Chorus of Monks.
Spring from thy resting-place, sword of the brave!
Arm the deliv'rer's hand, destined to save—
France calls on thee.
Chorus of Soldiers.
Give it rejoicing light—see! it is ours.—
Now we defy the foe—England's great pow'rs!—
France shall be free.
Scene IV.—Chinon.
Joan. Bertha.
Joan. Alas! not yet returned?
Ber. The way is far.
Joan. What, if too careful of his charge, the abbot
Coldly deny his suit, some fraud suspecting?
Wouldst know the heaviest ill mortality
Can bear? 'Tis this—suspense. Suspense dries up
The fertile mind, holds captive ev'ry nerve,
The spirit sinks, impedes swift Time's career,
And stays the golden chariot of the sky;
Clothes noon's resplendent face with heavy clouds,
Makes peaceful night laborious, watchful day.
Ill, and its train of ills, may all be borne;
But dire suspense, that canker of the soul,
Like a fell blight encrusts each energy
Of mind and frame, and with unnatural heat
Consumes the oil of life.