impossible to deduce any rules of epic poetry from these authors. So likewise with Spenser, the favourite of my childhood, from whose frequent perusal I have always found increased delight.

Against the machinery of Camoens, a heavier charge must be brought than that of profaneness or incongruity. His floating island is but a floating brothel, and no beauty can make atonement for licentiousness. From this accusation none but a translator would attempt to justify him; but Camoens had the most able of translators. The Lusiad, though excellent in parts, is uninteresting as a whole: it is read with little emotion, and remembered with little pleasure. But it was composed in the anguish of disappointed hopes, in the fatigues of war, and in a country far from all he loved; and we should not forget, that as the poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate of men so he should be ranked among the most respectable. Neither his own country or Spain has yet produced his equal: his heart was broken by calamity, but the spirit of integrity and independence never forsook Camoens.

I have endeavoured to avoid what appears to me the common fault of epic poems, and to render the Maid of Orleans interesting. With this intent I have given her, not the passion of love, but the remembrance of subdued affection, a lingering of human feelings not inconsistent with the enthusiasm and holiness of her character.

The multitude of obscure epic writers copy with the most gross servility their ancient models. If a tempest occurs, some envious spirit procures it from the god of the winds or the god of the sea: is there a town besieged? the eyes of the hero are opened, and he beholds the powers of heaven assisting in the attack; an angel is at hand to heal his wounds, and the leader of the enemy in his last combat is seized with the sudden cowardice of Hector. Even Tasso is too often an imitator. But notwithstanding

the censure of a satyrist, the name of Tasso will still be ranked among the best heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau only condemned him for the sake of an antithesis; it is with such writers, as with those who affect point in their conversation, they will always sacrifice truth to the gratification of their vanity.

I have avoided what seems useless and wearying in other poems, and my readers will find no descriptions of armour, no muster-rolls, no geographical catalogues, lion, tiger, bull, bear, and boar similes; Phoebuses and Auroras. Where in battle I have particularized the death of an individual, it is not I hope like the common lists of killed and wounded; my intention has been to impress upon the reader's mind a feeling of the private wretchedness occasioned by the war systems of Europe.

It has been established as a necessary rule for the epic, that the subject be national. To this rule I have acted in direct opposition, and chosen for the subject of my poem the defeat of the English. If among my readers there be one who can wish success to an unjust cause, because his country supported it, I desire not that man's approbation.

On the 8th of May, the epoch of its deliverance, an annual fête is held at Orleans; and monuments have been erected to the memory of the maid. Her family was ennobled by Charles; but it should not be forgotten in the history of this monarch, that, in the hour of misfortune, he abandoned to her fate the woman who had saved his kingdom.

Since the first publication of this poem, it has undergone a long and laborious correction. Everything miraculous is now omitted, and the reader who is acquainted with the former edition may judge by this circumstance

the extent of the alterations. Some errors with regard to the costume of the time had escaped me: in this point the work is now, I trust, correct. The additional notes are numerous; they are inserted as authorities for the facts related in the text, and as explanatory to those readers who are not conversant with the ancient chronicles of this country; for we may be well read in Hume and Rapin, and yet know little of our ancestors. Whenever I felt, or suspected an idea not to be original, I have placed the passage underneath by which it was suggested. With respect to the occasional harshness of the versification, it must not be attributed to negligence or haste. I deem such variety essential in a long poem.

ΤΟ

EDITH SOUTHEY.

EDITH! I brought thee late a humble gift,
The songs of earlier youth; it was a wreath
With many an unripe blossom garlanded
And many a weed, yet mingled with some flowers
That will not wither. Now, my love, I bring
A worthier offering; thou wilt value it,
For well thou knowest it is a work that sooth'd
Times of hard care and strange inquietude,
With most sweet solace: and though to mine ear
There is no music in the hollowness

Of common praise, yet I am well content
To think that I have past in such employ
The green and vigorous season of my mind,
And hope that there are those in whom the song
Has woke some not unprofitable thoughts.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

JOAN OF ARC.

The First Book.

The Maid announces her mission to the Lord of Vaucouleur. She departs for Chinon with Dunois. Narrative of the Maid.

THERE was high feasting held at Vaucouleur,
For old Sir Robert had a noble guest,
The Bastard' Orleans; and the festive hours,
Cheer'd with the Trouveur's merry minstrelsy,
Pass'd lightly at the hospitable board.
But not to share the hospitable board
And hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had sought
Sir Robert's hall; he came to rouse Lorraine,
And glean what force the wasting war had left
For one last effort. Little had the war
Left in Lorraine, but age, and youth unripe
For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids
Of widowed loves. And now with his high guest
The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing

On what might profit France, and knew no hope,
Despairing of his country, when he heard

An old man and a maid awaited him

In the castle hall. He knew the old man well,
His vassal Claude, and at his bidding Claude
Approached, and after meet obeisance made,
Bespake Sir Robert.

"Good my Lord, I come With a strange tale; I pray you pardon me If it should seem impertinent, and like

An old man's weakness. But, in truth, this Maid
Did with most earnest words importune me,
And with such boding thoughts impress'd my heart,
I think that I could not have slept in peace

B

Denying what she sought. Her parents make

A mock of her;-it is not well to mock

The damsel, and altho' her mother be
My sister, yet in honesty I think
It is unkindly done to mock the Maid.
And then her father Confessor,-he says
She is possess'd; indeed he knows her not.
Possess'd! my niece by evil spirits possess'd!
My darling girl! there never was a thought
Of evil yet found entrance in her heart.-
I knew her, good my Lord, before her smile,
Her innocent smile, and bright black-sparkling eye
That talk'd before the tongue had learnt its office,
Did tell me she did love me.

Whilst he spake
Curious they mark'd the Damsel. She appear'd
Of eighteen years; there was no bloom of youth
Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues
Of health with lesser fascination fix'd

The gazer's eye; for wan the Maiden was,
Of saintly paleness, and there seem'd to dwell
In the strong beauties of her countenance
Something that was not earthly.

"I have heard Of this your niece's malady," replied

The Lord of Vaucouleur; "that she frequents
The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude,
Estranged from human kind and human cares
With loathing most like madness. It were best
To place her with some pious sisterhood,
Who duly morn and eve, for her soul's health
Soliciting Heaven, may likeliest remedy
The stricken mind, or frenzied or possess'd."
So as Sir Robert ceas'd, the Maiden cried,
"I am not mad. Possess'd indeed I am!
The hand of God is strong upon my soul,
And I have wrestled vainly with the Lord,
And stubbornly, I fear me. I can save
This country, sir! I can deliver France!
Yea-I must save this country! God is in me-
I speak not, think not, feel not of myself.
He knew and sanctified me ere my birth,
He to the nations hath ordained me,
And unto whom He sends me, I must go,