But among the number of worthless poems upon this subject, there are two which are unfortunately notorious, the Pucelles of Chapelain and Voltaire. I have had patience to peruse the first, and never have been guilty of looking into the second; it is well said by George Herbert,

Make not thy sport abuses, for the fly

That feeds on dung, is colored thereby.

On the eighth of May, the anniversary of its deliverance, an annual fête is held at Orleans; and monuments have been erected there and at Rouen to the memory of the Maid. Her family was ennobled by Charles; but it should not be forgotten in the history of this monarch, that in the hour of misfortune he abandoned to her fate the woman who had saved his kingdom.

BRISTOL, November, 1795.

The poem, thus crudely conceived, rashly prefaced, and prematurely hurried into the world, was nevertheless favorably received, owing chiefly to adventitious circumstances. A work of the same class, with as much power and fewer faults, if it were published now, would attract little or no attention. One thing which contributed to bring it into immediate notice was, that no poem of equal pretension had appeared for many years, except Glover's Athenaid, which, notwithstanding the reputation of his Leonidas, had been utterly neglected. But the chief cause of its favorable reception was, that it was written in a republican spirit, such as may easily be accounted for in a youth whose notions of liberty were taken from the Greek and Roman writers, and who was ignorant enough of history and of human nature to believe, that a happier order of things had commenced with the independence of the United States, and would be accelerated by the French Revolution. Such opinions were then as unpopular in England as they deserved to be; but they were cherished by most of the critical journals, and conciliated for me the good-will of some of the most influential writers who were at that time engaged in periodical literature, though I was personally unknown to them. They bestowed upon the poem abundant praise, passed over most of its manifold faults, and noticed others with indulgence. Miss Seward wrote some verses upon it in a strain of the highest eulogy and the bitterest invective; they were sent to the Morning

A work, in which the author and the bookseller had engaged with equal imprudence, thus proved beneficial to both. It made me so advantageously known as a poet, that no subsequent hostility on the part of the reviews could pull down the reputation which had been raised by their good offices. Before that hostility took its determined character, the charge of being a hasty and careless writer was frequently brought against me. Yet to have been six months correcting what was written in six weeks, was some indication of patient industry; and of this the second edition gave further evidence. Taking for a second motto the words of Erasmus, Ut homines ita libros, indies seipsis meliores fieri oportet, I spared no pains to render the poem less faulty both in its construction and composition; I wrote a new beginning, threw out much of what had remained of the original draught, altered more, and endeavored, from all the materials which I had means of consulting, to make myself better acquainted with the manners and circumstances of the fifteenth century. Thus the second edition differed almost as much from the first, as that from the copy which was originally intended for publication. Less extensive alterations were made in two subsequent editions; the fifth was only a reprint of the fourth; by that time I had become fully sensible of its great and numerous faults, and requested the reader to remember, as the only apology which could be offered for them, that the poem was written at the age of nineteen, and published at one-and-twenty. My intention then was, to take no further pains in correcting a work of which the inherent defects were incorrigible; and I did not look into it again for many years.

But now, when about to perform what at my age may almost be called the testamentary task of. revising, in all likelihood for the last time, those works by which it was my youthful ambition “to be forever known," and part whereof I dare believe has been "so written to after times as they should not willingly let it die," it appeared proper that this poem, through which the author had been first made known to the public, two-and-forty years ago, should lead the way; and the thought that it was once more to pass through the press under my own inspection, induced a feeling in some respects resembling that with which it had been first delivered to the printer- and yet how different! for not in hope and ardor, nor with the impossible intention of rendering it what it might have been had it been planned and execu

ted in middle life, did I resolve to correct it once more throughout; but for the purpose of making it more consistent with itself in diction, and less inconsistent in other things with the well-weighed opinions of my maturer years. The faults of effort, which may generally be regarded as hopeful indications in a juvenile writer, have been mostly left as they were. The faults of language which remained from the first edition have been removed, so that in this respect the whole is sufficiently in keeping. And for those which expressed the political prejudices of a young man who had too little knowledge to suspect his own ignorance, they have either been expunged, or altered, or such substitutions have been made for them as harmonize with the pervading spirit of the poem, and are nevertheless in accord with those opinions which the author has maintained for thirty years, through good and evil report, in the maturity of his judgment as well as in the sincerity of his heart.

KESWICK, August 30, 1837.

