There is music on the midnight-
A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle
In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,
And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,
With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train,

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lower'd the dust again.
'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above,
Hymns die, and steps depart:

Who call'd thee strong as death, O Love?
Mightier thou wast and art.

TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE.

THEY haunt me still-those calm, pure, ho'y

eyes:

Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams:

The soul of music that within them lies,

Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams: Life-spirit-life-immortal and divine—

Is there and yet how dark a death was thine!

Could it-oh! could it be-meek child of song?
The might of gentleness on that fair brow-
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong?
Bore it no talisman to ward the blow?
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast,
Might brave their strife-a flute-note hush the
blast?

Are there not deep sad oracles to read

In the clear stillness of that radiant face?
Yes, even like thee must gifted spirits bleed,
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no
place!

Bright exiled birds that visit alien skies,
Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies.

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast, Whereon their trembling plumage might repose,

And their free song-notes, from that happy nest, Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows; Vain dream! the love whose precious balms might save,

Still, still denied—they struggle to the grave.

Yet my heart shall not sink !—another doom,
Victim! hath set its promise in thine eye;
A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb,
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny;
Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere,
To the deep souls that find no echo here.

JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS.

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 the 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, 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 tombs 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 flow'd 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

Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew

Under one roof?"Joanne !"-that murmur broke

With sounds of weeping forth!-She turn'dshe knew

Beside her, mark'd 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 flash'd proudly; and the boy,
The youngest-born, that ever loved her best;
"Father! and ye, my brothers!"-On the
breast

Of that grey sire she sank-and swiftly back,
Ev'n in an instant, to their native track
Her free thoughts flow'd.-She saw the pomp

no more

The plumes, the banners :-to her cabin door,
And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade,
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd,