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Deform'd her beauteous features. Yet with her
Thro' the realm
The Doctors met, from cloister gloom recluse,
Or from the haunts luxurious of the abode
Episcopal, they met, and sought the place
The floor with many a monumental stone
Circling round the vase
Dim seen by the blue tomb-fire s lurid light,
As she came, a loveliest blash O'er her fair cheek suffus'd, such as became One mindful still of maiden modesty, Tho' of her own worth conscious. Thro' the aisic The cold wind moaning as it pass'd along Waved her dark flowing locks. Before the train In reverend silence waiting their sage will, With balf-averted eye she stood compos d. So have I seen the simple snow-drop rise Amid the russet leaves that hide the earth In early spring, so seen its gentle bend Of modest loveliness amid the waste
By the maiden's side The Son of Orleans stood, prepard to vouch That when on Charles the Maiden's eye had fix’d, As led by power miraculous, no fraud, No juggling artifice of secret sign Dissembled inspiration. As he stood Steadily viewing the mysterious rites, Thus to the attentive Maid the Arch-Priest spake Severe.
“ Woman, if any fiend of hell “ Lurk in thy bosom, so to prompt the vaunt“Of inspiration, and to mock the power “Of God and holy church, thus by the virtue « Of water hallowed in the name of God “ That damned spirit adjure I to depart “ From his possessed prey.
Slowly he spako And sprinkled water on the virgin's face : Indignant at the unworthy charge the Maid Felt her cheek flush, but soon, the transient glow
Fading, she answer'd meek.
“ Most holy Sires, “ Ye reverend Fathers of the Christian church, “ Most catholic! before your view I stand A
poor weak woman. Of the grace vouchsafed, “ How far unworthy, conscious : yet tho' mean, “Guiltless of fraud, and chosen by highest heaven “ The minister of aid. Strange voices heard, “ The dark and shadowing visions of the night, “ And feelings that I may not dare to doubt, * These portents make me conscious of the God “ Within me; he who gifted my purged eye “ To know the Monarch ʼmid the menial throng, " Unseen before. Thus much it bonts to say. “ The life of simple virgin ill deserves " To call your minds from studies wise and deep, “ Not to be fathom'd by the weaker sense “ Of man profane."
“ Thou speakest,” said the Priest, “Of dark and shadowing visions of the night.