And with the spirit that becomes a King
Responsive to his people's loyalty,

Bring succour to the brave who in thy cause
Abide the extremity of war."

He said,

And from the hall departing, in amaze
At his audacious bearing left the court.
The King exclaim'd, " But little need to send
Quick succour to this gallant garrison,
If to the English half so firm a front
They bear in battle!"

"In the field, my liege,"

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Dunois replied, "yon Knight hath serv'd thee well.

Him have I seen the foremost of the fight,

Wielding so manfully his battle-axe,

That wheresoe'er he turn'd, the affrighted foe
Let fall their palsied arms with powerless stroke,
Desperate of safety. I do marvel much

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That he is here: Orleans must be hard press'd 35
To send the bravest of her garrison,

On such commission."

Swift the Maid exclaim'd, "I tell thee, Chief, that there the English wolves Shall never raise their yells of victory!

The will of God defends those fated walls,
And resting in full faith on that high will,
I mock their efforts. But the night draws on;
Retire we to repose.

To-morrow's sun,

Breaking the darkness of the sepulchre,

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Shall on that armour gleam, through many an age 45
There for this great emergency reserved."

She said, and rising from the board, retired.

Meantime the herald's brazen voice proclaim'd Coming solemnity, and far and wide

Spread the glad tidings. Then all labour ceased; 50 The ploughman from the unfinish'd furrow hastes; The armourer's anvil beats no more the din

Of future slaughter. Through the thronging streets The buzz of asking wonder hums along.

On to St. Katharine's sacred fane they go; The holy fathers with the imaged cross Leading the long procession. Next, as one Suppliant for mercy to the King of Kings, And grateful for the benefits of Heaven,

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The Monarch pass'd, and by his side the Maid; 60
Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest,
Wistless that every eye on her was bent,

With stately step she moved; her labouring soul
To high thoughts elevate; and gazing round
With a full eye, that of the circling throng
And of the visible world unseeing, seem'd
Fix'd upon objects seen by none beside.
Near her the warlike Son of Orleans came
Pre-eminent. He, nerving his young frame
With exercise robust, had scaled the cliff,

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And plunging in the river's full-swoln stream,
Stemm'd with broad breast its current; so his form,
Sinewy and firm, and fit for deeds of arms,
Tower'd above the throng effeminate.
No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs
Effaced the hauberk's honourable marks;
His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints
Many and deep; upon his pictured shield

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A Lion vainly struggled in the toils,

Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage,

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Assail'd the huntsman. Tremouille followed them,
Proud of the favour of a Prince who seem'd
Given up to vain delights; conspicuous he

In arms with azure and with gold anneal'd,
Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade
Defaced, nor e'er with hostile blood distain'd;
Trimly accoutred court-habiliments,

Gay lady-dazzling armour, fit to adorn
Tourney, or tilt, the gorgeous pageantry
Of mimic warfare. After him there came
A train of courtiers, summer flies that sport
In the sunbeam of favour, insects sprung
From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers,
The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.

As o'er some flowery field the busy bees
Fill with their happy hum the fragrant air,
A grateful music to the traveller,
Who in the shade of some wide-spreading tree
Rests on his way awhile; or like the sound
Of many waters down some far-off steep
Holding their endless course, the murmur rose
Of admiration. Every gazing eye

Dwelt on the Prophetess; of all beside,

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The long procession and the gorgeous train, Though glittering they with gold and sparkling gems, And their rich plumes high waving to the air, 106 Heedless.

The consecrated dome they reach, Rear'd to St. Katharine's holy memory

Her tale the altar told; how Maximin,
His raised lip kindled with a savage smile,
In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel
Rend her life piecemeal, that the very face
Of the hard executioner relax'd

With pity; calm she heard, no drop of blood

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Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn'd 115
Heaven-ward, and hope and meekest piety
Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust,
For lo! the Angel of the LORD descends
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel!
One glance of holy triumph Katharine cast,
Then bow'd her to the sword of martyrdom.

Her eye averting from the pictured tale, The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd

To Heaven her earnest prayer.

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A trophied tomb

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Stood near the altar where some warrior slept 125
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone
And rude-ensculptured effigy o'erlaid
The sepulchre. In silent wonderment
The expectant multitude with eager eye
Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke
Invades the tomb's repose: the heavy stroke
Sounds hollow; over the high-vaulted roof
Roll the repeated echoes: soon the day
Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam
Falls on the arms inshrined, the crested helm, 135
The bauldrick, and the shield, and sacred sword.
A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment

Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid

Over her robes the hallowed breast-plate threw,
Self-fitted to her form; on her helm'd head
The white plumes nod, majestically slow;
She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword,
Gleaming portentous light.

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The wondering crowd

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Raise their loud shout of transport. "God of Heaven,”
The Maid exclaim'd, “ Father all merciful!
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield

The sword of vengeance; go before our host!
All-just avenger of the innocent,

Be thou our Champion! God of Peace, preserve
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms."

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She ceased, and with an eager hush the crowd Still listen'd; a brief while throughout the dome Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn, "Thee LORD we praise, our GOD!" the throng without

Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy, 156 And thundering transport peals along the heaven.

As through the parting crowd the Virgin pass'd, He who from Orleans on the yesternight 159 Demanded succour, clasp'd with warmth her hand, And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd, "Ill-omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth, Devoted for this king-curst realm of France, Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee!" so saying, He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words Disturb'd, the warlike Virgin pass'd along,

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