TO EDITH SOUTHEY

EDITH! I brought thee late a humble gift,
The songs of earlier youth; it was a wreath
With many an unripe blossom garlanded
And many a weed, yet mingled with some flowers
Which will not wither. Dearest! now I bring
A worthier offering; thou wilt prize it well,
For well thou know'st amid what painful cares
My solace was in this: and though to me
There is no music in the hollowness
Of common praise, yet well content am I
Now to look back upon my youth's green prime,
Nor idly, nor unprofitably past,

Imping in such adventurous essay

An old man and a maid awaited him
In the castle-hall. He knew the old man well,
His vassal Claude; and at his bidding Claude
Approach'd, and after meet obeisance made,
Bespake Sir Robert.

"Good my Lord, I come

With a strange tale; I pray you pardon me
If it should seem impertinent, and like
An old man's weakness. But, in truth, this Maid
Hath with such boding thoughts impress'd my heart,
I think I could not longer sleep in peace
Gainsaying what she sought. She saith that God
Bids her go drive the Englishmen from France!
Her parents mock at her and call her crazed,
And father Regnier says she is possess'd; -
But I, who know that never thought of ill
Found entrance in her heart,-for, good my Lord,
From her first birth-day she hath been to me
As mine own child,—and I am an old man,
Who have seen many moon-struck in my time,
And some who were by evil Spirits vex'd,-
I, Sirs, do think that there is more in this.
And who can tell but, in these perilous times,
It may please God,—but hear the Maid yourselves,
For if, as I believe, this is of Heaven,

My silly speech doth wrong it."

While he spake, Curious they mark'd the Damsel. She appear'd Of eighteen years; there was no bloom of youth Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues Of health with lesser fascination fix'd The gazer's eye; for wan the Maiden was, Of saintly paleness, and there seem'd to dwell In the strong beauties of her countenance Something that was not earthly.

"I have heard

Of this your niece's malady," replied
The Lord of Vaucouleur, "that she frequents
The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude,
Estranged from human kind and human cares
With loathing like to madness. It were best

BURTON, near Christ Church, 1797.

THE FIRST BOOK.

THERE was high feasting held at Vaucouleur,
For old Sir Robert had a famous guest,
The Bastard Orleans; and the festive hours,
Cheer'd with the Trobador's sweet minstrelsy,
Pass'd gayly at his hospitable board.
But not to share the hospitable board
And hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had sought
Sir Robert's hall; he came to rouse Lorraine,
And glean what force the wasting war had left
For one last effort. Little had the war
Left in Lorraine, but age, and youth unripe
For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids
Of widow'd loves. And now with his great guest
The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing
On what might profit France, and found no hope,
Despairing of their country, when he heard

Who duly, morn and eve, for her soul's health
Soliciting Heaven, may likeliest remedy
The stricken mind, or frenzied or possess'd."

So as Sir Robert ceased, the Maiden cried,
"I am not mad. Possess'd indeed I am!
The hand of GoD is strong upon my soul,
And I have wrestled vainly with the LORD,
And stubbornly, I fear me. I can save
This country, Sir! I can deliver France!
Yea I must save the country! - God is in me;
I speak not, think not, feel not of myself.
He knew and sanctified me ere my birth;
HE to the nations hath ordained me;
And whither HE shall send me, I must go;
And whatso HE commands, that I must speak;
And whatso is HIS will, that I must do;
And I must put away all fear of man,
Lest HE in wrath confound me."

At the first

With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard The Maid inspired; but now he in his heart Felt that misgiving which precedes belief

In what was disbelieved and scoff'd at late
For folly. "Damsel!" said the Chief, " methinks
It would be wisely done to doubt this call,
Haply of some ill Spirit prompting thee
To self-destruction."

Pray for me, that I fail not in my hour!" Thereat awhile, as if some awful thought

It were as easy when I gaze around
On all this fair variety of things,

Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth
Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt
Creating wisdom! - When in the evening gale
I breathe the mingled odors of the spring,
And hear the wildwood melody, and hear
The populous air vocal with insect life,

Tidings of joy for all, but most for thee!

Be this thy comfort!" The old man received
Her last embrace, and weeping like a child,
Scarcely through tears could see them on their steeds
Spring up, and go their way.

So on they went, And now along the mountain's winding path Upward they journey'd slow, and now they paused

Felt in the midnight silence of my soul
The call of GOD."

