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The dolorous stroke, - the blameless and the brave, Who died beneath a brother's erring arm. Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel! The songs of earlier years embalm your fame And haply yet some Poet shall arise, Like that divinest Tuscan, and enwreathe The immortal garland for himself and you.

The harp still rung beneath the high-arch'd roof, And listening eager to the favorite lay, The guests sat silent, when into the hall The Messenger from that besieged town, Reënter'd. "It is pleasant, King of France," Said he, "to sit and hear the harper's song: Far other music hear the men of Orleans! Famine is there; and there the imploring cry Of Hunger ceases not." "Insolent man!" Exclaim'd the Monarch, "cease to interrupt Our hour of festival; it is not thine To instruct me in my duty." Of reproof Careless, the stranger to the minstrel cried, "Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame Amid these walls? Virtue and genius love That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose, lewd tale To pamper and provoke the appetite? Such should procure thee worthy recompense! Or rather sing thou of that wealthy Lord, Who took the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom, That was to him even as a daughter! Charles, This parable would I tell, prophet-like, And look at thee and say, 'Thou art the man!'" He said, and with a quick and troubled step Withdrew. Astonish'd at his daring guise, The guests sat heedless of the lay awhile, Pondering his words mysterious, till at length The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hall, Charles and the delegated damsel sought The inner palace. There the gentle Queen Awaited them: with her Joan lov'd to pass Her intervals of rest; for she had won The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy, The calm and duteous patience that deplored A husband's cold half-love. To her she told With what strange words the messenger from Orleans Had roused uneasy wonder in her mind; For on her ear yet vibrated his voice, When lo! again he came, and at the door Stood scowling round. "Why dost thou haunt me thus," The monarch cried; "is there no place secure From thy rude insolence? unmanner'd man! I know thee not!" "Then learn to know me, Charles!" Solemnly he replied; "read well my face, That thou may'st know it on that dreadful day, When at the Throne of God I shall demand His justice on thee!" Turning from the King, To Agnes as she entered, in a tone More low, more mournfully severe, he cried, "Dost thou too know me not!" She glanced on him, And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed In the Maid's bosom. "King of France!" he said, "She loved me, and by mutual word and will We were betroth'd, when, in unhappy hour, I left her, as in fealty bound, to fight Thy battles. In mine absence thou didst come To tempt her then unspotted purity — For pure she was. — Alas! these courtly robes Hide not the indelible stain of infamy! Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on An honorable name, O lost to me, And to thyself, forever, ever lost, My poor polluted Agnes! — Charles, that faith Almost is shaken, which should be henceforth My only hope: thou hast thy wicked will. While I the victim of her guilt and thine, Though meriting alike from her and thee Far other guerdon, bear about with me A wound for which this earth affords no balm, And doubt Heaven's justice." So he said, and frown'd Austere as he who at Mahommed's door Knock'd loud and frequent, at whose dreadful mien Stricken with terror, all beholders fled. Even the prophet, almost terrified, Scarcely could bear his presence; for he knew That this was the Death-Angel , And that his hour was come. Conscious of guilt The Monarch sate, nor could endure to face His bosom-probing frown. The Maid of Arc Meantime had read his features, and she cried "I know thee, Conrade!" Rising from her seat, She took his hand, for he stood motionless, Gazing on Agnes now with steady eye Severe though calm: him from the Court she drew, And to the river side, resisting not, Both sad and silent, led; till at the last As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck, He wept. "I know thee, Damsel!" he exclaim'd. " Dost thou remember that tempestuous night, When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought Your hospitable door? Ah me! I then Was happy! You too sojourn'd then in peace. Fool that I was! I blamed such happiness, Arraign'd it as a guilty, selfish sloth, Unhappily prevailing, so I fear me, Or why art thou at Chinon?" Him the Maid Answering, address'd: "I do remember well, That night; for then the holy Spirit first, Waked by thy words, possess'd me." Conrade cried, "Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst lived Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd, Needlessly rigid, from my peaceful path. And thou hast left thine home then, and obey'd The feverish fancies of an ardent brain! And hast thou left him too, the youth whose eye Forever glancing on thee, spake so well Affection's eloquent tale?" So as he said, Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek