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!"

66

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.

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
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 soul
Possess'd the germ of steady fortitude,
And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke

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,