Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 2.djvu/34

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Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied:"The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchanceExulting in the pride of victory,Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeitThy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth;That hour allotted canst thou not escape,That dreadful hour, when Contumely and ShameShall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid!Destined to drain the cup of bitterness,Even to its dregs! England's inhuman ChiefsShall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame,Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity,And force such burning blushes to the cheekOf Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wishThe earth might cover thee! in that last hour,When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chainsThat link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form,Exposed unmantled, the brute multitudeShall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt,More painful than the circling flames that scorch
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