Sinewy and firm, and fit for deeds of arms,
Tower'd above the throng effeminate.
No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs
Effaced the hauberk's honourable marks; 1
His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints
Many and deep; upon his pictured shield
A Lion vainly struggled in the toils,
Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage
Assail'd the huntsman. Tremouille followed them,
Proud of the favour of a Prince who seem'd
Given up to vain delights; conspicuous he
In arms with azure and with gold anneal'd,
Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade
Defaced, nor e'er with hostile blood distain'd;
Trimly accoutred court-habiliments,
Gay lady-dazzling armour, fit to adorn
Tourney, or tilt, the gorgeous pageantry
Of mimic warfare. After him there came
A train of courtiers, summer flies that sport
In the sunbeam of favour, insects sprung
From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers,
The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.

As o'er some flowery field the busy bees
Fill with their happy hum the fragrant air,
A grateful music to the traveller,

Who in the shade of some wide-spreading tree
Rests on his way awhile; or like the sound
Of many waters down some far-off steep
Holding their endless course, the murmur rose
Of admiration. Every gazing eye

Dwelt on the Prophetess; of all beside,
The long procession and the gorgeous train,

And their rich plumes high waving to the air,
Heedless.

The consecrated dome they reach,
Rear'd to St. Katharine's holy memory.
Her tale the altar told; how Maximin,
His raised lip kindled with a savage smile,
In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel
Rend her life piecemeal, that the very face
Of the hard executioner relax'd

With pity; calm she heard, no drop of blood
Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn'd
Heaven-ward, and hope and meekest piety
Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust,
For lo the Angel of the LORD descends
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel!
One glance of holy triumph Katharine cast,
Then bow'd her to the sword of martyrdom.?

Her eye averting from the pictured tale,
The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd
To Heaven her earnest prayer.

A trophied tomb
Stood near the altar where some warrior slept
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone
And rude-ensculptured effigy o'erlaid
The sepulchre. In silent wonderment
The expectant multitude with eager eye
Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke
Invades the tomb's repose; the heavy stroke
Sounds hollow; over the high-vaulted roof
Roll the repeated echoes: soon the day
Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam
Falls on the arms inshrined, the crested helm,

"Afin d'empêcher les impressions que ce treillis de fer devait laisser sur la peau, on avait soin de se matelasser en dessous. Malgré ces précautions cependant il en laissait encore; ces marques s'appellaient camois, et on les faisait disparaître par le bain. - Le Grand.

2 Such is the legend of St. Katharine, princess of Alexandria, whose story has been pictured upon sign-posts and in churches, but whose memory has been preserved in this country longer by the ale-house than by the altar. The most extravagant perhaps of Dryden's plays is upon this subject. In the first edition I had, ignorantly, represented Katharine as dying upon the wheel, and the description of her sufferings was far too minute. Dryden has committed the last fault in a far greater degree; the old martyrologies particularize no cruelties more revolting to the reader than he has detailed in the speech of Maximin when he orders her to execution.

From a passage in the Jerusalem Conquistada it should seem that St. Katharine was miraculously betrothed to her heavenly spouse. As the crusaders approach Jerusalem, they visit the holy places on their way;

" Qual visita el lugar con llanto tierno,
Donde la hermosa virgen Caterina

Se desposo con el Esposo eterno,
La Angelica Rachel siendo madrina;
Aquel Esposo, que el nevado invierno

Se cubrio con escarcha matutina,
El que tiene los ojos de palomas

Y del labio de lirio vierte aromas."- Lope de Vega. The marginal note adds, "La Virgen fue Madrina en los desposorios de Caterina y Christo."

Of St. Margaret, the other favourite saint of the maid, I find recorded by Bergomensis, that she called the pagan præfect an impudent dog, that she was thrown into a dungeon,

where a horrible dragon swallowed her, that she crossed herself, upon which the dragon immediately burst and she came out safe, and that she saw the devil standing in the corner like a black man, and seized him and threw him down.

Absurd as this legend is, it once occasioned a very extraordinary murder. A young Lombard after hearing it, prayed so earnestly for an opportunity of fighting with the devil like St. Margaret, that he went into the fields in full expectation that his desire would be gratified. A hideous old dumb woman came by: he mistook her for the tempter; her inarticulate noises confirmed him in this opinion, and he knocked her down and trampled upon her. The poor wretch died of her bruises, but a miracle was wrought to save her murderer, in consideration that his madness was a pious madness, and before she died she spoke to excuse the mistake. This tale is told in that strange collection of ludicrous stories upon religious subjects, the Pia Hilaria. The authority referred to, is Petr. Rausani Hist., lib. xxxv.

