[Beauvais conceals himself.
Joan. What may this mean? Hath pity touched their breast?
Why has the dungeon's gloom been changed for light
That cheers, for air that wakens life, not chills?
Oh, beauteous light! oh, sweet and balmy breeze!
Thy Maker's smile, thy Maker's breath art thou,
And I am in His presence. Tears! the dungeon
Scarce forced one drop, one sigh of sorrow;
But now for very happiness I weep.
Surely I never felt till now the luxury
That conscious being can confer. Oh, death!
I've looked upon thee till thy form's familiar;
E'en till thy ugliness had almost vanished,
So well hath darkness and thyself agreed;
But now this gentle gale, these sunny beams,
This perfumed scent of flowers do tell a tale
Of home—of loved companions, and I sigh
To be, as I was once, a joyous child;
Although I would not live my life again
For all that sight or smell or hope could offer.
And, hark! the sound of trumpet clanging shrill—
I hear the tramp of martial feet—of horse!
My spirit bursts these walls! My country's voice
Is echoed in that swell, and my full heart
Heaves with tumultuous force to answer her.
Hours of past glory, are ye gone for ever?
Crowd ye upon my mind alone to torture me,
Or are ye pledge of wonders yet to come?
Ha!—armour here!—would that—it is my own!
Welcome, thrice welcome!—But how dimmed its brightness!
[Beauvais advances.
And the vile spider's cast her web across it.
Off, off, and let me wipe this rust away.
I gaze, and the whole field is now before me—
Proud steeds and gallant forms, war's panoply!
Oh! happy hours, when thus I clasped thee on me—
Thus kneeling, prayed for thee, my king, my country,
Thus rising bade—defiance to the foe!
Beau. Offspring of hell, accursed, shame of thy sex!
Incorrigible wretch! Guards, to the council,
Thus arrayed, conduct her. Hence!
Joan. Oh! hear me!
Beau. Not if thou wert to plead.
Joan. I plead for nought.
Think not, howe'er, I cannot now decipher
What thy malice had suggested. I see it;
See it and pity thee.
Scene IV.
Council. Bedford. Beauvais, &c. &c. Joan.
Bed. Advance!
Thou knowest the conditions upon which
Thy life was spared—thou hast presumed to break them—
Thine are the consequences. Found in arms,
A rebel's doom deferred now justly waits thee.
Joan. That I have erred, I own with deepest sorrow;
But 'twas through weakness: with like justice might
The poor, fond bird, unwitting of deceit,
Be blamed because it fell into the snare
The cunning fowler laid for its destruction.
It was a cruel deed—but let it pass:
Not so thy charge of rebel—I repel it.
Here silence would be guilty fear—not innocence.
Who rears his country's standard 'gainst the foe—
'Gainst the usurper, claims a nobler epithet.
The God of heaven approves the patriot's aim,
And sanctifies the deed. Not mine, not mine
The traitor's guilt, the traitor's doom: I die,
As I have wish'd to die,—in proof, in seal
Of my fidelity.