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"I do not tell thee there are other maids

"As fair; for thou wilt love my memory,

"Hallowing to me the temple of thy heart.

"Worthy a happier, not a better love,

«' My Theodore!"—Then, pressing his pale lips,

A last and holy kiss the Virgin fix'd,

And rush'd across the plain. >

She reach'd the court Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind Shook every fibre. Sad and sick at heart, Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude The Maiden had retired; but her the King Met on the threshold. He of the late scene Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem'd As tho' there had not been a God in Heaven! "Enter the hall," he cried, " the masquers there "Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad? "Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame "-With his strange phrenzies?"

Ere the Maid replied,

The Son of Orleans came with joyful speed,
Poising his massy javelin.

"Thou hast roused "The sleeping virtue of the sons of France; "They crowd around the standard," cried the Chief. "My lance is ponderous, and my sword is sharp'd "To meet the mortal combat. Mission'd Maid, "Our brethren sieged in Orleans, every moment "Gaze from the watch-tower with the sick'ning eye "Of expectation."

Then the King exclaim'd, —' "O chosen by Heaven! defer one day thy march, "That, humbled at the altar^ we may join "The general prayer. Be these our holy rites "To-morrow's task;—to-night for merriment!"

The Maid replied, — " The wretched ones in Orleans, "In fear and hunger and expiring hope, "Await my succour, and my prayers would plead "In Heaven against me, did they waste one hour

"When active duty calls. For this night's mirth "Hold me excused; in truth I am not fit "For merriment; a heavy charge is on me, "And I must put away all mortal thoughts." Her heart was full; and pausing, she repress'd The unbidden anguish. "Lo! they crowd around "The standard! Thou, Dunois, the chosen troops "Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn "We march to rescue Orleans from the foe."

JOAN OF ARC.

THE FIFTH BOOK. .

Scarce had the early dawn from Chinon's towers
Made visible the mist that curl'd along
The river's winding way, when from her couch
The martial Maid arose. She mail'd her limbs;
The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head;
She girt the sacred falchion by her side,
And, like a youth who 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 glittering spears,
Await her coming. Terrible in arms
Before them tower'd Dunois, his manly face
O'ershadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks.

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