She ceas'd, and with an eager hush the crowd Still listened; a brief while throughout the dome Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst,
Devout and full, they rais'd the choral hymn
Thee, Lord, we praise, our God!" The throng without
Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy,
And thundering transport peals along the heavens.
As thro' the parting crowd the virgin pass'd,
He who from Orleans on the yesternight
Demanded succour, clasp'd with warmth her hand,
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd,
"Ill-omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth,
Devoted for the king-curst realm of France!-
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee!" So saying,
He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words
Disturb'd, the warrior-virgin pass'd along,
And much revolving in her troubled mind,
Retreads the court.
And now the horn announced
The ready banquet; they partook the feast,
Then rose, and in the cooling water cleansed
Their hands; and seated at the board again,
Enjoyed the bowl, or scented high with spice,
Or flavour'd with the fragrant summer fruit,
Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich.
Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp: he sung
Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest knight
That ever loved fair lady; and the youth
Of Cornwall, underneath whose maiden sword
The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck
The dolorous stroke, the blameless and the brave,
Who died beneath a brother's erring arm.
Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel!
The songs of earlier years embalm your fame,
And haply yet
some poet shall arise,
Like that divinest Tuscan, and enwreathe
The immortal garland for himself and you.
The full sound echoed o'er the arched roof,
And listening eager to the favourite lay,
The guests sat silent, when into the hall
messenger from that besieged town
Stalk'd stately. "It is pleasant, King of France,
To feast at ease and hear the harper's song;
Far other music hear the men of Orleans!
Death is among them; there the voice of Wo
Moans ceaseless."
"Rude, unmannerly intruder !"
Exclaim'd the monarch: "Cease to interrupt
The hour of merriment; it is not thine
To instruct me in my duty."
Of reproof
Heedless, the stranger to the minstrel cried:
"Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame
Amid these walls? Virtue and Genius love
That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose lewd tale
To pamper and provoke the appetite?
Such should procure thee worthy recompence!
Or rather sing thou of that mighty one,
Who tore the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom,
That was to him even as a daughter! Charles,
This holy tale would I tell, prophet-like,
And look at thee, and cry, "Thou art the man!""
He said, and with a quick and troubled step
Retired. Astonish'd at his daring phrase,
The guests sat heedless of the minstrel's song,
Pondering the words mysterious. Soon the harp
Beguil❜d their senses of anxiety.
The court dispers'd: retiring from the hall,
Charles and the delegated damsel sought
The inner palace. There awaited them
The Queen: with her JOAN loved to pass the hours,
By various converse cheer'd; for she had won
The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy,
The calm and duteous patience that deplor'd
A husband's cold half-love. To her she told
With what strange words the messenger from Orleans
Had rous'd uneasy wonder in her mind;
For on her ear yet vibrated the voice,
"Ill-omened Maid, I pity thee!" when lo!
Again that man stalk'd to the door, and stood
Scowling around.
"Why dost thou haunt me thus ?"
"Is there no place secure
From thy rude insolence? Unmanner'd man!
I know thee not!"
"Then learn to know me, Charles!" Solemnly he replied. "Read well my face, That thou mayest know it on that dreadful day, When at the throne of God I shall demand His justice on thee!" Turning from the king, To Agnes as she enter'd, in a tone
More low, more awfully severe, he cried, "Dost thou, too, know me not?"
She glanced on him, And pale and breathless hid her head, convuls'd, In the Maid's bosom.
"King of France!" he said,
"She lov'd me! Day by day I dwelt with her;
Her voice was music, very sweet her smiles!
I left her! left her, Charles, in evil hour,
To fight thy battles. Thou meantime didst come,
Staining most foul her spotless purity;
For she was pure.-Alas! these courtly robes
Hide not the hideous stain of infamy.
Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on
An honourable name, unhappy one!
My poor, polluted Agnes! Thou bad man!
Thou hast almost shaken my faith in Heaven.
I see thee rioting in sloth and guilt,
And yet thou restest pillowing thy head
Even on her bosom! I, though innocent
Of ill, the victim of another's vice,
Drag on the loathsome burthen of existence,
And doubt Heaven's justice!"
So he said, and frown'd Dark as that man who at Mohammed's door
Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearful look,
Bath'd with cold damps, every beholder fled.
Even he the Prophet, almost terrified,
Endur'd but half to view him; for he knew
Azrael, stern-brow'd Messenger of Fate,
And his death-day was come. Guilt-petrified
The monarch sat, nor could endure to face
His bosom-probing frown. The mission'd Maid
Read anxious his stern features, and exclaim'd
“I know thee, Conrade!" Rising from her seat,
She took his hand, for he stood motionless,
Gazing on Agnes now with full-fix'd eye,
Dreadful, though calm: him from the court she drew,
And to the river's banks, resisting not,
Both sadly silent, led; till at the last,
As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd
Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck,
He wept.
"I know thee, damsel !" he exclaim'd.
"Dost thou remember that tempestuous night,
When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought
Your hospitable doors? Ah me! I then
Was happy! You too sojourn'd then in peace.
Fool that I was; I blam'd such happiness;
Arraign'd it as a guilty, selfish sloth,
Unhappily prevailing; so I fear me;
Or why art thou at Chinon ?"
Him the Maid
Answering, address'd: "I do remember well
That night, for then the holy spirit first
Waked by thy words, possess'd me.”
"Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst liv'd
Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd
Needlessly rigid from my peaceful path.
And thou hast left thine home, then, and obey'd
The feverish fancies of thine ardent brain!
And hast thou left him, too, the youth, whose eye
For ever glancing on thee, spake so well
Affection's eloquent tale?
So as he said,
Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek.
“I am alone,” she answer'd, " for this realm
Devoted." Nor to answer more the Maid
Endur'd; for many a melancholy thought
Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind's eye
Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc:
Her burthen'd heart was full; such grief she felt,
Yet such sweet solacing of self applause
As cheers the banish'd patriot's lonely hours
When Fancy pictures to him all he loved,
Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb,
And drowns the soft enchantment.
With a look, That spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed
The silent Maid; nor would the Maid suppress
The thoughts that swell'd within her, or from him
Hide her soul's workings. ""Twas on the last night
Before I left Domremi's pleasant home,
I sate beside the brook, my labouring soul
Full, as inebriate with Divinity.
Then, Conrade! I beheld the ruffian herd
Circle a flaming pile, where at the stake
A female stood; the iron bruised her breast,
And round her limbs ungarmented, the fire
Curl'd its fierce flakes. I saw her countenance;
I knew myself." Then, in subdued tones
Of calmness, "There are moments when the soul
From her own impulse with strange dread recoils,
Suspicious of herself: but with most full
And perfect faith I know this vision sent
From Heaven, and feel of its unerring truth,
As that God liveth, that I live myself,
The feeling that deceives not."
By the hand
Her Conrade held, and cried, "Ill-fated Maid,
That I have torn thee from Affection's breast,
My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve,
Like me, the worthless Court, and having serv'd,
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou shalt curse
The duty that deluded. Of the world
Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow men,
I shall be seen no more. There is a path-
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf
Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod
That path, and mark'd a melancholy den,
Where one whose jaundiced soul abhors itself,
May pamper him in complete wretchedness.
There sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,
Conrade shall dwell; and in the languid hour,
When the jarr'd senses sink to a sick calm,
Shall mourn the waste of frenzy!”
Fix'd upon Conrade her commanding eye:
"I pass'd the fertile Auxerrois," she cried;
"The vines had spread their interwoven shoots
Over the unpruned vineyards, the rich grapes
Rotted beneath the leaves, for there was none
To tread the vintage, and the birds of heaven
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