Complete Works of Robert Southey (Illustrated) E-Book

Robert Southey

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 5153

Beschreibung

Although his fame has long been eclipsed by his friends Wordsworth and Coleridge, the Lake Poet Robert Southey held the position of Poet Laureate for 30 years from 1813 until his death in 1843, publishing a large body of epic poems, odes, ballads and many other forms of literature. And now, for the first time in digital publishing history, you can own Southey’s complete poetical works on your eReader, with beautiful illustrations, rare works and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Southey's life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry and other works
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Includes the complete epic poems – with many rare works appearing in digital publishing for the first time
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes Southey's collaborative play, which he wrote with Coleridge
* Selected prose section, including the famous Nelson biography and The Three Bears story
* Features two biographies - discover Southey's literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles CONTENTS: The Poetry Collections
JOAN OF ARC
THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS
THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN
WAT TYLER
POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE
BOTANY BAY ECLOGUES
SONNETS
MONODRAMAS
THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM
LYRIC POEMS
SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS
OCCASIONAL PIECES
ENGLISH ECLOGUES
NONDESCRIPTS
THE DEVIL’S WALK
INSCRIPTIONS
CARMEN TRIUMPHALE
ODES
MADOC
THALABA THE DESTROYER
BALLADS
THE CURSE OF KEHAMA
RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS
THE POET’S PILGRIMAGE TO WATERLOO
CARMEN NUPTIALE: THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE
FUNERAL SONG FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES
A VISION OF JUDGMENT
OLIVER NEWMAN: A NEW ENGLAND TALE
MISCELLANEOUS POETICAL REMAINS The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER The Play
THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE Selected Prose
THE LIFE OF HORATIO, LORD NELSON
SIR THOMAS MORE, OR, COLLOQUIES ON THE PROGRESS AND PROSPECTS OF SOCIETY
CHRONICLE OF THE CID
THE STORY OF THE THREE BEARS The Biographies
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LAKE POETS by Thomas De Quincey
REMINISCENCES OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE AND ROBERT SOUTHEY by Joseph Cottle Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles

Leseprobe

ROBERT SOUTHEY

(1774-1843)

Contents

The Poetry Collections

JOAN OF ARC

THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN

WAT TYLER

POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE

BOTANY BAY ECLOGUES

SONNETS

MONODRAMAS

THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM

LYRIC POEMS

SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS

OCCASIONAL PIECES

ENGLISH ECLOGUES

NONDESCRIPTS

THE DEVIL’S WALK

INSCRIPTIONS

CARMEN TRIUMPHALE

ODES

MADOC

THALABA THE DESTROYER

BALLADS

THE CURSE OF KEHAMA

RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS

THE POET’S PILGRIMAGE TO WATERLOO

CARMEN NUPTIALE: THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE

FUNERAL SONG FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES

A VISION OF JUDGMENT

OLIVER NEWMAN: A NEW ENGLAND TALE

MISCELLANEOUS POETICAL REMAINS

The Poems

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Play

THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE

Selected Prose

THE LIFE OF HORATIO, LORD NELSON

SIR THOMAS MORE, OR, COLLOQUIES ON THE PROGRESS AND PROSPECTS OF SOCIETY

CHRONICLE OF THE CID

THE STORY OF THE THREE BEARS

The Biographies

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE LAKE POETS by Thomas De Quincey

REMINISCENCES OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE AND ROBERT SOUTHEY by Joseph Cottle

© Delphi Classics 2013

Version 1

ROBERT SOUTHEY

By Delphi Classics, 2013

NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

Interested in Southey and Romantic poetry?

Then you’ll love these eBooks…

For the first time in digital publishing history, Delphi Classics is proud to present the complete works of these Romantic poets.

www.delphiclassics.com

The Poetry Collections

9 Wine Street, Bristol — Southey’s birthplace. The building was lost due to bombing in WWII.

A contemporary drawing of the poet’s birthplace

Southey, 1800, aged 26

JOAN OF ARC

The Lake Poet Robert Southey was born in Bristol in 1774 to Thomas Southey, a Bristol linen draper, and Margaret Hill. In his early years Southey was mostly brought up by his mother’s half sister, Miss Elizabeth Tyler, while living in Bath. The spa town was a centre to which rich and influential visitors regularly retired and the young Robert enjoyed frequent cultural events, including visits to the theatre.

He was later educated at Westminster School, London, where he underwent a rebellious phase in his adolescent years and was expelled for writing an article in The Flagellant that condemned the practice of flogging.  As a result of this expulsion, Southey was refused entrance at Christ Church, Oxford. Nevertheless, he was accepted at Balliol where he matriculated in November 1792. Southey was famous for later claiming of Oxford that, “All I learnt was a little swimming... and a little boating.”

When studying at Oxford, Southey had formed an important friendship with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who was then visiting from Cambridge. The two became great friends and, along with other fellow political dreamers, they made rash plans for a communistic settlement in America to be independent of any government, except that of the settlement itself, titled a ‘pantisocracy’. It was at this time that Coleridge and Southey collaborated together in writing the play The Fall of Robespierre.  They later moved the intended location of the pantisocracy to Wales, but Southey was the first to reject the idea as unworkable.

Shortly after this, Southey published his first major poetic work, the epic poem Joan of Arc in 1796. The idea for the work came from a discussion between Southey and his literary friend, Grosvenor Bedford, when they agreed that the story would be suitable for an epic. The subject further appealed to Southey because the events of the French Revolution were popular to contemporary tastes at that time, serving as a parallel to current events. Eventually, Coleridge helped rewrite parts of the poem for a 1798 edition. Later editions removed Coleridge’s changes to the text along with other interpolations. The edition featured in this collection is Southey’s final collected 1837 edition.

Joan of Arc is divided into two parts, with the first part describing Joan’s quest to meet Charles, the Dauphin of France. Eventually, she manages to gain the Dauphin’s support and begins to lead the French army. The second half of the epic describes the French defeat of the British army at Orléans. After many victories, the poem concludes with Charles crowned King of France. The epic serves as a way for Southey to express his views on history and on politics, including his republican ideals, his claims that political tyranny was a common element in Europe and his opposition to Christian practices that he thought were superstitious.

