Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/315

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BOOK THE EIGHTH.
303
Yet gazing on her oft with eloquent eye,Looking the consolation that they fear'dTo give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome: 785The glaring torches o'er the house of deathStream'd a sad splendour. Flowers and funeral herbsBedeck'd the bier of Theodore: the rue,The dark green rosemary, and the violet,That pluck'd like him withered in its first bloom. 790Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her griefPour'd copious; Conrade wept: the Maid aloneWas tearless, for she stood, unheedingly,Gazing the vision'd scene of her last hour,Absorb'd in contemplation; from her eye 795Intelligence was absent; nor she seem'dTo hear, tho' listening to the dirge of death.Laid in his last home now was Theodore,And now upon the coffin thrown, the earthFell heavy: the Maid started—for the sound 800Smote on her heart; her eye one lightning glanceShot wild, and shuddering, upon Isabel

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