They listen'd to the Maid,
And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois,
"Wilt thou go with me, Maiden, to the King,
And there announce thy mission?" Thus he said,
For thoughts of politic craftiness arose
Within him, and his faith, yet unconfirm'd,
Determin'd to prompt action. She replied,
"Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur,
That with such credence as prevents delay,

Of Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen,
Dark and distinct; below its castled height,
Through fair and fertile pastures, the deep Meuse
Roll'd glittering on.
Domremi's cottages

Gleam'd in the sun hard by, white cottages,
That in the evening traveller's weary mind
Had waken'd thoughts of comfort and of home,
Making him yearn for rest. But on one spot,
One little spot, the Virgin's eye was fix'd,
Her native Arc; embower'd the hamlet lay
Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods,
With all their infinite varieties,

Then Dunois address'd

Sir Robert, "Fare thee well, my friend and host!
It were ill done to linger here when Heaven
Vouchsafes such strange assistance. Let what force
Lorraine can raise to Chinon follow us;
And with the tidings of this holy Maid,
Sent by the LORD, fill thou the country; soon
Therewith shall France awake as from the sleep
Of death. Now, Maid! depart we at thy will."

"GOD's blessing go with ye!" exclaim'd old Claude, "Good Angels guard my girl!" and as he spake The tears stream'd fast adown his aged cheeks. "And if I do not live to see thee more, As sure I think I shall not,—yet sometimes Remember thine old Uncle. I have loved thee Even from thy childhood, Joan! and I shall lose The comfort of mine age in losing thee. But God be with thee, Child!"

Nor was the Maid, Though all subdued of soul, untroubled now In that sad parting; - but she calm'd herself, Painfully keeping down her heart, and said, "Comfort thyself, my Uncle, with the thought Of what I am, and for what enterprise Chosen from among the people. Oh! be sure I shall remember thee, in whom I found A parent's love, when parents were unkind! And when the ominous broodings of my soul Were scoff'd and made a mock of by all else, Thou for thy love didst hear me and believe. Shall I forget these things?"-By this Dunois Had arm'd, the steeds stood ready at the gate. But then she fell upon the old man's neck And cried, "Pray for me!-I shall need thy prayers'

Rose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves, And vineyards in the greenest hue of spring, And streams now hidden on their winding way, Now issuing forth in light.

The Maiden gazed Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye. "Oh what a blessed world were this!" she cried, "But that the great and honorable men Have seized the earth, and of the heritage Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given, Disherited their brethren! Happy those Who in the after days shall live, when Time Hath spoken, and the multitude of years Taught wisdom to mankind! — Unhappy France! Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes Rush o'er the land, and desolate, and kill; Long has the widow's and the orphan's groan Accused Heaven's justice; - but the hour is come! God hath inclined his ear, hath heard the voice

Of mourning, and his anger is gone forth."

Then said the Son of Orleans, "Holy Maid!
Fain would I know, if blameless I may seek
Such knowledge, how the heavenly call was heard
First in thy waken'd soul; nor deem in me
Aught idly curious, if of thy past life

I ask the story. In the hour of age,
If haply I survive to see this realm
Deliver'd, precious then will be the thought
That I have known the delegated Maid,
And heard from her the wondrous ways of Heaven.

"A simple tale," the mission'd Maid replied; "Yet may it well employ the journeying hour, And pleasant is the memory of the past.

"Seest thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts

The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows,
As on the farther bank, the distant towers
Of Vaucouleur? there in the hamlet Arc
My father's dwelling stands; a lowly hut,
Yet nought of needful comfort did it lack,
For in Lorraine there lived no kinder Lord
Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques
In flocks and herds was rich; a toiling man,
Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart
Affection had no root. I never knew
A parent's love; for harsh my mother was,
And deem'd the care which infancy demands
Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were,
And would have made me fear them; but my soul
Possess'd the germ of inborn fortitude,
And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke

And angry chastisement. Yet was the voice
That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet
To my young heart; how have I felt it leap
With transport, when my Uncle Claude
proach'd!

For he would take me on his knee, and tell
Such wondrous tales as childhood loves to hear,
Listening with eager eyes and open lips
Devoutly in attention. Good old man!
Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven
Unhallow'd by the grateful thought of him,
Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it!
He was a parent to me, and his home
Was mine, when in advancing years I found
No peace, no comfort in my father's house.
With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours,
By day I drove my father's flock afield,9
And this was happiness.

"Amid the village playmates of my youth

Was one whom riper years approved a friend.
A gentle maid was my poor Madelon ;

I loved her as a sister, and long time
Her undivided tenderness possess'd,
Until a better and a holier tie

Gave her one nearer friend; and then my heart
Partook her happiness, for never lived

A happier pair than Arnaud and his wife.

