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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 toward 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 cæur 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.
Lot not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman.
Down a broad river of the western wilds,
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, 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 an
other's face, And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moon
beam's trace; My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper to
his dream, He flings away the broken reed - roll swifter yet,
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 Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright
better shore !
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
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 sor
row 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 waken
ing from a dream,One moment, and that realm is ours-On, on, dark
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 à Rheims, au sein de son triomphe: Jacques d'Arc, son père y se trouva, aussitot que les troupes de Charles VII. y furent entrées; et comme les deux frères de notre Héroine l'avaient accompagnés, 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,
That was a joyous day in Rheims of old,
Thro' 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 birthright's crown. For this, the hymn
Swellid 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
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,