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JOAN OF ARC.
"She lov'd me! day by day I dwelt with her, 230Her voice was music—very sweet her smiles!I left her! left her Charles, in evil hour,To fight thy battles. Thou meantime didst come,Staining most foul her spotless purity;For she was pure—my Agnes! even as snow 235Fall'n in some cleft where never the fierce SunPours his hot ray—most foul, for once most fair:My poor polluted Agnes!—Thou bad man!Thou hast almost shaken my faith in Heaven.I see thee rioting in sloth and guilt, 240And yet thou restest pillowing thy headEven on her bosom! I, tho' innocentOf ill, the victim of another's vice,Drag on the loathsome burthen of existence,And doubt Heaven's justice!"So he said, and frown'd 245Dark as that, man who at Mohammed's door Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearful look Bath'd with cold damps, every beholder fled.

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