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

One moment, and that realm is ours. On, on, dark-rolling 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 roll'd
Forth from her throng'd cathedral; while around,
A multitude, whose billows made no sound,
Chain'd to a hush of wonder, though elate
With victory, listen'd 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 shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king Received his birth-right's crown. For this, the hymn Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone And unapproach'd, beside the altar-stone,

With the white banner forth like sunshine streaming, [gleaming,

And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance Silent and radiant stood? The helm was raised, And the fair face reveal'd, 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, Seem'd 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 flash'd 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,
Ransom'd 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,

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,

Gush'd 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! Is there indeed such power?-far deeper dwells In one kind household voice, to reach the cells Whence happiness flows forth! The shouts that

fill'd

The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd
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
[grew

Like those whose childhood with her childhood Under one roof? "Joanne!"-that murmur broke With sounds of weeping forth! She turn'd

she knew

Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there, In the calm beauty of his silver hair,

[more

The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy,
From his dark eye flash'd 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 flow'd. She saw the pomp no
The plumes, the banners: to her cabin-door,
And to the Fairy's Fountain in the glade,1
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd,
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose,
Her spirit turn'd. The very wood-note, sung
In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt

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

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"But when thou wakest, my prince, my lord! and hear'st how I have kept

A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er theẹ pray'd and wept

How in one long deep dream of thee my nights

and days have past

Surely that humble patient love must win back love at last!

And thou wilt smile-my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile,

Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile!

No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine

Oh! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond glance of thine!

"Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou comest from the chase

For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er thy face!

Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine aspect may not bless;

In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shall give me loveliness.

"But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice

In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music of thy voice.

Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone,

And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all

be mine alone."

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth day by day,

The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way,

Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er

every grace,

Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face.

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's breast,

And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest,

With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind

But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair behind.

THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL.

A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid,
Woman!-a power to suffer and to love;
Therefore thou so canst pity.

WILDLY and mournfully the Indian drum

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke"Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come"So the red warriors to their captive spoke. Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone,

A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood, Like a king's son; though from his cheek had flown

The mantling crimson of the island blood,
And his press'd lips look'd marble. Fiercely bright
And high around him blazed the fires of night,
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro,

As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow
Lighting the victim's face: but who could tell
Of what within his secret heart befell, [thought
Known but to heaven that hour? Perchance a
Of his far home then so intensely wrought,
That its full image, pictured to his eye
On the dark ground of mortal agony,
Rose clear as day!-and he might see the band
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand,
Where the laburnums droop'd; or haply binding
The jasmine up the door's low pillars winding;
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth,
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth,
Where sat their mother; and that mother's face
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place
Where so it ever smiled! Perchance the prayer
Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair;
The blessing from her voice, the very tone [gone!
Of her "Good-night" might breathe from boyhood
-He started and look'd up: thick cypress boughs,
Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red
In the broad stormy firelight; savage brows,

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread,

Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars Look'd through the branches as through dungeon

bars,

Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom-
Oh! what a tale to shadow with its gloom
That happy hall in England. Idle fear!
Would the winds tell it? Who might dream or hear
The secret of the forests? To the stake [strove
They bound him; and that proud young soldier
His father's spirit in his breast to wake,

Trusting to die in silence! He, the love
Of many hearts !-the fondly rear'd-the fair,
Gladdening all eyes to see! And fetter'd there

He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand
Flamed up to light it in the chieftain's hand.
He thought upon his God. Hush! hark! a cry
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity--
A step hath pierced the ring! Who dares intrude
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood?
A girl-a young slight girl-a fawn-like child
Of green savannas and the leafy wild,
Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone flower,
Happy because the sunshine is its dower;
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed,
For hers had mourn'd a playmate-brother dead.

She had sat gazing on the victim long,
Until the pity of her soul grew strong;
And, by its passion's deepening fervour sway'd,
Even to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid
His bright head on her bosom, and around
His form her slender arms to shield it wound
Like close Liannes; then raised her glittering eye,
And clear-toned voice, that said, "He shall not die!"
"He shall not die!"-the gloomy forest thrill'd

To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell
On the fierce throng; and heart and handwere still'd,
Struck down as by the whisper of a spell.
They gazed: their dark souls bow'd before the maid,
She of the dancing step in wood and glade!
And, as her cheek flush'd through its olive hue,
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew,
Something o'ermaster'd them from that young

mien

Something of heaven in silence felt and seen; And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken.

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's breath;

From his pale lips they took the cup of death; They quench'd the brand beneath the cypress tree: “Away,” they cried, "young stranger, thou art free!"

COSTANZA.

Art thou then desolate ?

Of friends, of hopes forsaken ? Come to me!

I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved false?
Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me'
Why didst thou ever leave me ? Know'st thou all
I would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear,

For thy sake? Know'st thou that thy voice hath power
To shake me with a thrill of happiness

By ons kind tone?-to fill mine eyes with tears

Of yearning love? And thou-oh! thou didst throw
That crush'd affection back upon my heart
Yet come to me it died not.

SHE knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell
Through the stain'd window of her lonely cell,

And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow,
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow,
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw
Bright waves of gold-the autumn forest's hue-
Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread
By painting's touch around some holy head,
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky,
What solemn fervour lived! And yet what woe,
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below
The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal
What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel,
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years,
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears!
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone,
And of the gentle saint no more was known,
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade,
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim,
And ancient solitude; where hidden streams
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in
dreams-

Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers,
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed
Came and brought hope! while scarce of mortal
He deem'd the pale fair form that held on earth
Communion but with grief.

Ere long, a cell,

[birth

A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone Gleam'd through the dark trees o'era sparkling well;

And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone, Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, That made the cypress quiver where it stood, In day's last crimson soaring from the wood Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, Other and wilder sounds in tumult met The floating song. Strange sounds!-the trumpet's Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel; The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying, And the pine branches crash'd before the flying.

[peal,

And all was changed within the still retreat, Costanza's home: there enter'd hurrying feet, Dark looks of shame and sorrow-mail-clad men, Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen,

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