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JOAN OF ARC.
Sunk deep, and palsied were his toothless jaws.He, as he tottered on the open grave,Look'd back, and call'd on one with earnest voiceFor aid; yet never aid from him received 380His fellow minister: all gravityHe was, a well-wigg'd form, and in his handA gold-topt cane, which ever to his lips,In thought profound, he press'd: his lofty speechWith learned phrase abounded, such as fills 385The astonish'd soul with awe: and oft his handDire incantations drew, with magic drugs,To fill the mystic phial, which who feels,With griping pains opprest, shall toss and writhe,Till Nature, wearied with disease, and sick 390Of remedy, must yield the unequal strife.Murder was there, well-vers'd in many a shapeTo serve his shadowy King; or in the ragsOf ruffian poverty, or skill'd to drugThe bowl with death, or, hid beneath his cloak, 395Sharp the stiletto for the mortal blow;

Now,

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