INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG

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"Roll swiftly to the Spirits' Land, thou mighty stream and free!

Father of ancient Waters,* roll! and bear our lives with thee!

The weary bird that storms have tossed would seek the sunshine's calm,

And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt flies to the woods of balm.

"Roll on!--my warrior's eye hath looked upon another's

face,

And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam's trace:

My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper to his dream

He flings away the broken reed. Roll swifter yet, thou

stream!

"The voice that spoke of other days is hushed within his breast,

But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let me

rest;

It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is

gone

I cannot live without that light. Father of Waves! roll on !

"Will he not miss the bounding step that met him from the chase?

The heart of love that made his home an ever-sunny place?

*"Father of Waters," the Indian name for the Mississippi.

The hand that spread the hunter's board, and decked his couch of yore?

He will not! Roll, dark foaming stream! on to the better shore.

"Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright land must flow,

Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory of this woe;

Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath may waft away

The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the

day.

"And thou, my babe! though born, like me, for woman's weary lot,

Smile!-to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee not.

Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love

away

Thy mother bears thee far, young fawn! from sorrow and decay.

"She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none are heard to weep,

And where the unkind one hath no power again to trouble sleep;

And where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening from a dream:

One moment, and that realm is ours. On, on, darkrolling stream!"

JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS

["JEANNE D'ARC avait eu la joie de voir à Chalons quelques amis de son enfance. Une joie plus ineffable encore l'attendait à Rheims, au sein de son triomphe: Jacques d'Arc, son père, y se trouva, aussitôt que de troupes de Charles VII. y furent entrées ; et comme les deux frères de notre héroine l'avaient accompagnée, elle se vit pour un instant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un père vertueux."-Vie de Jeanne d'Arc.]

"Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame!

A draught that mantles high,

And seems to lift this earth-born frame

Above mortality:

Away! to me-a woman-bring

Sweet waters from Affection's spring!"

THAT was a joyous day in Rheims of old,
When peal on peal of mighty music rolled
Forth from her thronged cathedral; while around,
A multitude, whose billows made no sound,
Chained to a hush of wonder, though elate
With victory, listened at their temple's gate.
And what was done within? Within, the light,
Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing,
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight—
The chivalry of France their proud heads bowing
In martial vassalage! While midst that ring,
And shadowed by ancestral tombs, a king

Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn

Swelled out like rushing waters, and the day
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim,
As through long aisles it floated o'er the array
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone
And unapproached, beside the altar-stone,

With the white banner forth like sunshine streaming,
And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance gleaming,
Silent and radiant stood? The helm was raised,
And the fair face revealed, that upward gazed,
Intensely worshipping-a still, clear face,

Youthful, but brightly solemn ! Woman's cheek
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek,
Yet glorified, with inspiration's trace

On its pure paleness; while, enthroned above,
The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love,

Seemed bending o'er her votaress. That slight form !
Was that the leader through the battle-storm?

Had the soft light in that adoring eye

Guided the warrior where the swords flashed high?

'Twas so, even so !--and thou, the shepherd's child, Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild!

Never before, and never since that hour,

Hath woman, mantled with victorious power,

Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand,
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land,
And, beautiful with joy and with renown,
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown,
Ransomed for France by thee!

The rites are done.

Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken,

And bid the echoes of the tomb awaken;

JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS

And come thou forth, that heaven's rejoicing sun
May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies,
Daughter of Victory! A triumphant strain,
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies,

Gushed through the portals of the antique fane,
And forth she came. Then rose a nation's sound.
Oh! what a power to bid the quick heart bound,
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer
Man gives to Glory on her high career!

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Is there indeed such power?-far deeper dwells
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells
Whence happiness flows forth! The shouts that filled
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were stilled
One moment; and in that brief pause, the tone,
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown,

Sank on the bright maid's heart. "Joanne!"-Who spoke
Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew
Under one roof! "Joanne !"-that murmur broke
With sounds of weeping forth! She turned-she knew
Beside her, marked from all the thousands there,
In the calm beauty of his silver hair,

The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy
From his dark eye flashed proudly; and the boy,
The youngest born, that ever loved her best:-
"Father! and ye, my brothers!" On the breast
Of that gray sire she sank—and swiftly back,
Even in an instant, to their native track

Her free thoughts flowed. She saw the pomp no more,
The plumes, the banners: to her cabin-door,

And to the Fairy's Fountain in the glade,*

* A beautiful fountain, near Domremi, believed to be haunted by fairies, and a favourite resort of Jeanne d'Arc in her childhood.