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, although 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.

Till all

The Maiden gazed
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
Aught 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.

"Seest thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows

As on the farther bank the distant towers
Of Vaucouleur ? there in the hamlet Arc
My father's dwelling stands; a lowly hut,
Yet nought of needful comfort wanted it,
For in Lorraine there lived no kinder lord
Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques
In flocks and herds was rich. A toiling man,
Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart
Affection had no root. I never knew
A parent's love; for harsh my mother was,
And deem'd the cares that infancy demands
Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were,
And would have made me fear them, but my
Possess'd the germ of steady fortitude,
And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke

soul

And wrathful chastisement. Yet was the voice
That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet
To my young heart; how have I felt it leap

With transport, when mine uncle Claude approach'd!
For he would place me on his knee, and tell
The wondrous tales that childhood loves to hear,
Listening with eager eyes and open lips
In most devout attention. Good old man!
Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven
Unhallowed by the grateful thought of him,
Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it!
He was a parent to me, and his home

Was mine, when, in advancing years, I found
No peace, no comfort, in my father's house.
With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours,
By day I drove my father's flock afield
And this was happiness.

Amid these wilds

Often to summer pasture have I driven

The flock; and well I know these mountain wilds,
And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream

Is dear to memory. I have laid me down
Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent
Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd
The tide roll glittering to the noon-tide sun,
And listened to its ceaseless murmuring,

Till all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul,
Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight
That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds
Over the lake at eve: their fleeting hues
The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye,
Yet he remembers well how fair they were,
How very lovely.

Here in solitude

My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes
Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was,

As the white mists of morning roll'd away,
To see the mountain's wooded heights appear
Dark in the early dawn, and mark its slope
Rich with the blossom'd furze, as the slant sun
On the golden ripeness pour'd a deepening light.
Pleasant at noon, beside the vocal brook
To lie me down, and watch the floating clouds,
And shape to Fancy's wild similitudes
Their ever-varying forms; and oh, most sweet!
To drive my flock at evening to the fold,
And hasten to our little hut, and hear

The voice of kindness bid me welcome home.

"Amid the village playmates of my youth Was one whom riper years approved my friend; A very gentle maid was Madelon.

I loved her as a sister, and long time
Her undivided tenderness possess'd,

Till that a better and a holier tie

Gave her one nearer friend; and then my heart
Partook her happiness, for never lived

A happier pair than Arnaud and his wife.

"Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her youth
Went Arnaud to the war. The morn was fair,
Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerily,
And all the fields look'd lovely in the spring;
But to Domremi wretched was that day,
For there was lamentation, and the voice
Of anguish, and the deeper agony

That spake not. Never will my heart forget
The feelings that shot through me, when the sound
Of cheerful music burst upon our ears

Sudden, and from the arms that round their necks
Hung close entwined, as in a last embrace,
Friends, brethren, husbands went.

More frequent now

Sought I the converse of poor Madelon,
For much she needed now the soothing voice
Of friendship. Heavily the summer pass'd,
To her a joyless one, expecting still
Some tidings from the war; and as at eve
She with her mother by the cottage door
Sat in the sunshine, I have seen her eye,
If one appear'd along the distant path,
Shape to the form she loved his lineaments,
Her cheek faint flush'd by hope, that made her heart
Seem as it sunk within her. So the days

And weeks and months pass'd on, and when the leaves
Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope
That reason own'd not, that with expectation
Did never cheer her as she rose at morn,
Still lingered in her heart, and still at night
Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came,
But Arnaud never from the war return'd,
He far away had perish'd; and when late
The tidings of his certain death arriv'd,
Sore with long anguish underneath that blow
She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day
Upon the past, and talk of happiness

That never would return, as tho' she found
Best solace in the thoughts that minister'd
To sorrow: and she loved to see the sun
Go down, because another day was gone,
And then she might retire to solitude
And wakeful recollections, or perchance
To sleep more wearying far than wakefulness,
For in the visions of her heart she saw
Her husband, saw him as escaped the war,
To his own home return'd. Thus day nor night
Reposed she, and she pined and pined away.

"Bitter art thou to him that lives in rest,
O Death! and grievous in the hour of joy
The thought of thy cold dwelling; but thou comest
Most welcome to the wretched; a best friend
To him that wanteth one; a comforter,