Following its first publication, the poem received mixed reviews from critics, with some emphasising the quality of the images and themes of the poem. However, others believed that it lacked original merit and some claimed that the subject matter was inappropriate to the time. Many critics felt that Southey was rushed in composing the work and had not devoted enough time to his epic. William Wordsworth wrote to William Matthews in 1796: “You were right about Southey, he is certainly a coxcomb, and has proved it completely by the preface to his ‘Joan of Arc’, an epic poem which he has just published. This preface is indeed a very conceited performance and the poem though in some passages of first-rate excellence is on the whole of very inferior execution.” Charles Lamb, in a 1796 letter to Coleridge, stated, “With Joan of Arc I have been delighted, amazed. I had not presumed to expect of any thing of such excellence from Southey. Why the poem is alone sufficient to redeem the character of the age we live in from the imputation of degenerating in Poetry… The subject is well chosen. It opens well… On the whole, I expect Southey one day to rival Milton.”  Coleridge, in a1796 letter admitted, “I entirely accord with your opinion of Southey’s Joan… the poem tho’ it frequently reached the sentimental, does not display, the poetical, Sublime. In language at once natural, perspicuous, & dignified, in manly pathos, in sooth & sonnet-like description, and above all, in character, & dramatic dialogue, Southey is unrivalled; but as certainly he does not possess opulence of Imagination, lofty-paced Harmony, or that toil of thinking, which is necessary in order to plan a Whole.”

Grosvenor Bedford, Southey’s friend. The poet discussed the story of Joan of Arc with Bedford and this conversation led to him believing the subject would serve as a good basis for an epic. Southey drew up a plan for the poem and started composing lines at once.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) was to become, along with his other close friend William Wordsworth, one of the key founders of the Romantic Movement and a member of the famous Lake Poets. Coleridge was a great source of inspiration to Southey early in his literary career and helped him in the first edition editing of ‘Joan of Arc’.

CONTENTS

JOAN OF ARC. THE FIRST BOOK.

JOAN OF ARC. THE SECOND BOOK.

JOAN OF ARC. THE THIRD BOOK.

JOAN OF ARC. THE FOURTH BOOK.

JOAN OF ARC. THE FIFTH BOOK.

JOAN OF ARC. THE SIXTH BOOK.

JOAN OF ARC. THE SEVENTH BOOK.

JOAN OF ARC. THE EIGHTH BOOK.

JOAN OF ARC. THE NINTH BOOK.

JOAN OF ARC. THE TENTH BOOK.

A 1485 artist’s interpretation of the legendary warrior leader — the only known direct portrait has not survived.

Charles VII (1403–1461) ruled as the King of France from 1422 to his death, although his legitimacy was initially contested by Henry VI of England. He is a principal character of the epic poem.

Perlege, cognosces animum sine viribus alasIngenii explicuisse leves, nam vera fatebor;Implumen tepido præceps me gloria nidoExpulit, et coelo iussit volitare remoto.Pcenitet incoepti, cursura revocare juventaeSi liceat, mansisse domi cum tempore nervosConsolidasse velim.

PETRARCA.

PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC.

EARLY in July, 1793, I happened to fall in conversation, at Oxford, with an old schoolfellow upon the story of Joan of Arc, and it then struck me as being singularly well adapted for a poem. The long vacation commenced immediately afterwards. As soon as I reached home I formed the outline of a plan, and wrote about three hundred lines. The remainder of the month was passed in travelling, and I was too much engaged with new scenes and circumstances to proceed, even in thought, with what had been broken off. In August I went to visit my old schoolfellow, Mr. Grosvenor Bedford, who, at that time, resided with his parents at Brixton Causeway, about four miles on the Surrey side of the metropolis. There, the day after completing my nineteenth year, I resumed the undertaking, and there, in six weeks from that day, finished what I called an Epic Poem in twelve books.

My progress would not have been so rapid had it not been for the opportunity of retirement which I enjoyed there, and the encouragement that I received. In those days London had not extended in that direction farther than Kennington, beyond which place the scene changed suddenly, and there was an air and appearance of country which might now be sought in vain at a far greater distance from town. There was nothing indeed to remind one that London was so near, except the smoke which overhung it. Mr. Bedford’s residence was situated upon the edge of a common, on which shady lanes opened leading to the neighbouring villages (for such they were then) of Camberwell, Dulwich, and Clapham, and to Norwood. The view in front was bounded by the Surrey hills. Its size and structure showed it to be one of those good houses built in the early part of the last century by persons who, having realized a respectable fortune in trade, were wise enough to be contented with it, and retire to pass the evening of their lives in the enjoyment of leisure and tranquillity. Tranquil indeed the place was, for the neighbourhood did not extend beyond half a dozen families, and the London style and habits of visiting had not obtained among them. Uncle Toby himself might have enjoyed his rood and a half of ground there, and not have had it known. A fore-court separated the house from the foot-path and the road in front; behind, there was a large and well-stocked garden, with other spacious premises, in which utility and ornament were in some degree combined. At the extremity of the garden, and under the shade of four lofty linden trees, was a summer-house looking on an ornamented grass-plot, and fitted up as a conveniently habitable room. That summer-house was allotted to me, and there my mornings were passed at the desk. Whether it exists now or not I am ignorant. The property has long since passed into other hands. The common is inclosed and divided by rectangular hedges and palings; rows of brick houses have supplanted the shade of oaks and elms; the brows of the Surrey hills bear a parapet of modern villas, and the face of the whole district is changed.

I was not a little proud of my performance. Young poets are, or at least used to be, as ambitious of producing an epic poem, as stage-stricken youths of figuring in Romeo or Hamlet. It had been the earliest of my day-dreams. I had begun many such; but this was the first which had been completed, and I was too young and too ardent to perceive or suspect that the execution was as crude as the design. In the course of the autumn I transcribed it fairly from the first draught, making no other alterations or corrections of any kind than such as suggested themselves in the act of transcription. Upon showing it to the friend in conversation with whom the design had originated, he said, “I am glad you have written this; it will serve as a score where you will find good passages for better poems.” His opinion of it was more judicious than mine; but what there was good in it or promising, would not have been transplantable.

