And much revolving in her troubled mind, 170 And now the horn announced The ready banquet; they partook the feast, Then rose and in the cooling water cleansed Their hands, and seated at the board again Enjoy'd the bowl, or scented high with spice, Or flavour'd with the fragrant summer fruit, Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich. Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp; he sung Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest Knight That ever loved fair Lady; and the youth Of Cornwall underneath whose maiden sword The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck The dolorous stroke, the blameless and the brave, Who died beneath a brother's erring arm. Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel! The songs of earlier years embalm your fame; And haply yet some Poet shall arise, 176 181 Like that divinest Tuscan, and enwreathe 185 The immortal garland for himself and you. The harp still rung beneath the high-arch'd roof, And listening eager to the favourite lay, The guests sat silent, when into the hall The Messenger from that besieged town, "Insolent man!" 190 195 Exclaim'd the Monarch, " cease to interrupt Our hour of festival; it is not thine To instruct me in my duty." Of reproof 199 Careless, the stranger to the minstrel cried, This parable would I tell, prophet-like, And look at thee and say, 'Thou art the man !'" 205 215 He said, and with a quick and troubled step 210 Withdrew. Astonish'd at his daring guise, The guests sat heedless of the lay awhile, Pondering his words mysterious, till at length The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hall, Charles and the delegated damsel sought The inner palace. There the gentle Queen Awaited them: with her Joan lov'd to pass Her intervals of rest; for she had won The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy, The calm and duteous patience that deplored 220 A husband's cold half-love. To her she told With what strange words the messenger from Orleans Had roused uneasy wonder in her mind; For on her ear yet vibrated his voice, When lo! again he came, and at the door 225 66 Why dost thou haunt me thus," The monarch cried, “Is there no place secure From thy rude insolence? unmanner'd man! I know thee not!" 230 "Then learn to know me, Charles !" Solemnly he replied; "read well my face, That thou may'st know it on that dreadful day, When at the Throne of God I shall demand His justice on thee!" Turning from the King, To Agnes as she enter'd, in a tone More low, more mournfully severe, he cried, 235 Dost thou too know me not!" She glanced on him, And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed In the Maid's bosom. "King of France!" he said, "She loved me, and by mutual word and will Thy battles. In mine absence thou didst come For Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on And to thyself, for ever, ever lost, 240 245 My poor polluted Agnes!.. Charles, that faith Almost is shaken, which should be henceforth 250, My only hope thou hast thy wicked will, While I the victim of her guilt and thine, Though meriting alike from her and thee A wound for which this earth affords no balm, 255 And doubt Heaven's justice." So he said, and frown'd Austere as he who at Mahommed's door Knock'd loud and frequent, at whose dreadful mien Stricken with terror, all beholders fled. Even the prophet almost terrified, Scarcely could bear his presence; for he knew And that his hour was come. 260 Conscious of guilt The Monarch sate, nor could endure to face His bosom-probing frown. The Maid of Arc 265 269 Severe though calm: him from the Court she drew, And to the river side resisting not, 274 Both sad and silent, led; till at the last 280 Or why art thou at Chinon?" Him the Maid Answering, address'd, "I do remember well, 285 Conrade cried, "Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst lived 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 Affection's eloquent tale?" So as he said, 289 Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek. 295 305 With a look That spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed |