Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/153

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BOOK THE FOURTH
141
Till lost in distance. With a weight of thoughtOpprest, along the poplar-planted VienneThen wander'd, till o'erwearied on the banks 235She laid her down, and watch'd its slowest streamDim purpling to the clouds, that still were pierc'dBy the sunk day-star's ray. The murmuring tideLull'd her, and many a pensive pleasing dreamRose in sad shadowy trains at Memory's call. 330She thought of Arc, and of the dingled brook,Whose waves oft leaping on their craggy courseMade dance the low-hung willow's dripping twigs;And where it spread into a glassy lake,Of that old oak, which on the smooth expanse 335Imaged its hoary mossy-mantled boughs.Wak'd by the thought, a tear ran down her cheekUnconscious, when a voice behind address'd her,"Forgive the intrusion, Lady! I would askWhere I might meet that Heaven-commission'd Maid, 340Call'd to deliver France.'The well-known tones

Thrill'd

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