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JOAN OF ARC.
Her Conrade held and cried, "Ill-fated Maid,That I have torn thee from Affection's breast,My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve 305Like me, the worthless Court, and having serv'd,In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou shalt curse The duty that deluded. Of the worldFatigued, and loathing at my fellow menI shall be seen no more. There is a path—310The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf Knows not its hidden windings: I have trodThat path, and mark'd a melancholy den,Where one whose jaundiced soul abhors itself,May pamper him in compleat wretchedness. 315There sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,Conrade shall dwell, and in the languid hour,When the jarr'd senses sink to a sick calm,Shall mourn the waste of frenzy!"So he spake, And clasping to his heart the Virgin's hand, 320Sped rapid o'er the plain. She with dim eyes, For gushing tears obscur'd them, follow'd him

Till

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