3 "Puella petiit gladium, quem divinitus, uti aiebat, erat facta certior in templo divæ Catherinæ in Turonibus, inter antiqua donaria pendere. Miratus Carolus, gladium inquiri, ac inventum protinus Puellæ afferri jussit."- Polydore Virgil.

Roland, or rather Orlando, for it is Ariosto who has immortalized him, was buried with Durindana at his side, and his horn Olifant at his feet. Charlemain also had his good sword Joyeuse buried with him. He was placed in his sepulchre on a golden throne, crowned and habited in his imperial robes, though a cilice was next his skin; one hand held a globe of gold, the other rested on the Gospels, which were lying on his knees. His shield and sceptre were hung opposite to him, on the side of the sepulchre, which was filled with perfumes and spices, and then closed. Tizona was buried with the Cid, no living man being worthy to wield

A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment

The dolorous stroke 4, the blameless and the brave, Who died beneath a brother's erring arm.

Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid.
Over her robes the hallowed breast-plate threw,
Self-fitted to her form on her helm'd head
The white plumes nod, majestically slow;
She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword,
Gleaming portentous light.

The wondering crowd
Raise their loud shout of transport. "God of Heaven,"
The Maid exclaim'd, "Father all merciful!
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield

The sword of vengeance; go before our host!
All-just avenger of the innocent,

Be thou our Champion! God of Peace, preserve
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms."

She ceased, and with an eager hush the crowd Still listen'd! a brief while throughout the dome Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn, "Thee LORD we praise, our GOD!" the throng without

Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy,
And thundering transport peals along the heaven.

As through the parting crowd the Virgin pass'd, He who from Orleans on the yesternight Demanded succour, clasp'd with warmth her hand, And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd, "Ill omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth, Devoted for this king-curst realm of France, Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee!" so saying, He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words Disturb'd, the warlike Virgin pass'd along, And much revolving in her troubled mind, Retrod the court.

And now the horn announced The ready banquet; they partook the feast, 1 Then rose and in the cooling water cleansed Their hands, and seated at the board again Enjoy'd the bowl, or scented high with spice, Or flavour'd with the fragrant summer fruit, Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich. 2 Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp; he sung Of Lancelot Du Lake, the truest Knight That ever loved fair Lady; and the youth Of Cornwall 3 underneath whose maiden sword The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck

1 Cette cérémonie chez les grands s'annonçait au son du cor, ou au son d'une cloche; coutume qui subsiste encore dans les couvens et les maisons opulentes, pour annoncer le egrert et le diner. Après le service des viandes, c'est-à-dire, après ce que nous appellons entrées, rôti et entremets, on sortait de table pour se laver les mains une seconde fois, comme cher le Romains de qui paraît être venu cet usage. Les domestiques desservaient pendant ce tems; ils enlevaient une des nappes et apportaient les confitures (qu'on nommait épices) et les vins composés. A ce moment, fait pour la gaieté, commençaient les devis plaisans et joyeux propos, car dans ce bon vieux tems on aimait beaucop de rire. C'était alors que les ménétriers venoient réciter leurs fabliaux, lorsqu'on admettait leur présence."-Le Grand.

"Il y avait plusieurs sortes de ces vins préparés qu'on

Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel!

The songs of earlier years embalm your fame;

And haply yet some Poet shall arise,

Like that divinest Tuscan 5, and enwreathe
The immortal garland for himself and you.

The harp still rung beneath the high-arch'd roof, And listening eager to the favourite lay, The guests sat silent, when into the hall The Messenger from that besieged town, Re-enter'd.

"It is pleasant, King of France,"
Said he, "to sit and hear the harper's song;
Far other music hear the men of Orleans!
Famine is there; and there the imploring cry
Of Hunger ceases not."

"Insolent man!"
Exclaim'd the Monarch, "cease to interrupt
Our hour of festival; it is not thine
To instruct me in my duty."

Of reproof

Careless, the stranger to the minstrel cried,
"Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame
Amid these walls? Virtue and genius love
That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose lewd tale
To pamper and provoke the appetite?
Such should procure thee worthy recompence!
Or rather sing thou of that wealthy Lord,

Who took the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom,
That was to him even as a daughter! Charles,
This parable would I tell, prophet-like,
And look at thee and say, 'Thou art the man!"

