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 raisuu, 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❜d— she 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,

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 prow.

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 tom
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.