"When no more I paint his eyes, When his smile no more I see, And his tone's soft melodies Wake not in each sound to me; When I can efface the past, I may look for calm--at last. "When resentment is at rest, Scorn and sorrow, rage and shame, Can be still'd within my breast-- And I start not at his name; When I weep, nor faint, nor feel, Then my heart's deep wounds may heal. "Years, long years, it yet will take, Spite of pain and solitude, Ere this heart can cease to ache, And no restless dreams intrude: Ere I crush each fond belief, And oblivion vanquish grief. "It might be--but in my child All his father lives the while; Such his eyes--so bright, so wild-- Such his air, his voice, his smile-- Still I see him o'er and o'er, Till I dare to gaze no more! "Is it sin to love him yet? Was it sin to love at all? Is my torture, my regret, For his loss--or for my fall? Change, oh Heaven!--thou canst, thou wilt-- Thoughts that sink my soul in guilt! "Teach me that regret is crime, That my past despair is vain, And my penance through all time Shall be ne'er to hope again,-- Only in His pardon trust-- Pitying, merciful, and just." It is said that La Reine Marguerite, sister of Francis I., wrote the greatest part of her celebrated stories during a sojourn at the Eaux Chaudes: there, surrounded with a brilliant court of ladies and poets, she passed several joyous months, and recruited her health, while she amused her imagination, in wandering amongst the rocks and wild paths of Gabas and La Broussette: in her train were "_joueurs, farceurs, baladins_, and _garnemens de province_," and nothing but entertainment seemed the business of the lives of those fair and gay invalids, who, so long ago, set an example which has not failed to be well followed since. The pompous inscription which once appeared in a chapel at La Hourat, in honour of the passage of the Princess Catherine, sister of Henri IV. is now replaced by a modern exhortation to the traveller to implore the aid of the Virgin before he tempts the perils of the pass: and our guides very reverently took off their _berrets_, as they went by the little niche, where stands the image, which is an object of their adoration and hope. Poor Catherine, always disconsolate at her separation from the object of her choice, found but little relief from the waters--they could not minister to a mind diseased--and she had not the joyous, careless mind of her predecessor and grandmother; nor are we told that she attempted to compose amusing histories to distract her thought, nor could exclaim-- "I write--sad task! that helps to wear away The long, long, mournful melancholy day; Write what the fervour of my soul inspires, And vainly fan love's slow-consuming fires."