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JOAN of ARC.

THE FIFTH BOOK.

Scarce had the earliest ray from Chinon's towers
Made visible the mists that curl'd along
The winding waves of Vienne, when from her couch
Started the martial Maid. She maild her limbs ;
The white plumes nodded o'er her belmed head;
She girt the sacred falcbion by her side,
And, like some youth that from his mother's arms,
For his first field impatient, breaks away,
Poising the lance went forth.

Twelve hundred men,
Rearing in order'd ranks their well-sharp'd spears,
Await her coming. Terrible in arms
Before them towered Dunois, his manly face
Dark-shadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks.

The assembled court gaz'd on the marshall’d train,
And at the gate the aged Prelate stood
To pour his blessing on the chosen host.
And now a soft and solemn symphony
Was heard, and chaunting high the hallow'd hymn
From the near convent came the vestal maids.
A holy banner, woven by virgin hands,
Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment
Of awe, and eager ardor for the fight,
Thrill'd thro' the troops, as he the reverend man
Took the white standard, and with heaven-ward eye
Call'd on the God of Justice, blessing it.
The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd,
Her dark hair floating on the morning gale,
Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand
Receiv'd the mystic ensign. From the host
A loud and universal shout burst forth,
As rising from the ground, on her white brow,
She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high
The banner'd lillies. On their way they march,

And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon Fade from the eye reverted.

The sixth sun, Purpling the sky with his dilated light, Sunk westering; when embosomed in the depth Of * that old forest, that for many a league Shadows the hills and vales of Orleannois, They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale, The streamers wanton ; and, ascending slow Beneath the foliage of the forest trees, With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke Melts in the impurpled air. Leaving her tent, The martial Maiden wander'd thro' the wood; There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank Reclined, she saw a damsel; her long locks Engarlanded, and as she nearer came,

* The forest of Orleans contains even now fourteen thousand acres of various kinds of wood.'

The Virgin knew it for the willow weed.
Resting his head upon her lap, there lay
A dark-hair'd man, listening as she did sing
Sad ditties, and enwreathe to bind his brow
The melancholy rue. Scared at the sound
Of one in arms approaching, she had fed ;
But Conrade, looking upward, recogniz'd
The Maid of Arc. “ Fear not, poor Isabel,”
Said he “ for this is one of gentle kind,
“ Whom even the wretched need not fear to love."

So saying, he arose and took her hand, And held it to his bosom. My weak heart, “ Tho' school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind, “ Beats high, a rebel to its own resolves. « Come hither outcast Onel and call her friend, " And she shall be thy friend more readily “ Because thou art unhappy."

Isabel Saw a tear starting in the Virgin's eye,

And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept,
Wailing his wilder'd senses.

“ Mission'd Maid !" The warrior cried, “ be happy ! for thy power ☆ Can make this wanderer so. From Orleans driven,

Orphan'd by war, and torn away from one "Her only friend, I found her in the wilds, “Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, JOAN, « Wilt his beloved to the youth restore ; “ And, trust me Maid ! the miserable feel “ When they on others bestow happiness, “High joys and soul-ennobling."

She replied, Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone Of equal friendship, solacing her cares. “ Soon shall we enter Orleans," said the Maid; A few hours in her dream of victory " England shall triumph; then to be awaked “ By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath! * Irksome meantime the busy camp to me

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