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O'ershadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks. The assembled court gazed on the marshall'd train, And at the gate the aged prelate stood To pour his blessing on the chosen host. And now a soft and solemn symphony Was heard, and chanting high the hallow'd hymn, From the near convent came the vestal maids. A holy banner, woven by virgin hands, Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment Of awe and eager ardor for the fight, Thrill'd through the army, as the reverend man Took the white standard, and with heaven-ward eye Call'd on the God of Justice, blessing it. The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd, Her dark hair floating on the morning gale, Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand Received the mystic banner. From the host A loud and universal shout burst forth, As rising from the ground, upon her brow She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high The banner'd lilies. On their way they march, And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon Fade from the eye reverted. The sixth sun, Purpling the sky with his dilated light, Sunk westering; when embosom'd in the depth Of that old forest, which for many a league Shadow'd the hills and vales of Orleannois, They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale The streamers flutter; and ascending slow Beneath the foliage of the forest trees, With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke Melts in the impurpled air. Leaving her tent, The martial Maiden wander'd through the wood; There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank Reclined, she saw a damsel, her long locks With willow wreathed; upon her lap there lay A dark-hair'd man, listening the while she sung Sad ditties, and enwreathed to bind his brow The melancholy garland. At the sound Of one in arms approaching, she had fled; But Conrade, looking upward, recognized The Maid of Arc. "Nay, fear not, Isabel," Said he, "for this is one of gentle kind, Whom even the wretched need not fear to love."

So saying, he arose and took her hand. And press'd it to his bosom. "My weak heart Though school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind, Will beat, rebellious to its own resolves. Come hither, outcast one! and call her friend, And she will be thy friend more readily Because thou art unhappy." Isabel Saw a tear starting in the virgin's eye And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept, Wailing his wilder'd senses. "Mission'd Maid!" The warrior cried, "be happy! for thy power Can make this sufferer so. From Orleans driven, Orphan'd by war, and of her only friend Bereft, I found her wandering in the wilds, Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, Joan, Wilt his beloved to the youth restore; And trust me, Maid! the miserable feel When they on others bestow happiness, Their happiest consolation." She replied, Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone Of equal friendship, solacing her cares. "Soon shall we enter Orleans," said the Maid; A few hours in her dream of victory England shall triumph, then to be awaked By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath! Irksome meantime the busy camp to me A solitary woman. Isabel, Wert thou the while companion of my tent, Lightlier the time would pass. Return with me; I may not long be absent."                            So she spake. The wanderer in half-utter'd words express'd Grateful assent. "Art thou astonish'd, then, That one though powerful is benevolent? In truth thou well mayst wonder!" Conrade cried. "But little cause to love the mighty ones Hath the low cottager; for with its shade Too oft doth, a death-dew-dropping tree, Blast every herb beneath its baleful boughs! Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel! Relate How warr'd the chieftains, and the people died. The mission'd Virgin hath not heard thy woes; And pleasant to mine ear the twice-told tale Of sorrow."              Gazing on the martial Maid She read her wish, and spake. "A wanderer now, Friendless and hopeless, still I love to think Upon my native home, and call to mind Each haunt of careless youth; the woodbined wall, The jessamine that round the straw-roof'd cot Its fragrant branches wreathed, beneath whose shade I wont to sit and watch the setting sun, And hear the thrush's song. Nor far remote, As o'er the subject landscape round I gazed. The towers of Yenville rose upon the view. A foreign master holds my father's home! I, far away, remember the past years, And weep. "Two brethren form'd our family; Humble we were, and happy; honest toil Procured our homely sustenance; our herds Duly at morn and evening to my hand Gave their full stores; the vineyard we had rear'd Purpled its clusters in the southern sun, And, plenteous produce of my father's toil, The yellow harvest billow'd o'er the plain. How cheerfully around the blazing hearth, When all the labor of the day was done, We past the evening hours; for they would sing Or merry roundelay, or ditty sad Of maid forsaken and the willow weed, Or of the doughty Paladins of France Some warlike fit, the while my spinning-wheel A fitting music made.                      "Thus long we lived, And happy. To a neighboring youth my hand, In holy wedlock soon to be consign'd,