D

Passages in Southey's Joan of Arc (First Edition, 1796)
contributed by S. T. Coleridge[1027:1].

[Vide ante, p. 131]

Book I, ll. 33-51.

"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 [35]
Seraphic.
"Son of Orleans! grieve no more.
His eye not slept, tho' long the All-just endured
[[1028]] 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. 40
Take Son of Orleans the relief of Heaven:
Nor thou the wintry hours of adverse fate
Dream useless: tho' unhous'd thou roam awhile,
The keen and icy wind that shivers thee
Shall brace thine arm, and with stern discipline [45]
Firm thy strong 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 his bleak mountain and his den of snows 50
Leaps terrible and mocks the shepherd's spears."

ll. 57-59.

nor those ingredients dire
Erictho mingled on Pharsalia's field,
Making the soul retenant its cold corse.

ll. 220-222.

the groves of Paradise
Gave their mild echoes to the choral songs
Of new-born beings.—

ll. 267-280.

And oft the tear from his averted eye
He dried; mindful of fertile fields laid waste,
Dispeopled hamlets, the lorn widow's groan,
And the pale orphan's feeble cry for bread. 270
But when he told of those fierce sons of guilt
That o'er this earth which God had fram'd so fair—
Spread desolation, and its wood-crown'd hills
Make echo to the merciless war-dog's howl;
And how himself from such foul savagery 275
Had scarce escap'd with life, then his stretch'd arm
Seem'd, as it wielded the resistless sword
Of Vengeance: in his eager eye the soul
Was eloquent; warm glow'd his manly cheek;
And beat against his side the indignant heart. 280

ll. 454-460.

then methought
From a dark lowering cloud, the womb of tempests, 455
A giant arm burst forth and dropt a sword
That pierc'd like lightning thro' the midnight air.
Then was there heard a voice, which in mine ear
Shall echo, at that hour of dreadful joy
When the pale foe shall wither in my rage. 460

ll. 484-496[1029:1]

Last evening lone in thought I wandered forth.
Down in the dingle's depth there is a brook 485
That makes its way between the craggy stones,
Murmuring hoarse murmurs. On an aged oak
Whose root uptorn by tempests overhangs
The stream, I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds
Gather before the wind, while the rude dash 490
Of waters rock'd my senses, and the mists
Rose round: there as I gazed, a form dim-seen
Descended, like the dark and moving clouds
That in the moonbeam change their shadowy shapes.
His voice was on the breeze; he bade me hail 495
The missioned Maid! for lo! the hour was come.

Book III, ll. 73-82.

Martyr'd patriots—spirits pure
Wept by the good ye fell! Yet still survives
Sow'd by your toil and by your blood manur'd 75
Th' imperishable seed, soon to become
The Tree, beneath whose vast and mighty shade
The sons of men shall pitch their tents in peace,
And in the unity of truth preserve
The bond of love. For by the eye of God 80
Hath Virtue sworn, that never one good act
Was work'd in vain.

Book IV, ll. 328-336.

The murmuring tide
Lull'd her, and many a pensive pleasing dream
Rose in sad shadowy trains at Memory's call. 330
She thought of Arc, and of the dingled brook,
[[1030]] Whose waves oft leaping on their craggy course
Made dance the low-hung willow's dripping twigs;
And where it spread into a glassy lake,
Of the old oak which on the smooth expanse, 335
Imag'd its hoary mossy-mantled boughs.