Part 19 (2/2)

Thy Maker's smile, thy Maker's breath art thou, And I am in His presence. Tears! the dungeon Scarce forced one drop, one sigh of sorrow; But now for very happiness I weep.

Surely I never felt till now the luxury That conscious being can confer. Oh, death!

I've looked upon thee till thy form's familiar; E'en till thy ugliness had almost vanished, So well hath darkness and thyself agreed; But now this gentle gale, these sunny beams, This perfumed scent of flowers do tell a tale Of home--of loved companions, and I sigh To be, as I was once, a joyous child; Although I would not live my life again For all that sight or smell or hope could offer.

And, hark! the sound of trumpet clanging shrill-- I hear the tramp of martial feet--of horse!

My spirit bursts these walls! My country's voice Is echoed in that swell, and my full heart Heaves with tumultuous force to answer her.

Hours of past glory, are ye gone for ever?

Crowd ye upon my mind alone to torture me, Or are ye pledge of wonders yet to come?

Ha!--armour here!--would that--it is my own!

Welcome, thrice welcome!--But how dimmed its brightness!

[_BEAUVAIS advances._ And the vile spider's cast her web across it.

Off, off, and let me wipe this rust away.

I gaze, and the whole field is now before me-- Proud steeds and gallant forms, war's panoply!

Oh! happy hours, when thus I clasped thee on me-- Thus kneeling, prayed for thee, my king, my country, Thus rising bade--defiance to the foe!

BEAU. Offspring of h.e.l.l, accursed, shame of thy s.e.x!

Incorrigible wretch! Guards, to the council, Thus arrayed, conduct her. Hence!

JOAN. Oh! hear me!

BEAU. Not if thou wert to plead.

JOAN. I plead for nought.

Think not, howe'er, I cannot now decipher What thy malice had suggested. I see it; See it and pity thee.

SCENE IV.

COUNCIL. BEDFORD. BEAUVAIS, &c. &c. JOAN.

BED. Advance!

Thou knowest the conditions upon which Thy life was spared--thou hast presumed to break them-- Thine are the consequences. Found in arms, A rebel's doom deferred now justly waits thee.

JOAN. That I have erred, I own with deepest sorrow; But 'twas through weakness: with like justice might The poor, fond bird, unwitting of deceit, Be blamed because it fell into the snare The cunning fowler laid for its destruction.

It was a cruel deed--but let it pa.s.s: Not so thy charge of rebel--I repel it.

Here silence would be guilty fear--not innocence.

Who rears his country's standard 'gainst the foe-- 'Gainst the usurper, claims a n.o.bler epithet.

The G.o.d of heaven approves the patriot's aim, And sanctifies the deed. Not mine, not mine The traitor's guilt, the traitor's doom: I die, As I have wish'd to die,--in proof, in seal Of my fidelity.

BEAU. Think'st thus to die?

More weighty crimes deserve more weighty punishment.

Whence this boldness, unnat'ral to thy s.e.x?

Whence but in strength of some infernal spell, Of the foul prompting of some lying fiend?

Remember thy connexion with the hag Who fell on Compeigne's field, men's awe of thee-- Confess the truth--declare what witchery used.

JOAN. What witchery used! the witchery which a mind, Bent on one single project, can exert, When fitting opportunity doth meet The master-pa.s.sion which has fed its fires: That witchery, harsh man and most unjust, By which insulted virtue makes thee crouch, As now thou dost, beneath a prisoner's eye, Though deemed forsaken and alone.

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