Toward the close of 1794, it was announced as to be published by subscription in a quarto volume, price one guinea. Shortly afterwards I became acquainted with my fellow-townsman, Mr. Joseph Cottle, who had recently commenced business as a bookseller in our native city of Bristol. One evening I read to him part of the poem, without any thought of making a proposal concerning it, or expectation of receiving one. He, however, offered me fifty guineas for the copyright, and fifty copies for my subscribers, which was more than the list amounted to; and the offer was accepted as promptly as it was made. It can rarely happen that a young author should meet with a bookseller as inexperienced and as ardent as himself, and it would be still more extraordinary if such mutual indiscretion did not bring with it cause for regret to both. But this transaction was the commencement of an intimacy which has continued, without the slightest shade of displeasure at any time, on either side, to the present day.

At that time, few books were printed in the country, and it was seldom indeed that a quarto volume issued from a provincial press. A font of new types was ordered for what was intended to be the handsomest book that Bristol had ever yet sent forth; and when the paper arrived, and the printer was ready to commence his operations, nothing had been done toward preparing the poem for the press, except that a few verbal alterations had been made. I was not, however, without misgivings, and when the first proof-sheet was brought me, the more glaring faults of the composition stared me in the face. But the sight of a well-printed page, which was to be set off with all the advantages that fine wove paper and hot-pressing could impart, put me in spirits, and I went to work with good-will. About half the first book was left in its original state; the rest of the poem was re-cast and re-composed while the printing went on. This occupied six months. I corrected the concluding sheet of the poem, left the Preface in the publisher’s hands, and departed for Lisbon by way of Coruna and Madrid.

The Preface was written with as little discretion as had been shown in publishing the work itself.

It stated how rapidly the poem had been produced, and that it had been almost re-composed during its progress through the press. This was not said as taking merit for haste and temerity, nor to excuse its faults, — only to account for them. But here I was liable to be misapprehended, and likely to be misrepresented. The public indeed care neither for explanations nor excuses; and such particulars might not unfitly be deemed unbecoming in a young man, though they may be excused and even expected from an old author, who, at the close of a long career, looks upon himself as belonging to the past. Omitting these passages, and the specification of what Mr. Coleridge had written in the second book (which was withdrawn in the next edition), the remainder of the Preface is here subjoined. It states the little which I had been able to collect concerning the subject of the poem, gives what was then my own view of Joan of Arc’s character and history, and expresses with overweening confidence the opinions which the writer entertained concerning those poets whom it was his ambition not to imitate, but to follow... It cannot be necessary to say, that some of those opinions have been modified, and others completely changed, as he grew older.

ORIGINAL PREFACE.

The history of Joan of Arc is as mysterious as it is remarkable. That she believed herself inspired, few will deny; that she was inspired, no one will venture to assert; and it is difficult to believe that she was herself imposed upon by Charles and Dunois. That she discovered the King when he disguised himself among the courtiers to deceive her, and that, as a proof of her mission, she demanded a sword from a tomb in the church of St. Catharine, are facts in which all historians agree. If this had been done by collusion, the Maid must have known herself an impostor, and with that knowledge could not have performed the enterprise she undertook. Enthusiasm, and that of no common kind, was necessary, to enable a young maiden at once to assume the profession of arms, to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the foremost, and to subdue with an inferior force an enemy then believed invincible. It is not possible that one who felt herself the puppet of a party, could have performed these things. The artifices of a court could not have persuaded her that she discovered Charles in disguise; nor could they have prompted her to demand the sword which they might have hidden, without discovering the deceit. The Maid then was not knowingly an impostor; nor could she have been the instrument of the court; and to say that she believed herself inspired, will neither account for her singling out the King, or prophetically claiming the sword. After crowning Charles, she declared that her mission was accomplished, and demanded leave to retire. Enthusiasm would not have ceased here; and if they who imposed on her could persuade her still to go with their armies, they could still have continued her delusion.

This mysteriousness renders the story of Joan of Arc peculiarly fit for poetry. The aid of angels and devils is not necessary to raise her above mankind; she has no gods to lackey her, and inspire her with courage, and heal her wounds: the Maid of Orleans acts wholly from the workings of her own mind, from the deep feeling of inspiration. The palpable agency of superior powers would destroy the obscurity of her character, and sink her to the mere heroine of a fairy tale.

The alterations which I have made in the history are few and trifling. The death of Salisbury is placed later, and of the Talbots earlier than they occurred. As the battle of Patay is the concluding action of the Poem, I have given it all the previous solemnity of a settled engagement. Whatever appears miraculous is asserted in history, and my authorities will be found in the notes.

It is the common fault of Epic Poems, that we feel little interest for the heroes they celebrate. The national vanity of a Greek or a Roman might have been gratified by the renown of Achilles or Æneas; but to engage the unprejudiced, there must be more of human feelings than is generally to be found in the character of a warrior. From this objection, the Odyssey alone may be excepted; Ulysses appears as the father and the husband, and the affections are enlisted on his side. The judgement must applaud the well-digested plan and splendid execution of the Iliad, but the heart always bears testimony to the merit of the Odyssey: it is the poem of nature, and its personages inspire love rather than command admiration. The good herdsman Eumæus is worth a thousand heroes. Homer is, indeed, the best of poets, for he is at once dignified and simple; but Pope has disguised him in fop-finery, and Cowper has stripped him naked.

There are few readers who do not prefer Turnus to Æneas; a fugitive, suspected of treason, who negligently left his wife, seduced Dido, deserted her, and then forcibly took Lavinia from her betrothed husband. What avails a man’s piety to the gods, if in all his dealings with men he prove himself a villain? If we represent Deity as commanding a bad action, this is not exculpating the man, but criminating the God.

The ill chosen subjects of Lucan and Statius have prevented them from acquiring the popularity they would otherwise have merited; yet in detached parts, the former of these is perhaps unequalled, certainly unexcelled. I do not scruple to prefer Statius to Virgil; with inferior taste, he appears to me to possess a richer and more powerful imagination; his images are strongly conceived, and clearly painted, and the force of his language, while it makes the reader feel, proves that the author felt himself.

The power of story is strikingly exemplified in the Italian heroic poets. They please universally, even in translations, when little but the story remains. In proportioning his characters, Tasso has erred; Godfrey is the hero of the poem, Rinaldo of the poet, and Tancred of the reader. Secondary characters should not be introduced, like Gyas and Cloanthus, merely to fill a procession; neither should they be so prominent as to throw the principal into shade.

