Her triumph is complete; all eyes are upon her. The poor young men can resist no more; and her bright eyes, which enchant them, shine and sparkle as they see how the spell works. Then Thomas rose, and, looking at the lovely coquette with tender glances, sang, in a flute-toned voice, this new song: "Oh tell us, charming maid, With heart of ice unmoved, When shall we hear the sound Of bells that ring around, To say that you have loved? Always so free and gay, Those wings of dazzling ray, Are spread to ev'ry air,-- And all your favour share; Attracted by their light, All follow in your flight. But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again? "You've seen how full of joy We've marked the sun arise; Even so each Sunday morn, When you, before our eyes, Bring us such sweet surprise, With us new life is born: We love your angel face, Your step so debonaire, Your mien of maiden grace, Your voice, your lip, your hair: Your eyes of gentle fire, All these we all admire! But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again. "Alas! our groves are dull, When widowed of thy sight, And neither hedge nor field Their perfume seem to yield; The blue sky is not bright: When you return once more, All that was sad is gone, All nature you restore; We breathe in you alone. We could your rosy lingers cover With kisses of delight all over! But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again! "The dove you lost of late, Might warn you, by her flight; She sought in woods her mate, And has forgot you quite; She has become more fair, Since love has been her care. 'Tis love makes all things gay, Oh follow where he leads-- When beauteous looks decay, What dreary life succeeds! And ah! believe me, perfect bliss, A joy, where peace and triumph reign, Is when a maiden loved like this, Has learnt 'tis sweet to love again." The song is ended; and the crowd, delighted at its meaning, are full of applause, and clap their hands in praise. "Heavens! what a song!--how appropriate! who composed so sweet a lay?" "It was Pascal," replied Thomas. "Bravo, Pascal,--long live Pascal!" was the general cry.