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claim the grandeur of the poor shepherd-girl, that gave up all for her country, — thy ear, young shepherd-girl, will have been deaf for five centuries.

To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; to do, - never for thyself, always for others; to suffer, never in the persons of generous champions, always in thy own: that was thy destiny; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. Life,” thou saidst, “is short, and the sleep which is in the grave is long. Let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is so long."

This pure creature, - pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses more obvious, never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was traveling to meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every road pouring into Rouen* as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints,—these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, that she heard forever.

Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust.

* Rouen, rô'en or rô-än(g)'.

Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well Joanna knew — early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth — that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her.



COW peacefully they rest,

Cross-folded there

Upon his little breast,
Those small white hands that ne'er were still before,

But ever sported with his mother's hair,
Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore !

Her heart no more will beat
To feel the touch of that soft palm,

That ever seemed a new surprise,

Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes

To bless him with their holy calm,-
Sweet thoughts ! they made her eyes as sweet.

How quiet are the hands

That wove those pleasant bands !
But that they do not rise and sink
With his calm breathing, I should think
That he were dropped asleep :
Alas! too deep, too deep

Is this his slumber;

Time scarce can number The years ere he will wake again 0, may we see his eyelids open then,

O, stern word - nevermore?

He did but float a little way

Adown the stream of time, With dreamy eyes watching the ripples' play, Or listening to their fairy chime;

His slender sail

Ne'er felt the gale ;
He did but float a little way,

And putting to the shore,
While yet 't was early day,
Went calmly on his way,

To dwell with us no more !

Full short his journey was; no dust

Of earth unto his sandals clave;
The weary weight that old men must,

He bore not to the grave.

He seemed a cherub who had lost his

way, And wandered hither; so his stay

With us was short, and 't was most meet That he should be no delver in earth's clod,

Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet To stand before his God

O, blest word evermore!



BUENA VISTA is a hamlet in Mexico where the Mexican army, under General Santa Anna, was defeated by the Americans, under General Taylor, February 22 and 23, 1847. La Angostura is about a mile and a half distant. La Puebla (pwā'blä, or poo-ā'blä) is the second city of Mexico.


YPEAK and tell us, our Ximena,* looking northward far away,

Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near! Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

“Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy on their

souls !" Who is losing? who is winning ? Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon, clouding through the mountain rain.”

Holy Mother! keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once

more! “Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and

horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its moun

tain course.”

Look forth once more, Ximena ! “Ah! the smoke has rolled

away ; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon +

wheels : There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their


* Pronounced Hi-mā'na.
† Minon (pronounced min-yon) was a Mexican general.

“ Jesu, pity! how it thickens ! now retreat and now advance ! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together

fall; Like a plowshare in the fallow, through them plows the

Northern ball."

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on. Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has

won ? “ Alas! alas ! I know not; friend and foe together fall; O’er the dying rush the living ; pray, my sisters, for them all!

“Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my

brain ! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive

to rise; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our


“O my heart's love! O my dear one ! lay thy poor head on

my knee; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me?

Canst thou see? O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernard, look once


On the blessed cross before thee ! mercy ! mercy! all is o'er.”
Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one down to rest;
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.
Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life

away ;

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