The lawless magic of Ariosto, and the singular theme as well as the singular excellence of Milton, render it impossible to deduce any rules of epic poetry from these authors. So likewise with Spenser, the favourite of my childhood, from whose frequent perusal I have always found increased delight.

Against the machinery of Camoens, a heavier charge must be brought than that of profaneness or incongruity. His floating island is but a floating brothel, and no beauty can make atonement for licentiousness. From this accusation, none but a translator would attempt to justify him; but Camoens had the most able of translators. The Lusiad, though excellent in parts, is uninteresting as a whole: it is read with little emotion, and remembered with little pleasure. But it was composed in the anguish of disappointed hopes, in the fatigues of war, and in a country far from all he loved; and we should not forget, that as the Poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate of men, so he should be ranked among the most respectable. Neither his own country or Spain has yet produced his equal: his heart was broken by calamity, but the spirit of integrity and independence never forsook Camoens.

I have endeavoured to avoid what appears to me the common fault of epic poems, and to render the Maid of Orleans interesting. With this intent I have given her, not the passion of love, but the remembrance of subdued affection, a lingering of human feelings not inconsistent with the enthusiasm and holiness of her character.

The multitude of obscure epic writers copy with the most gross servility their ancient models. If a tempest occurs, some envious spirit procures it from the God of the winds or the God of the sea. Is there a town besieged? the eyes of the hero are opened, and he beholds the powers of Heaven assisting in the attack; an angel is at hand to heal his wounds, and the leader of the enemy in his last combat is seized with the sudden cowardice of Hector. Even Tasso is too often an imitator. But notwithstanding the censure of a satirist, the name of Tasso will still be ranked among the best heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau only condemned him for the sake of an antithesis; it is with such writers, as with those who affect point in their conversation, they will always sacrifice truth to the gratification of their vanity.

I have avoided what seems useless and wearying in other poems, and my readers will find no descriptions of armour, no muster-rolls, no geographical catalogues, lion, tiger, bull, bear, and boar similes, Phoebuses or Auroras. And where in battle I have particularized the death of an individual, it is not, I hope, like the common lists of killed and wounded.

It has been established as a necessary rule for the epic, that the subject should be national. To this rule I have acted in direct opposition, and chosen for the subject of my poem the defeat of the English. If there be any readers who can wish success to an unjust cause, because their country was engaged in it, I desire not their approbation.

In Millin’s National Antiquities of France, I find that M. Laverdy was, in 1791, occupied in collecting whatever has been written concerning the Maid of Orleans. I have anxiously looked for his work, but it is probable, considering the tumults of the intervening period, that it has not been accomplished. Of the various productions to the memory of Joan of Arc, I have only collected a few titles, and, if report may be trusted, need not fear a heavier condemnation than to be deemed equally bad. A regular canon of St. Euverte has written what is said to be a very bad poem, entitled the Modern Amazon. There is a prose tragedy called La Pucelle d Orleans, variously attributed to Benserade, to Boyer, and to Menardiere. The abbé Daubignac published a prose tragedy with the same title in 1642. There is one under the name of Jean Baruel of 1581, and another printed anonymously at Rouen 1606. Among the manuscripts of the queen of Sweden in the Vatican, is a dramatic piece in verse called Le Mystere du Siege d’ Orleans. In these modern times, says Millin, all Paris has run to the theatre of Nicolet to see a pantomime entitled Le Fameux Siege de la Pucelle d’Orleans. I may add, that, after the publication of this poem, a pantomime upon the same subject was brought forward at Covent-Garden Theatre, in which the heroine, like Don Juan, was carried off by devils and precipitated alive into hell. I mention it, because the feelings of the audience revolted at such a catastrophe, and, after a few nights, an angel was introduced to rescue her.

But among the number of worthless poems upon this subject, there are two which are unfortunately notorious, — the Pucelles of Chapelain and Voltaire. I have had patience to peruse the first, and never have been guilty of looking into the second; it is well said by George Herbert,

Make not thy sport abuses, for the fly

That feeds on dung, is coloured thereby.

On the eighth of May, the anniversary of its deliverance, an annual fête is held at Orleans; and monuments have been erected there and at Rouen to the memory of the Maid. Her family was ennobled by Charles; but it should not be forgotten in the history of this monarch, that in the hour of misfortune he abandoned to her fate the woman who had saved his kingdom.

Bristol, November, 1795.

The poem thus crudely conceived, rashly prefaced, and prematurely hurried into the world, was nevertheless favourably received, owing chiefly to adventitious circumstances. A work of the same class, with as much power and fewer faults, if it were published now, would attract little or no attention. One thing which contributed to bring it into immediate notice was, that no poem of equal pretension had appeared for many years, except Glover’s Athenaid, which, notwithstanding the reputation of his Leonidas, had been utterly neglected. But the chief cause of its favourable reception was, that it was written in a republican spirit, such as may easily be accounted for in a youth whose notions of liberty were taken from the Greek and Roman writers, and who was ignorant enough of history and of human nature to believe, that a happier order of things had commenced with the independence of the United States, and would be accelerated by the French Revolution. Such opinions were then as unpopular in England as they deserved to be; but they were cherished by most of the critical journals, and conciliated for me the good-will of some of the most influential writers who were at that time engaged in periodical literature, though I was personally unknown to them. They bestowed upon the poem abundant praise, passed over most of its manifold faults, and noticed others with indulgence. Miss Seward wrote some verses upon it in a strain of the highest eulogy and the bitterest invective; they were sent to the Morning Chronicle, and the editor (Mr. Perry) accompanied their insertion with a vindication of the opinions which she had so vehemently denounced. Miss Seward was then in high reputation; the sincerity of her praise was proved by the severity of her censure, and nothing could have been more serviceable to a young author than her notice thus indignantly but also thus generously bestowed. The approbation of the reviewers served as a passport for the poem to America, and it was reprinted there while I was revising it for a second edition.