He said, and with a quick and troubled step Withdrew. Astonish'd at his daring guise, The guests sat heedless of the lay awhile, Pondering his words mysterious, till at length The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hall, Charles and the delegated damsel sought The inner palace. There the gentle Queen Awaited them: with her Joan lov'd to pass Her intervals of rest; for she had won The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy, The calm and duteous patience that deplored A husband's cold half-love. To her she told With what strange words the messenger from Orleans Had roused uneasy wonder in her mind;

servait après les viandes. 1. les Vin cuits, qui sont encore en usage dans quelques provinces, et qui ont conservé le même nom. 2. Ceux auxquels on ajoutait le suc de quelque fruit, tels que le Moré, fait avec du jus de mûre. 3. Ceux qu'on assaisonnait avec du miel, comme le Nectar, le Medon, &c. 4. Ceux où l'on faisait infuser des plantes médicinales ou aromatiques, et qui prenaient leur nom de ces plantes, Vins d'Absinthe, de Myrthe, d'Aloes, &c. Le Roman de Florimont les appelle Vins herbez. 5. Enfin ceux dans lesquels, outre le miel, il entrait des épices. On appellait ces derniers du nom général de Pimens. C'étoient les plus estimés de tous. Nos auteurs n'en parlent qu'avec délices. Il eût manqué quelque chose à une fête ou à un repas, si on n'y eût point servi du

Piment: et l'an on donnait même aux moines dans les couvens à certains de l'année."- Le Grand.

3 Sir Tristram du Lyones.

4 Sir Balin le Sauvage.

5 Ariosto.

Of calmness," There are moments when the soul
From her own impulse with strange dread recoils,
Suspicious of herself; but with a full

And perfect faith I know this vision sent
From Heaven, and feel of its unerring truth,
As that God liveth, that I live myself,

The feeling that deceives not.”

By the hand

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
Like me, the worthless Court, and having served,
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou wilt 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...1
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf
Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod
That path, and found a melancholy den,
Fit place for penitence and hopeless woe,
Where sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,
Conrade may pass his few and evil days,
Waiting the wish'd-for summons to lay down
His weary load of life."

But then the Maid
Fx'd on the warrior her reproving eye;
"I pass'd the fertile Auxerrois," she said,
The vines had spread their interwoven shoots
Over the unpruned vineyards, and the grape
Botted beneath the leaves; for there was none
To tread the vintage, and the birds of Heaven
Had had their fill. I saw the cattle start
As they did hear the loud alarum bell, 2
And with a piteous moaning vainly seek
To fly the coming slaughterers. I look'd back
Upon the cottage where I had partaken
The peasant's meal,.. and saw it wrapt in flames.
And then I thank'd my God that I had burst
The ties, strong as they are, which bind us down
To selfish happiness, and on this earth
Was as a pilgrim 3... Conrade! rouse thyself!
Cast the weak nature off! A time like this
l not for gentler feelings, for the glow
Of love, the overflowings of the heart.
There is oppression in thy country, Conrade!
There is a cause, a holy cause, that needs
The brave man's aid. Live for it, and enjoy
Earth's noblest recompense, thine own esteem ;
Or die in that good cause, and thy reward
Shall sure be found in Heaven."

1 In sooth the estate of France was then most miserable. There appeared nothing but a horrible face, confusion, poverty, desolation, solitarinesse and feare. The lean and bare laborers in the country did terrifie even theeves themselves, who had nothing left them to spoile but the carkasses of these pore miserable creatures, wandering up and down like ghostes drawne out of their graves. were fortified by these robbers, English, Bourguegnons and French, every one striving to do his worst: all men of war were well agreed to spoile the countryman and merchant. born the cattell, accustomed to the larume bell, the signe of

The least farmes and hamlets

But pressing to his heart the Virgin's hand,
Hasten'd across the plain. She with dim eyes,
For gushing tears obscured them, follow'd him
Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought
Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne
Awhile she wander'd, then upon the bank
She laid her down, and watch'd the tranquil stream
Flow with a quiet murmuring, by the clouds
Of evening purpled. The perpetual flow,

The ceaseless murmuring, lull'd her to such dreams
As memory in her melancholy mood

Loves best. The wonted scenes of Arc arose;
She saw the forest brook, the weed that waved
Its long green tresses in the stream, the crag
Which overbrow'd the spring, and that old yew
Which through the bare and rifted rock had forced
Its twisted trunk, the berries cheerful red
Starring its gloomy green. Her pleasant home
She saw, and those who made that home so dear,
Her lov'd lost friends. The mingled feelings fill'd
Her eyes, when from behind a voice was heard,
"O Lady! canst thou tell me where to find
The Maid whom Heaven hath sent to rescue
France?"

Thrill'd by the well-known tones, she started up,
And fell upon the neck of Theodore.

"Have I then found thee!" cried the impassioned

youth;

"Henceforth we part no more; but where thou goest Thither go I. Beloved in the front

Of battle thou shalt find me at thy side;

And in the breach this breast shall be thy shield
And rampart. Oh, ungenerous ! Why from me
Conceal the inspiration? why from me
Hide thy miraculous purpose? Am I then
So all unworthy that thou shouldst set forth
Beneath another's guidance?

Thus he cried,
Mingling reproach with tenderness, yet still
Clasping in warm embrace the maid beloved.
She of her bidding and futurity

Awhile forgetful, patient of the embrace,
With silent tears of joy bedew'd his neck.

