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
Where o'er her father's roof the beach leaves hung,
Was in her heart; a music heard and felt,
Winning her back to nature.-She unbound

The helm of many battles from her head. And, with her bright locks bow'd to sweep she ground,

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said,"Bless me, my father, bless me! and with thee, To the still cabin and the beechen tree,

Let me return! "

Oh! never did thine eye
Through the green haunts of happy infancy
Wander again, Joanne !-too much of fame
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name;
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price,
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise
Of home with all its loves, doth fate allow
The crown of glory unto woman's brow.

THE CRUSADERS' WAR SONG.

CHIEFTAINS, lead on! our hearts beat high,
Lead on to Salem's towers!

Who would not deem it bliss to die,
Slain in a cause like ours?

The brave who sleep in soil of thine,

Die not entomb'd, but shrined. O Palestine!

Souls of the slain in holy war!
Look from your sainted rest.
Tell us ye rose in Glory's car,

To mingle with the blest;

Tell us how short the death-pang's power,
How bright the joys of your immortal bower.

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train!
Pour forth your loftiest lays;

Each heart shall echo to the strain
Breath'd in the warrior's praise.
Bid every string triumphant swell
Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so w

Salem! amidst the fiercest hour,
The wildest rage of fight,

Thy name shall lend our falchions power,
And nerve our hearts with might,

Envied be those for thee that fall,

Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall.

For them no need that sculptured tomb

Should chronicle their fame,

Or pyramid record their doom,

Or deathless verse their name;

It is enough that dust of thine

Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine !

Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high

For combat's glorious hour; Soon shall the red-cross banner fly

On Salem's loftiest tower!

We burn to mingle in the strife,
Where but to die ensures eternal life.

THE VAUDOIS' WIFE.

'THY Voice is in mine ear, beloved!
Thy look is in my heart,
Thy bosom is my resting-place,
And yet I must depart.

Earth on my soul is strong-too strong

Too precious is its chain,

All woven of thy love, dear friend,
Yet vain-though mighty-vain!

Thou seest mine eye grow dim, beloved!
Thou seest my life-blood flow.-
Bow to the chastener silently,

And calmly let me go!

A little while between our hearts
The shadowy gulf must lie,
Yet have we for their communing
Still, still Eternity!

Alas! thy tears are on my cheek,
My spirit they detain;

I know that from thine agony
Is wrung that burning rain.

Best, kindest, weep not ;-make the pang,
The bitter conflict, less-

Oh! sad it is, and yet a joy,

To fell thy love's excess!

But calm thee! Let the thought of death
A solemn peace restore!

The voice that must be silent soon,
Would speak to thee once more,
That thou may'st bear its blessings on
Through years of after life-

A token of consoling love,

Even from this hour of strife.

I bless thee for the noble heart,
The tender, and the true,

Where mine hath found the happiest rest
That e'er fond woman's knew;
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide,
For my own, my treasured share,
In the mournful secrets of thy soul,
In thy sorrow, in thy prayer.

I bless thee for the kind looks and words
Shower'd on my path like dew,

For all the love in those deep eyes
A gladness ever new!

For the voice which ne'er to mine replied

But in kindly tones of cheer:

For every spring of happiness
My soul hath tasted here!

I bless thee for the last rich boon
Won from affection tried,

The right to gaze on death with thee,
To perish by thy side!

And yet more for the glorious hope

Even to these moments giver.

Did not thy spirit ever lift

The trust of mine to Heaven?

Now be thou strong?

Oh! knew we not

Our path must lead to this?

A shadow and a trembling still
Were mingled with our bliss!

We plighted our young hearts wher storms
Were dark upon the sky,

In full, deep knowledge of their task
To suffer and to die!

Be strong! I leave the living voice
Of this, my martyr'd blood,
With the thousand echoes of the hills,
With the torrent's foaming flood,-

A spirit 'midst the caves to dwell,
A token on the air,

To rouse the valiant from repose,
The fainting from despair.

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love!
Aye, joyously, endure;

Our mountains must be altars yet,
Inviolate and pure;

There must our God be worshipp'd still
With the worship of the free-
Farewell! there's but one pang in death,
One only, leaving thee!