A work, in which the author and the bookseller had engaged with equal imprudence, thus proved beneficial to both. It made me so advantageously known as a poet, that no subsequent hostility on the part of the reviews could pull down the reputation which had been raised by their good offices. Before that hostility took its determined character, the charge of being a hasty and careless writer was frequently brought against me. Yet to have been six months correcting what was written in six weeks, was some indication of patient industry; and of this the second edition gave farther evidence. Taking for a second motto the words of Erasmus, Ut homines ita libros, indies seipsis meliores fieri oportet, I spared no pains to render the poem less faulty both in its construction and composition; I wrote a new beginning, threw out much of what had remained of the original draught, altered more, and endeavoured from all the materials which I had means of consulting, to make myself better acquainted with the manners and circumstances of the fifteenth century. Thus the second edition differed almost as much from the first, as that from the copy which was originally intended for publication. Less extensive alterations were made in two subsequent editions; the fifth was only a reprint of the fourth; by that time I had become fully sensible of its great and numerous faults, and requested the reader to remember, as the only apology which could be offered for them, that the poem was written at the age of nineteen, and published at one-and-twenty. My intention then was, to take no farther pains in correcting a work of which the inherent defects were incorrigible, and I did not look into it again for many years.

But now, when about to perform what at my age may almost be called the testamentary task of revising, in all likelihood for the last time, those works by which it was my youthful ambition “to be for ever known,” and part whereof I dare believe has been “so written to aftertimes as they should not willingly let it die,” it appeared proper that this poem, through which the author had been first made known to the public, two-and-forty years ago, should lead the way; and the thought that it was once more to pass through the press under my own inspection, induced a feeling in some respects resembling that with which it had been first delivered to the printer,.. and yet how different! For not in hope and ardour, nor with the impossible intention of rendering it what it might have been had it been planned and executed in middle life, did I resolve to correct it once more throughout; but for the purpose of making it more consistent with itself in diction, and less inconsistent in other things with the well-weighed opinions of my maturer years. The faults of effort, which may generally be regarded as hopeful indications in a juvenile writer, have been mostly left as they were. The faults of language which remained from the first edition have been removed, so that in this respect the whole is sufficiently in keeping. And for those which expressed the political prejudices of a young man who had too little knowledge to suspect his own ignorance, they have either been expunged, or altered, or such substitutions have been made for them as harmonize with the pervading spirit of the poem, and are nevertheless in accord with those opinions which the author has maintained for thirty years through good and evil report, in the maturity of his judgement as well as in the sincerity of his heart.

Keswick, August 30, 1837.

TO EDITH SOUTHEY.

EDITH! I brought thee late a humble gift, The songs of earlier youth; it was a wreath With many an unripe blossom garlanded And many a weed, yet mingled with some flower3 Which will not wither. Dearest! now I bring A worthier offering; thou wilt prize it well, For well thou know’st amid what painful cares My solace was in this: and though to me There is no music in the hollowness Of common praise, yet well content am! Now to look back upon my youth’s green prime, Nor idly, nor unprofitably past, Imping in such adventurous essay The wing, and strengthening it for steadier flight.

Burton, near Christ Church, 1797.

JOAN OF ARC. THE FIRST BOOK.

THERE was high feasting held at Vaucouleur,For old Sir Robert had a famous guest,The Bastard Orleans; and the festive hours,Cheer’d with the Trobador’s sweet minstrelsy,Pass’d gaily at his hospitable board.    5But not to share the hospitable boardAnd hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had soughtSir Robert’s hall; he came to rouse Lorraine,And glean what force the wasting war had leftFor one last effort. Little had the war    10Left in Lorraine, but age, and youth unripeFor slaughter yet, and widows, and young maidsOf widow’d loves. And now with his great guestThe Lord of Vaucouleur sat communingOn what might profit France, and found no hope,Despairing of their country, when he heard    16An old man and a maid awaited himIn the castle-hall. He knew the old man well,His vassal Claude; and at his bidding ClaudeApproach’d, and after meet obeisance made,    20Bespake Sir Robert.“Good my Lord, I comeWith a strange tale; I pray you pardon meIf it should seem impertinent, and likeAn old man’s weakness. But, in truth, this MaidHath with such boding thoughts impress’d my heart,I think I could not longer sleep in peace    26Gainsaying what she sought. She saith that GodBids her go drive the Englishmen from France!Her parents mock at her and call her crazed,And father Regnier says she is possess’d;..    30But I, who know that never thought of illFound entrance in her heart,.. for, good my Lord,From her first birth-day she hath been to meAs mine own child,.. and I am an old man,Who have seen many moon-struck in my time,    35And some who were by evil Spirits vex’d,..I, Sirs, do think that there is more in this.And who can tell but, in these perilous times,It may please God,... but hear the Maid yourselves,For if, as I believe, this is of Heaven,    40My silly speech doth wrong it.”

                           While he spake,Curious they mark’d the Damsel. She appear’dOf eighteen years; there was no bloom of youthUpon her cheek, yet had the loveliest huesOf health with lesser fascination fix’d    45The gazer’s eye; for wan the Maiden was,Of saintly paleness, and there seem’d to dwellIn the strong beauties of her countenanceSomething that was not earthly.

                           “I have heardOf this your niece’s malady,” replied    50The Lord of Vaucouleur, “that she frequentsThe loneliest haunts and deepest solitude,Estranged from human kind and human caresWith loathing like to madness. It were bestTo place her with some pious sisterhood,    55Who duly morn and eve for her soul’s healthSoliciting Heaven, may likeliest remedyThe stricken mind, or frenzied or possess’d.”

So as Sir Robert ceased, the Maiden cried,“I am not mad. Possess’d indeed I am!    60The hand of GOD is strong upon my soul,And I have wrestled vainly with the LORD,And stubbornly, I fear me. I can saveThis country, Sir! I can deliver France!    64Yea.. I must save the country!.. GOD is in me;I speak not, think not, feel not of myself.HE knew and sanctified me ere my birth;HE to the nations hath ordained me;And whither HE shall send me, I must go;And whatso HE commands, that I must speak;    70And whatso is HIS will, that I must do;And I must put away all fear of man,Lest HE in wrath confound me.”

                           At the firstWith pity or with scorn Dunois had heardThe Maid inspired; but now he in his heart    75Felt that misgiving which precedes beliefIn what was disbelieved and scoff’d at lateFor folly. “Damsel!” said the Chief, “methinksIt would be wisely done to doubt this call,Haply of some ill Spirit prompting thee    80To self destruction.”

