THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.

And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung-
This was the work of one deep heart wrung!

There, there is all that still remains of him-
That single spot is the whole earth to me.'
COLERIDGE's Wallenstein.

"Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert."

Childe Harold.

THERE went a warrior's funeral through the night,
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light

Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown

From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone,
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead,
Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoof's tread
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
As chieftains pass'd; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,
Wore man's mute anguish sternly; but of one,
Oh! who shall speak? What words his brow unveil?
A father following to the grave his son!

That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow,

Through the wood shadows, moved the knightly train,

With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low

Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain,

Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reach'd the lone
Barcnial chapel, where the forest gloom

Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trod the hollow ringing aisle,
A strange deep echo shudder'd through the pile,
Till crested heads at last, in silence bent
Round the De Couci's antique monument,
When dust to dust was given :-and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broider'd folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine :
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, erelong, to deck that lordly grave;
And the pale image of a youth, array'd
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid

In slumber on his shield. Then all was done
All still around the dead His name was heard

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Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were stirr'd
By some old song, or tale of battle won,
Told round the hearth: but in his father's breast
Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd
On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by;
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side;
Alas! to think of this!-the heart's void place
Fill'd up so soon!-so like a summer cloud,
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace!-
He lay forgotten in his early shroud.
Forgotten?-not of all!-the sunny smile
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile,
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw
A gladness round, whene'er their shades withdrew
From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying
Within that eagle eye's jet radiance deep,

And all the music with that young voice dying,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap
As at a hunter's bugle-these things lived
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day, by day,
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay,
Through the dim fane soft summer odors breathing,
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,
And with a flush of deeper brillance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
Through storied windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love-a secret love and lowly-
And the rose image all things fleet and fair,

And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?

Whose gentle nature, brought, from hidden dells,
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,
To blush through every season?-Blight and chill
Might touch the changing woods; but duly still
For years those gorgeous coronals renew'd,

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm,
Even through mid-winter, fill'd the solitude

With a strange smile-a glow of summer's realm.
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring
In lone devotedness!

One spring morn rose,

And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laidOh! not as 'midst the vineyards, to repose

From the fierce noon-a dark-hair'd peasant maid:

INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG.

Who could reveal her story! That still face
Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow
And the curved lip there linger'd yet such grace

As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye-
For death was on its lids-fell mournfully.
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair
Dimm'd, the slight form all wasted, as by care,
Whence came that early blight? Her kindred's place
Was not amidst the high De Couci race;

Yet there her shrine had been! She grasped a wreath-
The tomb's last garland!—This was love in death.

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INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH SONG.

[An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards the cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's Expedition to the Source of St. Peter's River.]

"Non, je ne puis vivre avec un cœur brisé. Il faut que je retrouve la joie, et que je m'unisse, aux esprits libres de l'air."

Bride of Messina-translated by MADAME DE STAEL. "Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman.' The Prairie.

Down a broad river of the western wilds,
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe
Swept with the current: fearful was the speed
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray
Rose with the cataract's thunder. Yet within,
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone,
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast,
A woman stood: upon her Indian brow
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child,
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart,
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile
Above the sound of waters, high and clear,
Wafting a wild proud strain—or song of death.

"

"Roll swiftly to the spirit's land, thou mighty stream and free! Father of ancient waters,5 roll! and bear our lives with thee! The weary bird that storms have toss'd would seek the sunshine's calm.

[balm.

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

"Roll on! my warrior's eye hath look'd upon another's face, And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam'

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 hush'd 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? The hand that spread the hunter's board, and deck'd 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 The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day. [away "And thou, my babe! though born, like me, for woman's weary lot,

[not; Smile to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee 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,

[sleep; And where th' unkind one hath no power again to trouble And where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening from a dream

[stream?"

One moment, and that realm is ours-On, on, dark rolling

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 a Rheims. au sien 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 heroine l'avaient accompagnés, elle se vit, pour un instant au millieu 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 earthborn 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

JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS.

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 pictur'd windows flowing,
Tinged with the 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 birthright'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,
And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance gleaming
Silent and radiant stood !-the helm was raised,

-a

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, enthron'd above,
The pictur'd 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!

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