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THE VISION OF THE MAID OF

ORLEANS.1

[Robert Southey, LL.D., born at Bristol, 12th August, 1774; died at Keswick, Cumberland, 21st March, 1843. Poet, historian, biographer, and miscellaneous writer. For some time he was uncertain what profession to adopt his friends advised the church; he flirted with law, and at length devoted himself to literature. In 1807 he received a pension of £144 a year for literary services; in 1813 he was appointed poet laureate; in 1835 he was placed on the civil list for £300 a year, and Sir Robert Peel offered him a baronetcy, which he declined. Of his numerous works we may mention, amongst his poems: Joan of Arc: Thalaba the Destroyer; Mador: Metrical Tales and other Poems; Roderick, the Last of the Goths; Wat Tyler; The Curse of Kehama; The Poet's Pilgrimage to Waterloo, &c. Amongst his prose writings-The Life of Nelson-which Macaulay said was, "beyond all doubt, the most perfect of his works"-Life of John Wesley; History of the Peninsular War; Lives of Uneducated Poets; Essays, Moral and Political, &c. In his Poetic Literature, D. M. Moir observed: "Southey shone in the paths of gentle meditation and philosophic reflection; but his chief strength lay in description, where he had few equals. ... His pacious mind may be likened to a variegated contiBent, one region of which is damp with fogs, rough with rocks, barren and unprofitable; the other bright with glorious sunshine, valleys of rich luxuriance, and forests of perpetual verdure." Joan of Arc was his first publication of any importance, and appeared in 1795. In his later years the poet carefully revised the poem for the complete edition of his works published by Longmans and Co. The Maid of Orleans-so-called on account of her heroic defence of that city-was born in the hamlet of Domremy, near the Meuse, in 1410 or 1411, and her marvellous career closed in May, 1431, in the market-place of Rouen, where she was burned as a sorceress. Southey in his preface to the poem wrote: "That she believed herself inspired, few will deny; that she was inspired, few will venture to assert; and it is difficult to believe that she was herself imposed upon by Charles and Dunois. That she discovered the king when he disguised himself, among the courtiers, to deceive her, and that, as a proof of her mission, she demanded a sword from the tomb of St. Catherine, are facts in which all historians agree. The Maid was not knowingly

an impostor."]

Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch
The delegated Maiden lay; with toil
Exhausted, and sore anguish, soon she closed
Her heavy eyelids; not reposing then,

For busy phantasy in other scenes
Awaken'd: whether that superior powers,
By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream,

In the first edition of Joan of Arc this Vision formed the ninth book, allegorical machinery having been introduced throughout the poem as originally written. All that remained of such machinery was expunged in the second edition, and the Vision was then struck out, as no longer according with the general design.

Instructing best the passive faculty;

Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog,
Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world,
And all things are that seem.

Along a moor,

Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate,
She roam'd, a wanderer through the cheerless night.
Far through the silence of the unbroken plain
The bittern's boom was heard; hoarse, heavy, deep,
It made accordant music to the scene.

Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind,
Swept shadowing: through their broken folds the moon
Struggled at times with transitory ray,

And made the moving darkness visible.
And now arrived beside a fenny lake

She stands, amid whose stagnate waters, hoarse
The long reeds rustled to the gale of night.
A time-worn bark receives the maid, impell'd
By powers unseen; then did the moon display
Where through the crazy vessel's yawning side
The muddy waters oozed. A woman guides,
And spreads the sail before the wind, which moan'd
As melancholy mournful to her ear,

As ever by a dungeon'd wretch was heard
Howling at evening round his prison towers.
Wan was the pilot's countenance, her eyes
Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrow'd deep,
Channell'd by tears! a few gray locks hung down
Beneath her hood: and through the maiden's veins
Chill crept the blood, when, as the night breeze pass'd,
Lifting her tatter'd mantle, coil'd around
She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart.

The plumeless bats with short shrill note flit by. And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank Leapt, joyful to escape, yet trembling still In recollection.

