JOAN of ARC. THE FIFTH BOOK. Scarce had the earliest ray from Chinon's towers The winding waves of Vienne, when from her couch The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head; And, like some youth that from his mother's arms, 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 A holy banner, woven by virgin hands, Thrill'd thro' the troops, as he the reverend man 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 With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke * The forest of Orleans contains even now fourteen thousand acres of various kinds of wood. The Virgin knew it for the willow weed. "Whom even the wretched need not fear to love." So saying, he arose and took her hand, "Tho' school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind, "Beats high, a rebel to its own resolves. "Come hither outcast One! 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, Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone |