140
JOAN OF ARC.
Her Conrade held and cried, "Ill-fated Maid,
That I have torn thee from Affection's breast,
My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve 305
Like me, the worthless Court, and having serv'd,
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou shalt curse
The duty that deluded. Of the world
Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow men
I shall be seen no more. There is a path—310
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf
Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod
That path, and mark'd a melancholy den,
Where one whose jaundiced soul abhors itself,
May pamper him in compleat wretchedness. 315
There sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,
Conrade shall dwell, and in the languid hour,
When the jarr'd senses sink to a sick calm,
Shall mourn the waste of frenzy!"
So he spake,
And clasping to his heart the Virgin's hand, 320
Sped rapid o'er the plain. She with dim eyes,
For gushing tears obscur'd them, follow'd him
That I have torn thee from Affection's breast,
My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve 305
Like me, the worthless Court, and having serv'd,
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou shalt curse
The duty that deluded. Of the world
Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow men
I shall be seen no more. There is a path—310
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf
Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod
That path, and mark'd a melancholy den,
Where one whose jaundiced soul abhors itself,
May pamper him in compleat wretchedness. 315
There sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,
Conrade shall dwell, and in the languid hour,
When the jarr'd senses sink to a sick calm,
Shall mourn the waste of frenzy!"
So he spake,
And clasping to his heart the Virgin's hand, 320
Sped rapid o'er the plain. She with dim eyes,
For gushing tears obscur'd them, follow'd him
Till