There, a mouldering pile Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon Shone through its fretted windows: the dark yew, Withering with age, branch'd there its naked roots, And there the melancholy cypress rear'd Its head; the earth was heaved with many a mound, And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb.

And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, The virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man Sate near, seated on what in long-past days Had been some sculptured monument, now fallen And half-obscured by moss, and gather'd heaps Of wither'd yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones. His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full Upon the maid; the tomb-fires on his face Shed a blue light; his face was of the hue Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. Then with a deep heart terrifying voice,

Exclaim'd the spectre, "Welcome to these realms,
These regions of despair, O thou whose steps
Sorrow hath guided to my sad abodes!
Welcome to my drear empire, to this gloom
Eternal, to this everlasting night,

Where never morning darts the enlivening ray,
Where never shines the sun, but all is dark,
Dark as the bosom of their gloomy king."

So saying, he arose, and drawing on,
Her to the abbey's inner ruin led,

Resisting not his guidance. Through the roof
Once fretted and emblazed, but broken now
In part, elsewhere all open to the sky,
The moonbeams enter'd, chequer'd here, and here
With unimpeded light. The ivy twined
Round the dismantled columns; imaged forms
Of saints and warlike chiefs, moss canker'd now
And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground,
With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen,
And rusted trophies. Meantime overhead
Roar'd the loud blast, and from the tower the owl
Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest.
He, silent, led her on, and often paused,
And pointed, that her eye might contemplate
At leisure the drear scene.

He dragg'd her on
Through a low iron door, down broken stairs;
Then a cold horror through the maiden's frame
(rept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw,
By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light,
The fragments of the dead.

"Look here!" he cried,

"Damsel, look here! survey this house of death;
O soon to tenant it; soon to increase
These trophies of mortality, . . . for hence
Is no return. Gaze here; behold this skull,
These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws,
That with their ghastly grinning seem to mock
Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek

Must moulder. Child of grief! shrinks not thy soul,
Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart
At the dread thought that here its life's blood soon
Shall stagnate, and the finely-fibred frame,
Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon
With the cold clod? thing horrible to think, . . .
Yet in thought only, for reality

Is none of suffering here; here all is peace;
No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave.
Dreadful it is to think of losing life,
But having lost, knowledge of loss is not,
Therefore no ill. Oh, wherefore then delay
To end all ills at once!"

So spake Despair.
The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice,
And all again was silence. Quick her heart
Panted. He placed a dagger in her hand,
And cried again, "Oh wherefore then delay!
One blow, and rest for ever!" On the fiend
Dark scowl'd the virgin with indignant eye,
And threw the dagger down. He next his heart

Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the maid
Along the downward vault.
The damp earth gave

A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air
Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews.
"Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how loathsomely
The fleshly remnant of mortality

Moulders to clay !" then fixing his broad eye
Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse
Lay livid; she beheld with horrent look,

The spectacle abhorr'd by living man.

"Look here!" Despair pursued, "this loathsome mass Was once as lovely, and as full of life

As, damsel, thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes
Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence,
And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail,
Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought
That at the hallow'd altar, soon the priest
Should bless her coming union, and the torch
Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy,
Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth
That priest consign'd her, for her lover went
By glory lured to war, and perish'd there;
Nor she endured to live.

Ha! fades thy cheek?

Dost thou then, maiden, tremble at the tale? Look here! behold the youthful paramour! The self-devoted hero!"

Fearfully

The maid look'd down, and saw the well-known face
Of Theodore. In thoughts unspeakable,
Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd
Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the phantom
cried,

"Gaze on!" and unrelentingly he grasp'd

Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay,
As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow
Of youth and love; this is the hand that cleft
Proud Salisbury's crest, now motionless in death,
Unable to protect the ravaged frame
From the foul offspring of mortality
That feed on heroes. Though long years were thine
Yet never more would life reanimate

This slaughter'd youth; slaughter'd for thee! for thon
Didst lead him to the battle from his home,
Where else he had survived to good old age:
In thy defence he died: strike then! destroy
Remorse with life."

