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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

* Du Proverbe Bonne renommee vaut mieux


ceinture doree.

Lisant un arrest ancien qui est encores pour le jourd’huy in. seré aux Registres du Chastelet de Paris, j'estimay qu'en ce proverbe il y avoit une notable sentence, et une longue ancienneté tout ensemble. Car par arrest qui est du 28 de Juin 1420. il est porté en termes exprés que deffenses sont faites à toutes. femmes amoureuses, filles de joye, et paillardes de ne porter

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, tho' innocent “ Of ill, the vi&tim of another's vice,

Drag on the loathsome burthen of existence, “ And doubt Heaven's justice !"

robbes à collets renversez, queües, ne ceintures dorees, boutonnieres à leurs chaperons, sur peine de confiscation et amende, et que les Huissiers de Parlement, Commissaires & Sergents du Chastelet qui les trouveroient, eussent à les mener prisonnieres.

Au surplus (je diray cecy en passant) à la mienne volonté que ceux qui donnerent cest arrest eussent tourné la chance, et que non seulement ces ceintures dorees, ains en toutes autres dorures, & affiliquets, ils eussent fait deffences à toutes femmes d'honneur d'emporter, sur peine d'estre declarees putains : car il n'y auroit point plus prompt moyen que cestuy, pour bannier le superfluité & bombance des Dames.


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 propbet 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 : bim 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,
Unbappily 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.”

Conrade cried,
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

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“ 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 chears the banish'd Patriots 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

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