                           “Doubt!” the Maid exclaim’d,“It were as easy when I gaze aroundOn all this fair variety of things,Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depthOf heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt    85Creating wisdom! When in the evening galeI breathe the mingled odours of the spring,And hear the wild wood melody, and hearThe populous air vocal with insect life,    89To doubt GOD’S goodness! There are feelings, Chief,Which cannot lie; and I have oftentimesFelt in the midnight silence of my soulThe call of GOD.”

                           They listen’d to the Maid,And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois,“Wilt thou go with me, Maiden, to the King,    95And there announce thy mission?” thus he said,For thoughts of politic craftiness aroseWithin him, and his faith, yet unconfirm’d,Determin’d to prompt action. She replied,“Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur,    100That with such credence as prevents delay,He to the King might send me. Now beseech youSpeed our departure!”

                           Then Dunois address’dSir Robert, “Fare thee well, my friend and host!It were ill done to linger here when Heaven    105Vouchsafes such strange assistance. Let what forceLorraine can raise to Chinon follow us;And with the tidings of this holy Maid,Sent by the LORD, fill thou the country; soonTherewith shall France awake as from the sleepOf death. Now Maid! depart we at thy will.”    111

“GOD’S blessing go with ye!” exclaim’d old Claude,“Good Angels guard my girl!” and as he spakeThe tears stream’d fast adown his aged cheeks.“And if I do not live to see thee more,    115As sure I think I shall not,.. yet sometimesRemember thine old Uncle. I have loved theeEven from thy childhood Joan! and I shall loseThe comfort of mine age in losing thee.But GOD be with thee, Child!”

                           Nor was the Maid,Though all subdued of soul, untroubled now    121In that sad parting;.. but she calm’d herself,Painfully keeping down her heart, and said,“Comfort thyself, my Uncle, with the thoughtOf what I am, and for what enterprize    125Chosen from among the people. Oh! be sureI shall remember thee, in whom I foundA parent’s love, when parents were unkind!And when the ominous broodings of my soul,Were scoff’d and made a mock of by all else,    130Thou for thy love didst hear me and believe.Shall I forget these things?”... By this DunoisHad arm’d, the steeds stood ready at the gate.But then she fell upon the old man’s neck    134And cried, “Pray for me!.. I shall need thy prayers!Pray for me, that I fail not in my hour!”Thereat awhile, as if some aweful thoughtHad overpower’d her, on his neck she hung;Then rising with flush’d cheek and kindling eye,“Farewell!” quoth she, “and live in hope! AnonThou shalt hear tidings to rejoice thy heart,    141Tidings of joy for all, but most for thee!Be this thy comfort!” The old man receivedHer last embrace, and weeping like a child,Scarcely through tears could see them on their steedsSpring up, and go their way.

                           So on they went,And now along the mountain’s winding pathUpward they journey’d slow, and now they pausedAnd gazed where o’er the plain the stately towersOf Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen,    150Dark and distinct; below its castled height,Through fair and fertile pastures, the deep MeuseRoll’d glittering on. Domremi’s cottagesGleam’d in the sun hard by, white cottages,That in the evening traveller’s weary mind    155Had waken’d thoughts of comfort and of home,Making him yearn for rest. But on one spot,One little spot, the Virgin’s eye was fix’d,Her native Arc; embower’d the hamlet layUpon the forest edge, whose ancient woods,    160With all their infinite varieties,Now form’d a mass of shade. The distant plainRose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves,And vineyards in the greenest hue of spring,    164And streams now hidden on their winding way,Now issuing forth in light.

                           The Maiden gazedTill all grew dim upon her dizzy eye.“Oh what a blessed world were this!” she cried,“But that the great and honourable menHave seized the earth, and of the heritage    170Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given,Disherited their brethren! Happy thoseWho in the after-days shall live when TimeHath spoken, and the multitude of years    174Taught wisdom to mankind!... Unhappy France!Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foesRush o’er the land, and desolate, and kill;Long has the widow’s and the orphan’s groanAccused Heaven’s justice; — but the hour is come!GOD hath inclined his ear, hath heard the voiceOf mourning, and his anger is gone forth.”    181

Then said the Son of Orleans, “Holy Maid!Fain would I know, if blameless I may seekSuch knowledge, how the heavenly call was heardFirst in thy waken’d soul; nor deem in me    185Aught idly curious, if of thy past lifeI ask the story. In the hour of age,If haply I survive to see this realmDeliver’d, precious then will be the thoughtThat I have known the delegated Maid,    190And heard from her the wondrous ways of Heaven.”

“A simple tale,” the mission’d Maid replied;“Yet may it well employ the journeying hour,And pleasant is the memory of the past.    194

“See’st thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirtsThe Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows,As on the farther bank, the distant towersOf Vaucouleur? there in the hamlet ArcMy father’s dwelling stands; a lowly hut,Yet nought of needful comfort did it lack,    200For in Lorraine there lived no kinder LordThan old Sir Robert, and my father JaquesIn flocks and herds was rich; a toiling man,Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heartAffection had no root. I never knew    205A parent’s love; for harsh my mother was,And deem’d the care which infancy demandsIrksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were,And would have made me fear them; but my soulPossess’d the germ of inborn fortitude,    210And stubbornly I bore unkind rebukeAnd angry chastisement. Yet was the voiceThat spake in tones of tenderness most sweetTo my young heart; how have I felt it leapWith transport, when my Uncle Claude approach’d!For he would take me on his knee, and tell    216Such wondrous tales as childhood loves to hear,Listening with eager eyes and open lipsDevoutly in attention. Good old man!Oh if I ever pour’d a prayer to Heaven    220Unhallow’d by the grateful thought of him,Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it!He was a parent to me, and his homeWas mine, when in advancing years I foundNo peace, no comfort in my father’s house.    225With him I pass’d the pleasant evening hours,By day I drove my father’s flock afield,And this was happiness.“Amid these wildsOften to summer pasture have I driven    229The flock; and well I know these woodland wilds,And every bosom’d vale, and valley streamIs dear to memory. I have laid me downBeside yon valley stream, that up the ascentScarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch’dThe beck roll glittering to the noon-tide sun,    235And listened to its ceaseless murmuring,Till all was hush’d and tranquil in my soul,Fill’d with a strange and undefined delightThat pass’d across the mind like summer cloudsOver the vale at eve; their fleeting hues    240The traveller cannot trace with memory’s eye,Yet he remembers well how fair they were,How beautiful.