The Maid stood motionless,
And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand
Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried,
"Avaunt, Despair! Eternal Wisdom deals
Or peace to man, or misery, for his good
Alike design'd; and shall the creature cry,
'Why hast thou done this?' and with impious pride
Destroy the life God gave?"

The fiend rejoin'd.
"And thou dost deem it impious to destroy
The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot
Assign'd to mortal man? born but to drag,
Through life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load

Of being; care-corroded at the heart;

Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills
That flesh inherits; till at length worn out,
This is his consummation!-Think again!

What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life,
But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long,
Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs

Stretch out their languid length, oh think what thoughts,
What agonizing feelings, in that hour,

Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse,
Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew
The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force,
Mightiest in impotence, the love of life

Seizes the throbbing heart; the faltering lips
Pour out the impious prayer that fain would change
The Unchangeable's decree; surrounding friends
Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheeks with tears;
And all he loved in life embitters death.

"Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour Of easiest dissolution! yet weak man Resolves, in timid piety, to live;

And veiling fear in superstition's garb,

He calls her resignation!

Coward wretch !

Fond coward, thus to make his reason war
Against his reason. Insect as he is,
This sport of chance, this being of a day,
Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast,
Believes himself the care of heavenly powers,
That God regards man, miserable man,
And preaching thus of power and providence,
Will crush the reptile that may cross his path!

"Fool that thou art! the Being that permits Existence, gives to man the worthless boon: A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest, Bask in the sunshine of prosperity, And such do well to keep it. But to one Sick at the heart with misery, and sore With many a hard unmerited affliction, It is a hair that chains to wretchedness The slave who dares not burst it!

Thinkest thou,

The parent, if his child should unrecall'd
Return and fall upon his neck, and cry,
'Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full
of fleeting joys and heart-consuming cares,
I can be only happy in my home

With thee-my friend!-my father!' Thinkest thou,
That he would thrust him as an outcast forth?

Oh! he would clasp the truant to his heart,
And love the trespass."

Whilst he spake, his eye
Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul
Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood,
Even as a wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave
Supply, before him sees the poison'd food
In greedy horror.

Yet, not silent long.

Eloquent tempter, cease!" the Maiden cried,

"What though affliction be my portion here,
Thinkest thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy,
Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back
Upon a life of duty well perform'd,

Then lift mine eyes to heaven, and there in faith
Know my reward? . . . I grant, were this life all,
Was there no morning to the tomb's long night,
If man did mingle with the senseless clod,
Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed
A wise and friendly comforter! . . . But, fiend,
There is a morning to the tomb's long night,
A dawn of glory, a reward in heaven,
He shall not gain who never merited.
If thou didst know the worth of one good deed
In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose
The precious privilege, while life endures
To do my Father's will. A mighty task
Is mine, a glorious call. France looks to me
For her deliverance."

"Maiden, thou hast done
Thy mission here," the unbaffled fiend replied:
"The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance
Exulting in the pride of victory,

Forgettest him who perish'd: yet albeit
Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth,
That hour allotted canst thou not escape,
That dreadful hour, when contumely and shame
Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid!
Destined to drain the cup of bitterness,
Even to its dregs, . . . England's inhuman chiefs
Shall scoff thy sorrows, blacken thy pure fame,
Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity,

And force such burning blushes to the cheek

Of virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish
The earth might cover thee. In that last hour,
When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains
That link thee to the stake, a spectacle
For the brute multitude, and thou shalt hear
Mockery more painful than the circling flames
Which then consume thee; wilt thou not in vain
Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear
Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand
Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved
Insulted modesty?"

Her glowing cheek

The cold fiend,

Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy
Was fix'd; her breath short panted
Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "Too timid Maid,
So long repugnant to the healing aid
My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold
The allotted length of life."

He stamp'd the earth,
And dragging a huge coffin as his car,
Two Gouls came on, of form more tearful-foul
Than ever palsied in her wildest dream
Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair
Seized on the Maid, whose curdling blood stood still,
And placed her in the seat, and on they pass'd

Adown the deep descent. A meteor light
Shot from the dæmons, as they dragg'd along

The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren feast
On carcasses.