At length, "I hope," she cried, "thou art not come
With heavier fault and breach of nearer tie!
How did thy mother spare thee,.. thou alone
The stay and comfort of her widowed age?
Did she upon thy parting steps bestow
Her free-will blessing, or hast thou set forth,
Which Heaven forbid, unlicensed, and unblest? "

the enemy's approach, would run home of themselves without any guide by this accustomed misery.

"This is the perfect description of those times, taken out of the lamentations of our ancestors, set down in the original," says De Serres. "But amidst this horrible calamity, God did

comfort both the king and realme, for about the end of the yeere, he gave Charles a goodly sonne by queen Mary his wife." 3 "O my people, hear my word: make you ready to the battle, and in those evils be even as pilgrims upon the earth."-2 Esdras, xvi. 40.

4 "Let go from thee mortal thoughts, cast away the burdens of man, put off now the weak nature,

"And set aside the thoughts that are most heavy unto thee, and haste thee to flee from these times."-2 Esdras, xiv. 14, 15.

D

"Oh, surely not unblest!" the youth replied: Yet conscious of his unrepented fault,

With countenance flush'd, and faltering in reply:
"She wept at my departure, she would fain
Have turn'd me from my purpose, and my heart
Perhaps had fail'd me, if it had not glow'd
With ardour like thine own; the sacred fire
With which thy bosom burns had kindled me;
High in prophetic hope, I bade her place
Her trust in Heaven; I bade her look to hear
Good tidings soon of glorious victory;
I told her I should soon return, . . return
With thee, and thou wouldst be to her old age
What Madelon had been."

As thus he spake,
Warm with the imaginary bliss, he clasp'd
The dear one closer to his yearning heart.
But the devoted Virgin in his arms
Started and shudder'd, for the flaming pile
Flash'd on remembrance now, and on her soul
The whole terrific vision rose again.

A death-like paleness at the dreadful thought
Wither'd her cheek; cold damps suffused her brow,
And falling on the neck of Theodore,
Feeble and faint she hung.

His eager eye

Concentring all the anguish of the soul,
And strain'd in anxious love, gazed fearfully
With wondering anguish; till ennobling thoughts
Of her high mission roused her, and her soul
Collected, and she spake.

"My Theodore,

Thou hast done ill to quit thy mother's home!
Alone and aged she will weep for thee,
Wasting her little that is left of life
In anguish. Now go back again to Arc,
And cheer her wintry hours of widowhood,
And love my memory there."

Swift she exclaim'd,

And with a faltering voice, "Return to Arc!

I do not tell thee there are other maids
As fair; for thou wilt love my memory,
Hallowing to me the temple of thy heart.
Worthy a happier, not a better love,1
My Theodore !"— - Then, pressing his pale lips,
A last and holy kiss the Virgin fix'd,
And fled across the plain.

She reach'd the court
Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind
Shook every fibre. Sad and sick at heart,
Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude
The Maiden had retired; but her the King
Met on the threshold. He of the late scene
Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem'd
As though there had not been a God in Heaven!
"Enter the hall," he said, "the masquers there
Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad?
Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame
With his strange speeches ?"

Ere the Maid replied, The Son of Orleans came with joyful speed, Poising his massy javelin. "Thou hast roused The sleeping virtue of the sons of France, They crowd around the standard,” cried the chief. "Our brethren pent in Orleans, every moment Gaze from the watch-tower with the sickening eye Of expectation."

Then the King exclaim'd, "O chosen by Heaven! defer one day thy march, That humbled at the altar we may join The general prayer. Be these our holy rites To-morrow's task; — to-night for merriment!"

"I shall not need thy succour in the war.
Me, Heaven, if so seem good to its high will,
Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore,
Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home
And make thy mother happy."

The youth's cheek
A rapid blush disordered. "Oh! the court
Is pleasant then, and thou wouldst fain forget
A humble villager, who only boasts
The treasure of the heart!

She look'd at him With a reproaching eye of tenderness: "Injurious man! devoted for this realm, I go a willing victim. The dark veil Hath been withdrawn for me, and I have seen The fearful features of Futurity. Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country, Abandoning for it the joys of life,

Yea, life itself!" Then on his neck she fell,

1 "Digna minus misero, non meliore viro."— Ovid.

JOAN OF ARC.

THE FIFTH BOOK.

SCARCE had the early dawn from Chinon's towers
Made visible the mist that curl'd along

The river's winding way, when from her couch
The martial Maid arose. She mail'd her limbs;
The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head;
She girt the sacred falchion by her side,
And, like a youth who from his mother's arms,
For his first field impatient, breaks away,
Poising the lance went forth.

2 Esdras, xiv. 14.