[Exeunt.
Du N. Cut off from ev'ry hope!—friend, foe alike—
Has Heaven itself forgotten to be just?
Oh, curse of courage, impotence of strength,
Panting to dare the worst, denied the means.
But I shall see her once again—Oh, joy!
Oh, agony! can ye indeed thus meet?
Scene VI.—Prison.
Joan.
Joan. How in its terrors hath the tempest raged!
'Tis misery's privilege alone to hear
The crash of warring elements unmoved,
And coldly tranquil press the iron couch.
These drops are but the remnant of the storm,
Cast by the pitying spirit as he fled,
His work of vengeance done, his fury quenched.
So fall the tears of fond regret, that bathe
The mourner's cheek, when time hath partly soothed her;
Large but not frequent, sad but not acute,
Sure proof of anguish past, not sorrow nigh.
And see, the young dawn from the sable couch
Of her more ancient spouse, now softly steals,
All bright and lovely, though in tears bedewed,
Silent to watch the rising beams of him
Beneath whose glance she melts, but must not wed.
Her love is set too high, and night, all foul,
As he appears in her averted eyes,
Again shall clasp her in his chilly arms,
And loathing claim her his. Her fate is mine,
And death, cold death, the bridegroom by whose side
I soon shall rest.
Enter Du Nois.
Du N. This then is thy abode!
This iron bed thy couch, this straw thy pillow!
Joan. Whose voice——
Du N. Knowst me not, Joan?