Below, the vault dilates

Its ample bulk. "Look here!"-Despair addrest
The shuddering virgin, "see the dome of Death!"
It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid
The entrails of the earth, as though to form

A grave for all mankind: no eye could reach
Its distant bounds. There, throned in darkness, dwelt
The unseen power of Death.

Here stopt the Gouls,
Reaching the destined spot. The fiend stepped out,
And from the coffin as he led the Maid,
Exclaim'd, "Where mortal never stood before,
Thou standest: look around this boundless vault;
Observe the dole that nature deals to man,
And learn to know thy friend."

She answer'd not,
Observing where the Fates their several tasks
Plied ceaseless. "Mark how long the shortest web
Allow'd to man!" he cried; "observe how soon,
Twined round yon never-resting wheel, they change
Their snowy hue, darkening through many a shade,
Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers."

Too true he spake, for of the countless threads,
Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow,
Or as the spotless lily of the vale,
Was never one beyond the little span
Of infancy untainted; few there were
But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue,
Or deeper sable dyed. Two Genii stood,
Still as the web of being was drawn forth,
Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn,
The one unsparing dash'd the bitter drops
Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow
Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form
Shed less profusely there his lesser store;
Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon,
Compassionating man; and happy he

Who on his thread those precious tears receives;
If it be happiness to have the pulse
That throbs with pity, and in such a world
Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches
With anguish at the sight of human woe.

To her the fiend, well hoping now success, "This is thy thread; observe how short the span; And little doth the evil Genius spare

His bitter tincture there." The Maiden saw
Calmly. Now gaze!" the tempter fiend exclaim'd,
And placed again the poniard in her hand,
For Superstition, with a burning torch,
Approach'd the loom. "This, damsel, is thy fate!
The hour draws on--now strike the dagger home!
Strike now, and be at rest!"

The Maid replied, "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, Impious I strive not: let that will be done!"

She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd Amid the air, such odours wafting now

As erst came blended with the evening gale, From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form Stood by the Maid; his wings, ethereal white, Flash'd like the diamond in the noontide sun, Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd Her Theodore.

Amazed she saw: the fiend Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice Sounded, though now more musically sweet Than ever yet had thrill'd her soul attuned, When eloquent affection fondly told The day-dreams of delight.

"Beloved Maid!

Lo! I am with thee, still thy Theodore !
Hearts in the holy bands of love combined,
Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine!
A little while and thou shalt dwell with me
In scenes where sorrow is not. Cheerily
Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave,
Rough though it be and painful, for the grave
Is but the threshold of eternity."

THE ADMIRAL ON SHORE

BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

I do not know any moment in which the two undelightful truisms which we are all so ready to admit and to run away from-the quick progress of time and the instability of common events are brought before us with a more uncomfortable consciousness than that of visiting. after a long absence, a house with whose former inhabitants we had been on terms of intimacy. The feeling is still more unpleasant when it comes to us unexpectedly and finds us unpre pared, as has happened to me to-day.

A friend requested me this morning to ac company her to call on her little girl, whom she had recently placed at the Belvidere, a new and celebrated boarding-school-I beg pardon! -establishment for young ladies, about ten miles off. We set out accordingly, and, my friend being a sort of person in whose company one is apt to think little of anything but her self, had proceeded to the very gate of the Belvidere before I had at all recollected the road we were travelling, when in our momentary stop at the entrance of the lawn, I at once recognized the large substantial mansion, surrounded by magnificent oaks and elms, whose shadow lay broad and heavy on the grass the bright sun of August; the copse-like shrubbery, which sunk with a pretty natural wildness to a dark clear pool, the ha ha, which parted the pleasure-ground from the open com mon, and the beautiful country which lay like a panorama beyond-in a word, I knew at a

in

glance, in spite of the disguise of its new appellations, the White House at Hannonby, where ten years ago I had so often visited my good old friend Admiral Floyd.

