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JOAN OF ARC.
I hoped unknowing."As the warrior spake,He on the earth the clay-cold carcass laid. 90With fixed eye the wretched Maiden gazedThe life-left tenement. The dews of nightWere on his arms, and o'er the ghastly woundHung his brown hair gore-clotted. "Gallant youth!"She cried, "I would to God the hour were come 95When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss!No, Theodore! the sport of winds and waves,Thy body shall not roll adown the streamThe sea-wolf's banquet. Conrade, bear with meThe corse to Orleans, there in hallowed ground 100To rest; the Priest shall say the sacred prayer,And hymn the requiem to his parted soul.So shall not Elinor in bitternessLament that no dear friend to her dead childPaid the last office."From the earth they lift 105The mournful burden, and along the plain

Pass

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