D

PASSAGES IN SOUTHEY'S Joan of Arc (FIRST EDITION, 1796) CONTRIBUTED BY S. T. COLERIDGE[1027:1].

[Vide ante, p. 131]

BOOK I, ll. 33-51.

"O France," he cried, "my country"! When soft as breeze that curls the summer clouds At close of day, stole on his ear a voice Seraphic. "Son of Orleans! grieve no more. His eye not slept, tho' long the All-just endured The woes of France; at length his bar'd right arm Volleys red thunder. From his veiling clouds Rushes the storm, Ruin and Fear and Death. Take Son of Orleans the relief of Heaven: Nor thou the wintry hours of adverse fate Dream useless: tho' unhous'd thou roam awhile, The keen and icy wind that shivers thee Shall brace thine arm, and with stern discipline Firm thy strong heart for fearless enterprise As who, through many a summer night serene Had hover'd round the fold with coward wish; Horrid with brumal ice, the fiercer wolf From his bleak mountain and his den of snows Leaps terrible and mocks the shepherd's spears."

ll. 57-59.

nor those ingredients dire Erictho mingled on Pharsalia's field, Making the soul retenant its cold corse.

ll. 220-222.

the groves of Paradise Gave their mild echoes to the choral songs Of new-born beings.--

ll. 267-280.

And oft the tear from his averted eye He dried; mindful of fertile fields laid waste, Dispeopled hamlets, the lorn widow's groan, And the pale orphan's feeble cry for bread. But when he told of those fierce sons of guilt That o'er this earth which God had fram'd so fair-- Spread desolation, and its wood-crown'd hills Make echo to the merciless war-dog's howl; And how himself from such foul savagery Had scarce escap'd with life, then his stretch'd arm Seem'd, as it wielded the resistless sword Of Vengeance: in his eager eye the soul Was eloquent; warm glow'd his manly cheek; And beat against his side the indignant heart.

ll. 454-460.

then methought From a dark lowering cloud, the womb of tempests, A giant arm burst forth and dropt a sword That pierc'd like lightning thro' the midnight air. Then was there heard a voice, which in mine ear Shall echo, at that hour of dreadful joy When the pale foe shall wither in my rage.

ll. 484-496[1029:1]

Last evening lone in thought I wandered forth. Down in the dingle's depth there is a brook That makes its way between the craggy stones, Murmuring hoarse murmurs. On an aged oak Whose root uptorn by tempests overhangs The stream, I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds Gather before the wind, while the rude dash Of waters rock'd my senses, and the mists Rose round: there as I gazed, a form dim-seen Descended, like the dark and moving clouds That in the moonbeam change their shadowy shapes. His voice was on the breeze; he bade me hail The missioned Maid! for lo! the hour was come.

BOOK III, ll. 73-82.

Martyr'd patriots--spirits pure Wept by the good ye fell! Yet still survives Sow'd by your toil and by your blood manur'd Th' imperishable seed, soon to become The Tree, beneath whose vast and mighty shade The sons of men shall pitch their tents in peace, And in the unity of truth preserve The bond of love. For by the eye of God Hath Virtue sworn, that never one good act Was work'd in vain.

BOOK IV, ll. 328-336.

The murmuring tide Lull'd her, and many a pensive pleasing dream Rose in sad shadowy trains at Memory's call. She thought of Arc, and of the dingled brook, Whose waves oft leaping on their craggy course Made dance the low-hung willow's dripping twigs; And where it spread into a glassy lake, Of the old oak which on the smooth expanse, Imag'd its hoary mossy-mantled boughs.