The place had undergone other transmogrifications besides its change of name; in particular, it had gained a few prettinesses and had lost much tidiness. A new rustic bench, a green-house, and a verandah, may be laid to the former score; a torn book left littering on the seat, a broken swing dangling from the trees, a skipping-rope on the grass, and a straw bonnet on a rose-bush, to the latter; besides which, the lawn which, under the naval reign, had been kept almost as smooth as water, was now in complete neglect, the turf in some places growing into grass, in others trodden quite bare by the continual movement of little rapid feet; leaves lay under the trees; weeds were on the gravel; and dust upon the steps. And in two or three chosen spots small fairy gardens had been cribbed from the shrubberies, where seedy mignonette and languishing sweet-peas, and myrtles over-watered, and geraniums, trained as never geraniums were trained before, gave manifest tokens of youthful gardening. None of the inhabitants were visible, but it was evidently a place gay and busy with children, devoted to their sports and their exercise. As we neared the mansion, the sounds and sights of school keeping became more obvious. Two or three pianos were jingling in different rooms, a guitar tinkling, and a harp twanging; a din of childish voices, partly French partly English, issued from one end of the house; and a foreign-looking figure advanced from the other, whom, from his silk stockings, his upright carriage, and the boy who followed him carrying his kit, I set down for the dancing-master; whilst in an upstair apartment were two or three rosy laughing faces, enjoying the pleasure of disobedience in peeping out of window, one of which faces disappeared the moment it caught sight of the carriage, and was in another instant hanging round its mother's neck in the hall. I could not help observing to the governess, who also met us there, that it was quite shocking to think how often disobedience prospers amongst these little people. If Miss Emily had not been peeping out of the window when we drove up to the door, she would have been at least two minutes later in kissing her dear mamma -a remark to which the little girl assented very heartily, and at which her accomplished preceptress tried to look grave.

Leaving Emily with her mother, I sallied forth on the lawn to reconnoitre old scenes and

recollect old times. My first visit especially forced itself on my remembrance. It had been made, like this, under the sultry August sun. We then lived within walking distance, and I had been proceeding hither to call on our new neighbours, Admiral and Mrs. Floyd, when a very unaccountable noise on the lawn induced me to pause at the entrance; a moment's observation explained the nature of the sounds. The admiral was shooting wasps with a pocketpistol; a most villanous amusement, as it seemed to me, who am by nature and habit a hater of such poppery, and indeed of all noises which are at once sudden and expected. My first impulse was to run away, and I had actually made some motions towards a retreat, when, struck with the ludicrous nature of the sport, and the folly of being frightened at a sort of squibbery, which even the unusual game (though the admiral was a capital marksman, and seldom failed to knock down his insect) did not seem to regard, I faced about manfully, and contenting myself with putting my hands to my ears to keep out the sound, remained at a very safe distance to survey the scene. There, under the shade of the tall elms, sat the veteran, a little old withered man, very like a pocket-pistol himself, brown, succinct, grave, and fiery. He wore an old-fashioned naval uniform of blue, faced with white, which set off his mahogany countenance, drawn into a thousand deep wrinkles, so that his face was as full of lines as if it had been tattooed, with the full force of contrast. At his side stood a very tall, masculine, large-boned, middle-aged woman, something like a man in petticoats, whose face, in spite of a quantity of rouge and a small portion of modest assurance, might still be called handsome, and could never be mistaken for belonging to other than an Irish woman. There was a touch of the brogue in her very look. She, evidently his wife, stood by marking the covies, and enjoying, as it seemed to me, the smell of gunpowder, to which she had the air of being quite as well accustomed as the admiral. A younger lady was watching them at a little distance, apparently as much amused as myself, and far less frightened; on her advancing to meet me the pistol was put down, and the admiral joined us. This was my first introduction: we were acquainted in a moment; and before the end of my visit he had shown me all over his house, and told me the whole history of his life and adventures.

In these there was nothing remarkable, excepting their being so entirely of the sea. Some sixty-five years before, he had come into

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