And that which He commands me, I must speak, And that which He shall will, I must perform, Most fearless in the fulness of my faith

Because the Lord is with me!".

At the first

With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard
The inspired Maid; but now he in his heart
Felt that misgiving that precedes belief

In what was disbelieved and scoff'd at late
As folly. "Damsel!" said the Chief, "methinks
That it were wisely done to doubt this call,
Haply of some ill spirit prompting thee

To self-destruction."

"Doubt!" the maid exclaim'd; "It were as easy, when I gaze around On all this fair variety of things,

Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth
Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt
Creating wisdom! when in the evening gale
I breathe the mingled odours of the spring,
And hear the wild wood melody, and hear
The populous air vocal with insect life,

To doubt God's goodness! there are feelings, Chief,
That may not lie; and I have oftentimes
Felt in the midnight silence of my soul

The call of God."

They listened to the Maid, And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois: "Wilt thou go with me, Maiden, to the king, And there announce thy mission?" Thus he said, For thoughts of politic craftiness arose Within him, and his unconfirmed faith Determin'd to prompt action. She replied: "Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur, That with such credence as prevents delay, He to the king might send me. Now, beseech you, Speed our departure."

Then Dunois address'd

Sir Robert: "Fare thee well, my friend and host!
It were ill done to linger here when Heaven
Has sent such strange assistance. Let what force
Lorraine may yield to Chinon follow us;
And with the tidings of this holy Maid,
Rais'd up by God, fill thou the country; soon

The country shall awake as from the sleep
Of death. Now, Maid! depart we at thy will."

"God's blessing go with thee!" exclaim'd old Claude;
"Good angels guard my girl!"-and as he spake
The tears stream'd fast adown his aged cheeks,-
"And if I do not live to see thee more,

As sure I think I shall not, yet sometimes
Remember thine old uncle.

I have loved thee

Even from thy childhood, Joan! and I shall lose
The comfort of mine age in losing thee.

But God be with thee, Maid!"

He had a heart
Warm as a child's affections, and he wept.
Nor was the Maid, altho' subdued of soul,
Unmoved; but soon she calmed her, and bespake
The good old man. Now go thee to thine home,
And comfort thee, mine uncle, with the thought
Of what I am, for what high enterprise
Chosen from among the people. Oh, be sure
I shall remember thee, in whom I found
A parent's love, when parents were unkind;
And when the ominous broodings of my soul
Were scoff'd and made a mock of by all else,
Those most mysterious feelings thou the while
Still didst respect. Shall I forget these things?"
They pass'd without the gate, as thus she spake,
Prepar❜d for their departure. To her lips
She press'd his hand, and as she press'd, there fell
A tear; the old man felt it on his heart,

And dimly he beheld them on their steeds
Spring up and go their way.

So on they went;
And now along the mountain's winding path
Upward they journeyed slow, and now they paus'd
And gazed where o'er the plain the stately towers
Of Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen,
Dark and distinct; below the castled height,
Thro' fair and fertile pastures, the deep Meuse
Roll'd glittering on. Domremi's cottages
Gleam'd in the sun hard by, white cottages,
That in the evening traveller's weary mind
Had waken'd thoughts of comfort and of home,
Till his heart ached for rest. But on one spot,

One little spot, the Virgin's eye was fix'd,
Her native Arc; embowered the hamlet lay
Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods,
With all their infinite varieties,

Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain
Rose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves,
And vine-yards in the greenest hue of spring,
And streams, now hidden on their devious way,
Now winding forth in light.

The Maiden gazed
Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye.

"Oh what a blessed world were this!" she cried,
But that the great and honourable men
Have seiz'd the earth, and of the heritage
Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given,
Disherited their brethren! happy those
Who in the after-days shall live when Time
Has spoken, and the multitude of years

Taught wisdom! Sure and certain though that hope,
Yet it is sad to gaze upon a scene

So very good, and think that Want and Guilt
And Wretchedness are there! unhappy France!
Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes
Rush o'er the land and desolate and kill;
Long has the widow's and the orphan's groan
Accused Heaven's justice; but the hour is come;
God hath inclined his ear, hath heard the voice
Of mourning, and His anger is gone forth.”

Then said the Son of Orleans: "Holy Maid!
I would fain know, if blameless I may seek
Such knowledge, how the heavenly call was heard
First in thy waken'd soul; nor deem in me
Ought idly curious, if of thy past days

I ask the detail. In the hour of age,
If haply I survive to see this realm
By thee deliver'd, dear will be the thought
That I have seen the delegated Maid,

And heard from her the wondrous ways of Heaven."

"A simple tale," the mission'd Maid replied, "Yet may it well' employ the journeying hour; And pleasant is the memory of the past.