, his family having been
faithful adherents to tiie fortunes of the
Burgundian faction, during the bloody
civil contests in the reign of Charles VI.;
and Gaston De Mornay himself, had
been the friend and companion-in-arms
of his son, the Count de Charalois, after
wards the famous Charles the Bold. The
bearing and accomplishments of Ogier,
and the rare beauty of his young and
charming wife, won for them interest and
sympathy in the gallant Burgundian
Court; and the Count de Charalois, for
the sake of De Mornay, showed Ogier
marked and constant favor.
At length, the dream, which had filled
Ogier’s heart, until he met Isabelle, was
fulfilled. The Duke, while engaged in a
war with one of his neighbors, placed
Ogier in a position, near his own person,
and marked closely his knightly and gal
lant conduct. He took frequent oppor
tunities, also, of conversing with him,
and found that his cultivated mind, and
clear judgment were worthy of his rare
gifts of person, dauntless courage, and
noble, high-toned nature.
It was on the eve of a decisive battle,
that the Duke summoned his followers
around him, and announced that it was
his purpose to place a prize before them,
to be won in the approaching conflict.
This was no other than the lands aud
title of the Count de Castlemarre, now
vacant and in possession of the Crown,
that nobleman having died without heirs;
and this noble prize was open to the com
petition of all. That warrior who should
lay at his feet two out of the five great
warriors of the enemy’s host, would rise
a knight, dubbed by the Duke's own
sword, and Count de Castlemarre.
Ogier passed from the Duke’s presence
to his tent, his heart beating high with
hope, pride, and resolute courage. Now,
at last, he might win the object of his
dreams, and win it with all knightly
honor. Now, at last, he might restore
his wife to her rightful place, and make
for his boy a proud and honorable name.
The fierce contest was over, and the
Duke sounded the <~'ll for his knights to
gather round him. One by one they
came, all bearing trophies of the fight,
but none brought with them two con
quered banners.
“It was an impossible task, per
chance,” thought the Duke, anxiously ;
“ but I deemed that he would win the
prize, and I wished it gained by a deed
so valorous, that detracting tongues
could find naught to ca\il at, in the
greatness of his well-earned reward.
But, he comes not. Can it be that he is
among the slain ?”
He turned, with an anxious question
on his lips, when, from the extreme verge
of the army, a shout arose. It was caught
up and echoed from lip to lip, as a horse
man, wounded and bleeding, but erect
and firm in his saddle, dashed through
the throng in the direction of the Duke’s
pavilion. Above his head waved tvjj
torn and blood-stained banners, their
folds mingling as they floated proudly
over the victorious warrior.
He sprang to the ground, and kneeling,
laid the two banners at the Duke’s feet
in silence.
They removed his helmet, and revealed
the pale and noble features of Bertrand
Ogier. '
Drawing his sword, the Duke laid it
on Ogier’s shoulder with the usual for
mula of knighthood.
“ In the name of God, St. Martin, and
St. George of Burgundy, I dub thee
knight. Be valiant, loyal and haray.
Rise Bertrand Count de Castlemarre, and
take thy well-earned place among the no
blest of the noble, and the bravest of the
brave.”
A proud and joyful smile lighted up
the pale features of Ogier, and a single
word escaped his lips. It was the name
of his wife. Then, exhausted by fatigue,
excitement, and loss of blood, he fell
senseless on the ground, while the air was
rent with heartfelt acclamations in his
honor.
And, soothe dream of Ogier’s life was
fulfilled, and we need follow his fortunes
no farther. We have not space to tell,
save in briefest outline, how the Count de
Castlemarre met the Dauphin once more,
when he came a refugee to the Court of
Burgundy, and how the crafty Louis
greeted him with all knightly courtesy,
never, by a single word alluding to their
former acquaintance and stormy parting;
how he fought by the side of the brave
but reckless and ambitious Charles the
Bold, until he saw him slain upon the
fatal field of Nancy; how he espoused
the cause of Maximilian, the youthful
and noble husband of the beautiful heir
ess of Burgundy, and used his sword
successfully against the Dauphin, then
Louis XL; and how, when at the death
of Mary, Burgundy became subject to
France, he removed, with his beloved
wife, his gallant sons, and lovely daugh
ters, to Germany, where he remained
for the rest of his life, the friend and
counsellor of the chivalrous Maximilian,
and died at a ripe old age, with his wife’s
hand clasped in his, and bis children
and grand-children weeping around
him.
Isabelle followed him in a few short
months, passing quietly away into the
spirit-land, with his name upon her lips
—her last connected words an exhorta
tion to his sons and grandsons to follow
his noble example.
A magnificent tomb marks the spot
where the wife and husband rest to
gether. Upon it is carved the effigy of a
tall and majestic knight, clad in complete
armor, standing erect, with the right foot
advanced and the head thrown slightly
baekword. At his feet kneels a lady,
with face upturned to his. The right
hand rests proudly on her head, while
both of hers are clasped together and laid
upon his breast This monument was
designed by Isabelle and executed by
their children.
And there they rest, side by side, be
neath the same tomb, the Executioner of
Rouen, and the descendant of Charle
magne —the son of the peasant girl of
Languedoc, and the daughter of the
Count de Lisle. And the proudest honor
of her life was not her kingly descent,
not her high birth, not her rare and ra
diant beauty, but the love, and pride,
and tenderness of her noble husband.
Cotton crop accounts from all sections
of the South are very favorable.
No. 16.