Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/331

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BOOK THE NINTH.
319
These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws,That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mockThy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek 105Must moulder! Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul,Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heartAt the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soonShall stagnate, and the finely-fibred frame,Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon 110With the cold clod? a thought most horrible!So only, dreadful, for realityIs none of suffering here; here all is peace;No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave.Dreadful it is to think of losing life, 115But having lost, knowledge of loss is notTherefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose;Probe deep the seat of life.So spake Despair.The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice,And all again was silence. Quick her heart 120Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast,

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