                           “In solitude and peaceHere I grew up, amid the loveliest scenesOf unpolluted nature. Sweet it was,    245As the white mists of morning roll’d away,To see the upland’s wooded heights appearDark in the early dawn, and mark the slopeWith gorse-flowers glowing, as the sun illumedTheir golden glory with his deepening light;    250Pleasant at noon beside the vocal brookTo lay me down, and watch the floating clouds,And shape to fancy’s wild similitudesTheir ever-varying forms; and oh how sweet!To drive my flock at evening to the fold,    255And hasten to our little hut, and hearThe voice of kindness bid me welcome home.“Amid the village playmates of my youthWas one whom riper years approved a friend.A gentle maid was my poor Madelon;    260I loved her as a sister, and long timeHer undivided tenderness possess’d,Until a better and a holier tieGave her one nearer friend; and then my heartPartook her happiness, for never lived    265A happier pair than Arnaud and his wife.

“Lorraine was call’d to arms, and with her youthWent Arnaud to the war. The morn was fair,Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerfully,And all the fields seem’d joyous in the spring;    270But to Domremi wretched was that day,For there was lamentation, and the voiceOf anguish, and the deeper agonyThat spake not. Never can my heart forget    274The feelings that shot through me, when the hornGave its last call, and through the castle-gateThe banner moved, and from the clinging armsWhich hung on them, as for a last embrace,Sons, brethren, husbands, went.                           “More frequent nowSought I the converse of poor Madelon,   280For now she needed friendship’s soothing voice.All the long summer did she live in hopeOf tidings from the war; and as at eveShe with her mother by the cottage doorSat in the sunshine, if a traveller    285Appear’d at distance coming o’er the brow,Her eye was on him, and it might be seenBy the flush’d cheek what thoughts were in her heart,And by the deadly paleness which ensued,How her heart died within her. So the days    290And weeks and months pass’d on; and when the leavesFell in the autumn, a most painful hopeThat reason own’d not, that with expectationDid never cheer her as she rose at morn,Still linger’d in her heart, and still at night    295Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came,But Arnaud never from the war return’d,He far away had perish’d; and when lateThe tidings of his certain death arrived,Sore with long anguish underneath that blow    300She sunk. Then would she sit and think all dayUpon the past, and talk of happinessThat never could return, as though she foundBest solace in the thoughts which minister’dTo sorrow: and she loved to see the sun    305Go down, because another day was gone,And then she might retire to solitudeAnd wakeful recollections, or perchanceTo sleep more wearying far than wakefulness,Dreams of his safety and return, and starts    310Of agony; so neither night nor dayCould she find rest, but pined and pined away.

“DEATH! to the happy thou art terrible;But how the wretched love to think of theeOh thou true comforter, the friend of all    315Who have no friend beside! By the sick bedOf Madelon I sat, when sure she feltThe hour of her deliverance drawing near;I saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope,I had her latest look of earthly love,    320I felt her hand’s last pressure.... Son of Orleans!I would not wish to live to know that hour,When I could think upon a dear friend dead,And weep not: but they are not bitter tears,...Not painful now; for Christ hath risen, first fruitsOf them that slept; and we shall meet again,    326Meet, not again to part: the Grave hath lostIt’s victory.

                           “I remember as her bierWent to the grave, a lark sprung up aloft,And soar’d amid the sunshine, carolling    330So full of joy, that to the mourner’s earMore mournfully than dirge or passing bell,The joyous carol came, and made us feelThat of the multitude of beings, noneBut man was wretched.

                           “Then my soul awoke,For it had slumber’d long in happiness,    336And never feeling misery, never thoughtWhat others suffer. I, as best I might,Solaced the keen regret of Elinor;    339And much my cares avail’d, and much her son’s,On whom, the only comfort of her age,She center’d now her love. A younger birth,Aged nearly as myself was Theodore,An ardent youth, who with the kindest careHad sooth’d his sister’s sorrow. We had knelt    345By her death-bed together, and no bondIn closer union knits two human heartsThan fellowship in grief.“It chanced as onceBeside the fire of Elinor I sat,    349The night was comfortless, the loud blast howl’d,And as we drew around the social hearth,We heard the rain beat hard. Driven by the stormA warrior mark’d our distant taper’s light;We heapt the fire, and spread the friendly board.‘’Tis a rude night;’ the stranger cried: ‘safe housedPleasant it is to hear the pelting rain.    356I too could be content to dwell in peace.Resting my head upon the lap of love,But that my country calls. When the winds roar,Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers,    360And think on Conrade.’

                “Theodore replied,‘Success go with thee! Something we have knownOf war, and tasted its calamity;And I am well content to dwell in peace,Albeit inglorious, thanking the good God    365Who made me to be happy.’

                 “Did that God’Cried Conrade, ‘form thy heart for happiness,When Desolation royally careersOver thy wretched country? Did that GodForm thee for Peace when Slaughter is abroad,    370When her brooks run with blood, and Rape, and Murder,Stalk through her flaming towns? Live thou in peace,Young man! my heart is human: I must feelFor what my brethren suffer,’ While he spakeSuch mingled passions character’d his face    375Of fierce and terrible benevolence,That I did tremble as I listen’d to him.And in my heart tumultuous thoughts aroseOf high achievements, indistinct, and wild,And vast,.. yet such they were as made me pantAs though by some divinity possess’d.    381

‘But is there not some duty due to thoseWe love?’ said Theodore; ‘Is there an employMore righteous than to cheer declining age,And thus with filial tenderness repay    385Parental care?

                 “Hard is it,’ Conrade cried,Ay, hard indeed, to part from those we love;And I have suffer’d that severest pang.I have left an aged mother; I have leftOne upon whom my heart has fasten’d all    390Its dearest, best affections. Should I liveTill France shall see the blessed hour of peace,I shall return; my heart will be content,My duties then will have been well discharged,And I may then be happy. There are those    395Who deem such thoughts the fancies of a mindStrict beyond measure, and were well content,If I should soften down my rigid natureEven to inglorious ease, to honour me.But pure of heart and high in self-esteem    400I must be honour’d by myself: all else,The breath of Fame, is as the unsteady wind Worthless.’

