Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/19

 And gazing wonder'd; o'er his aching soul Soon Memory rush'd and woke with ruthless hand Each sleeping care. O France, he cried, my country!" When soft as breeze that curls the summer clouds At close of day, stole on his ear a voice Seraphic. "Son of Orleans! grieve no more. His eye not slept, tho' long the All-Just endur'd The woes of France; at length his bar'd right arm Volleys red thunder. From his veiling clouds Rushes the storm, Ruin, and Fear, and Death. Take Son of Orleans the relief of Heaven: Nor thou the wintry hour of adverse fate Deem useless: tho' unhous'd thou roam awhile, The keen and icy wind that shivers thee Shall brace thine arm, and with stern discipline Firm thy young heart for fearless enterprise. As who, through many a summer night serene Had hover'd round the fold with coward wish; Horrid with brumal ice, the fiercer wolf "From