INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG.

Non, je ne puis vivre avec un cœur 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.

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, her song of death.

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 another'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, 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 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 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 wo;

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!

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, aussitôt que de 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.