“So saying from his belt he tookThe encumbering sword. I held it, listening to him,And wistless what I did, half from the sheath    405Drew forth its glittering blade. I gazed upon it,And shuddering, as I touch’d its edge, exclaim’d,How horrible it is with the keen swordTo gore the finely-fibred human frame!    409I could not strike a lamb.

“He answer’d me‘Maiden, thou sayest well. I could not strikeA lamb!..But when the merciless invaderSpares not grey age, and mocks the infant’s shriekAs it doth writhe upon his cursed lance,And forces to his foul embrace the wife    415Even where her slaughter’d husband bleeds to death.Almighty God! I should not be a manIf I did let one weak and pitiful feelingMake mine arm impotent to cleave him down.    419Think well of this, young man!’ he cried, and tookThe hand of Theodore; ‘think well of this;As you are human, as you hope to liveIn peace, amid the dearest joys of home,Think well of this! You have a tender mother;As you do wish that she may die in peace,    425As you would even to madness agonizeTo hear this maiden call on you in vainFor help, and see her dragg’d, and hear her screamIn the blood-reeking soldier’s lustful grasp,    429Think that there are such horrors! that even now,Some city flames, and haply, as in Roan,Some famish’d babe on his dead mother’s breastYet hangs and pulls for food!.. Woe be to thoseBy whom the evil comes! And woe to him,..For little less his guilt,..who dwells in peace,    435When every arm is needed for the strife!’“When we had all betaken us to rest,Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolvedThe high-soul’d warrior’s speech. Then MadelonRose in remembrance; over her the grave    440Had closed; her sorrows were not register’dIn the rolls of fame; but when the tears run downThe widow’s cheek, shall not her cry be heardIn Heaven against the oppressor? will not GodIn sunder smite the unmerciful, and break    445The sceptre of the wicked?.. Thoughts like thesePossess’d my soul, till at the break of dayI slept; nor did my heated brain reposeEven then; for visions, sent, as I believe,    449From the Most-High, arose. A high-tower’d townHemm’d in and girt with enemies, I saw,Where Famine on a heap of carcasses,Half envious of the unutterable feast,Mark’d the gorged raven clog his beak with gore.I turn’d me then to the besieger’s camp,    455And there was revelry: a loud lewd laughBurst on mine ear, and I beheld the chiefsSit at their feast, and plan the work of death.My soul grew sick within me; I look’d up,    459Reproaching Heaven,.. lo! from the clouds an armAs of the avenging Angel was put forth,And from his hand a sword, like lightning, fell.

“From that night I could feel my burthen’d soulHeaving beneath incumbent Deity.I sate in silence, musing on the days    465To come, unheeding and unseeing allAround me, in that dreaminess of thoughtWhen every bodily sense is as it slept,And the mind alone is wakeful. I have heard    469Strange voices in the evening wind; strange formsDimly discover’d throng’d the twilight air.The neighbours wonder’d at the sudden change,They call’d me crazed; and my dear Uncle too,Would sit and gaze upon me wistfully,A heaviness upon his aged brow,    475And in his eye such sorrow, that my heartSometimes misgave me. I had told him allThe mighty future labouring in my breast,But that the hour, methought, not yet was come.

“At length I heard of Orleans, by the foe    480Wall’d in from human help: thither all thoughtsAll hopes were turn’d; that bulwark beaten down,All were the invaders. Then my troubled soulGrew more disturb’d, and shunning every eye,I loved to wander where the woodland shade    485Was deepest, there on mightiest deeds to broodOf shadowy vastness, such as made my heartThrob loud: anon I paused, and in a stateOf half expectance, listen’d to the wind.

“There is a fountain in the forest call’d    490The Fountain of the Fairies: when a childWith a delightful wonder I have heardTales of the Elfin tribe who on its banksHold midnight revelry. An ancient oak,The goodliest of the forest, grows beside;    495Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat,By the woods bounded like some little isle.It ever hath been deem’d their favourite tree,They love to lie and rock upon its leaves,    499And bask in moonshine. Here the Woodman leadsHis boy, and shewing him the green-sward mark’dWith darker circlets, says their midnight danceHath traced the rings, and bids him spare the tree.Fancy had cast a spell upon the placeWhich made it holy; and the villagers    505Would say that never evil thing approach’dUnpunish’d there. The strange and fearful pleasureWhich fill’d me by that solitary spring,Ceased not in riper years; and now it wokeDeeper delight, and more mysterious awe.    510“A blessed spot! Oh how my soul enjoy’dIts holy quietness, with what delightEscaping from mankind I hasten’d thereTo solitude and freedom! ThitherwardOn a spring eve I had betaken me,    515And there I sat, and mark’d the deep red cloudsGather before the wind.. the rising wind,Whose sudden gusts, each wilder than the last,Appear’d to rock my senses. Soon the nightDarken’d around, and the large rain-drops fell    520Heavy; anon tempestuously the galeSwept o’er the wood. Methought the thunder-showerFell with refreshing coolness on my head,And the hoarse dash of waters, and the rushOf winds that mingled with the forest roar,    525Made a wild music. On a rock I sat,The glory of the tempest fill’d my soul;And when the thunders peal’d, and the long flashHung durable in heaven, and on my sight    529Spread the grey forest, memory, thought, were gone.All sense of self annihilate, I seem’dDiffused into the scene.

               “At length a lightApproach’d the spring; I saw my Uncle Claude;His grey locks dripping with the midnight storm,He came, and caught me in his arms, and cried‘My God! my child is safe!’

               “I felt his wordsPierce in my heart; my soul was overcharged;I fell upon his neck and told him all;    538GOD was within me, as I felt, I spake,And he believed.

               “Aye, Chieftain! and the worldShall soon believe my mission; for the LORDWill raise up indignation and pour on’tHis wrath, and they shall perish who oppress.”

JOAN OF ARC. THE SECOND BOOK.

AND now beneath the horizon westering slowHad sunk the orb of day: o’er all the valeA purple softness spread, save where some treeIts lengthen’d shadow stretch’d, or winding streamMirror’d the light of Heaven, still traced distinct    5When twilight dimly shrouded all beside.A grateful coolness freshen’d the calm air, -And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening songSung shrill and ceaseless, as the dews of nightDescended. On their way the travellers wend,    10Cheering the road with converse; till at lengthThey mark a cottage lamp whose steady lightShone through the lattice; thitherward they turn.There came an old man forth; his thin grey locks