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JOAN OF ARC.
Sublime amid the storm shall France arise,And like the rock amid surrounding waves,Repel the rushing ocean—she shall wieldThe thunderbolt of vengeance—she shall blast 130The Despots that assail her."As she ceas'd,Such murmur from the multitude arose,As when at twilight hour the summer breezeMoves o'er the elmy vale: there was not oneWho mourn'd with feeble sorrow for his friend, 135Slain in the fight of Freedom; or if chanceRemembrance with a tear suffus'd the eyeThe Patriot's joy flash'd thro'.And now the ritesOf sepulture perform'd, the hymn to HeavenThey chaunted. To the town the Maid return'd, 140Dunois with her, and Richemont, and the man,Conrade, whose converse most the Virgin loved.They of pursuit and of the future warSat communing; when loud the trumpet's voice

Proclaim'd

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