And proudly flung from her face the veil,
And shook the hair from her forehead pale,
And midst her wondering handmaids stood,
With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood-
Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky
A brow in its regal passion high,
With a close and rigid grasp she press'd
The blood-stain'd robe to her heaving breast,
And said "Not yet, not yet I weep,
Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep!
Not till yon city, in ruins rent,
Be piled for its victim's monument.
Cover his dust! bear it on before!
It shall visit those temple gates once more."
And away in the train of the dead she turn'd, The strength of her step was the heart that burn'd; And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled, As the mother pass'd with her slaughter'd child.
Hark! a wild sound of the desert's horn
Through the woods round the Indian city borne,
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar-
War! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war!
The Bramin look'd from the leaguer'd towers-
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers;
And the lake that flash'd through the plantain
shade,
As the light of the lances along it play'd;
And the canes that shook as if winds were high,
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by;
And the camp as it lay like a billowy sea,
Wide round the sheltering banian-tree.
There stood one tent from the rest apart-
That was the place of a wounded heart.
Oh! deep is a wounded heart, and strong
A voice that cries against mighty wrong;
And full of death as a hot wind's blight,
Doth the ire of a crush'd affection light.
Maimuna from realm to realm had pass'd,
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast.
There had been words from her pale lips pour'd,
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword.
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear,
And the dark chief of Araby grasp'd his spear,
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall,
And a vow was recorded that doom'd its fall.
Back with the dust of her son she came,
When her voice had kindled that lightning flame;
She came in the might of a queenly foe,
Banner, and javelin, and bended bow;
But a deeper power on her forehead sate-
There sought the warrior his star of fate:
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line
Was hail'd as a spirit and a sign,
And the faintest tone from her lip was caught
As a sibyl's breath of prophetic thought.
Vain, bitter glory!—the gift of grief,
That lights up vengeance to find relief,
Transient and faithless! It cannot fill
So the deep void of the heart, nor still
The yearning left by a broken tie,
That haunted fever of which we die!
Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown,
As a king in death might reject his crown.
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way—
She wither'd faster from day to day:
All the proud sounds of that banner'd plain,
To stay the flight of her soul were vain ;
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn
The frail dust, ne'er for such conflicts born,
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come
For its fearful rushing through darkness home.
The bright sun set in his pomp and pride,
As on that eve when the fair boy died:
She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell
O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell;
She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone,
Had an echo of feelings that long seem'd flown.
She murmur'd a low sweet cradle-song,
Strange midst the din of a warrior throng-
A song of the time when her boy's young cheek
Had glow'd on her breast in its slumber meck.
But something which breathed from that mourn
ful strain
Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again;
And starting, as if from a dream, she cried→
"Give him proud burial at my side!
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, When the temples are fallen, make there our
And the temples fell, though the spirit pass'd, That stay'd not for victory's voice at last; When the day was won for the martyr dead, For the broken heart and the bright blood shed.
Through the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartarsteed
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed;
Free swept the flame through the idol fanes,
And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior veins;
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay,
Like the panther leapt on its flying prey,
Till a city of ruin begirt the shade
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid.
Palace and tower on that plain were left,
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft;
The wild vine mantled the stately square,
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair,
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung-
This was the work of one deep heart wrung!
THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.
"There is but one place in the worldThither, where he lies buried!
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.
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, 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
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
THERE went a warrior's funeral through the night, Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile,
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
Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle,
A strange deep echo shudder'd through the pile,
Till crested heads at last in silence bent
Round the De Coucis' 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.
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw
A gladness round, whene'er their shade 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, [ing,
Through the dim fane soft summer odours breath-
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,
And with a flush of deeper brilliance 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 nurture 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 laid
Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose From the fierce noon-a dark-hair'd peasant maid.
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 eyeFor 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; [wreath,
Yet there her shrine had been! She grasp'd a The tomb's last garland !-This was love in death.
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 a 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 brise. 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—a song of death.
"Roll swiftly to the spirits' land, thou mighty stream and free!
Father of ancient waters,1 roll! and bear our lives with thee!
1 "Father of waters," the Indian name for the Mississippi.
The weary bird that storms have toss'd would seek the sunshine's calm,
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt flies to the woods of balm.
"Roll on !—my warrior's eye hath look'd upon another's face,
And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam's 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 eversunny 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 away
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day.
"And thou, my babe! though born, like me, for woman's weary lot,
Smile-to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee not;
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, And where th' unkind one hath no power again to trouble sleep;
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!”
["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 stream-
ing,
[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
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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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