"Amid these wilds Often to summer pasture have I driven The flock; and well I know these woodland wilds, And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream Is dear to memory. I have laid me down Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd The beck roll glittering to the noon-tide sun, And listen'd to its ceaseless murmuring, Till all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul, Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds Over the vale at eve; their fleeting hues The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye, Yet he remembers well how fair they were, How beautiful.

"In solitude and peace
Here I grew up, amid the loveliest scenes
Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was,
As the white mists of morning roll'd away,
To see the upland's wooded heights appear
Dark in the early dawn, and mark the slope
With gorse-flowers glowing, as the sun illumed
Their golden glory 10 with his deepening light;
Pleasant at noon beside the vocal brook

To lay me down, and watch the floating clouds,
And shape to fancy's wild similitudes
Their ever-varying forms; and oh how sweet!
To drive my flock at evening to the fold,
And hasten to our little hut, and hear
The voice of kindness bid me welcome home.

"More frequent now
Sought I the converse of poor Madelon,
For now she needed friendship's soothing voice.
All the long summer did she live in hope
Of tidings from the war; and as at eve
She with her mother by the cottage door
Sat in the sunshine, if a traveller
Appear'd at distance coming o'er the brow,
Her eye was on him, and it might be seen
By the flush'd cheek what thoughts were in her
heart,

And by the deadly paleness which ensued,
How her heart died within her. So the days
And weeks and months pass'd on; and when the
leaves

Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope
That reason own'd not, that with expectation
Did never cheer her as she rose at morn,
Still linger'd in her heart, and still at night
Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came,
But Arnaud never from the war return'd;
He far away had perish'd; and when late
The tidings of his certain death arrived,
Sore with long anguish underneath that blow
She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day
Upon the past, and talk of happiness

That never could return, as though she found
Best solace in the thoughts which minister'd

I would not wish to live to know that hour,
When I could think upon a dear friend dead,
And weep not; but they are not bitter tears,
Not painful now; for Christ hath risen, first fruits
Of them that slept; and we shall meet again,
Meet, not again to part: the grave hath lost
Its victory.

"I remember, as her bier

Went to the grave, a lark sprung up aloft,
And soar'd amid the sunshine, carolling
So full of joy, that to the mourner's ear
More mournfully than dirge or passing bell,
The joyous carol came, and made us feel
That of the multitude of beings, none
But man was wretched.

Such mingled passions character'd his face
Of fierce and terrible benevolence,
That I did tremble as I listen'd to him;
And in my heart tumultuous thoughts arose
Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild,
And vast, yet such they were as made me pant
As though by some divinity possess'd.

For it had slumber'd long in happiness, And never feeling misery, never thought What others suffer. I, as best I might, Solaced the keen regret of Elinor;

I shall return; my heart will be content,
My duties then will have been well discharged,
And I may then be happy. There are those
Who deem such thoughts the fancies of a mind

She centred now her love. A younger birth,
Aged nearly as myself was Theodore,

An ardent youth, who with the kindest care
Had sooth'd his sister's sorrow. We had knelt
By her death-bed together, and no bond
In closer union knits two human hearts
Than fellowship in grief.

"It chanced as once Beside the fire of Elinor I sat, The night was comfortless, the loud blast howl'd, And as we drew around the social hearth, We heard the rain beat hard. Driven by the storm A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light; We heapt the fire, and spread the friendly board. 'Tis a rude night,' the stranger cried: 'safe housed

Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain.

I too could be content to dwell in peace,
Resting my head upon the lap of love,
But that my country calls. When the winds roar,
Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers,
And think on Conrade.'

"Theodore replied,

'Success go with thee! Something we have known Of war, and tasted its calamity;

And I am well content to dwell in peace,
Albeit inglorious, thanking the good God
Who made me to be happy.'

"Did that God,'

Cried Conrade, 'form thy heart for happiness,
When Desolation royally careers

Over thy wretched country? Did that God
Form thee for Peace when Slaughter is abroad,
When her brooks run with blood, and Rape, and
Murder,

Stalk through her flaming towns? Live thou in

peace,

Young man! my heart is human: I must feel For what my brethren suffer.' While he spake

If I should soften down my rigid nature
Even to inglorious ease, to honor me.
But pure of heart and high in self-esteem
I must be honor'd by myself: all else,
The breath of Fame, is as the unsteady wind
Worthless.'

"So saying from his belt he took
The encumbering sword. I held it, listening to him,
And wistless what I did, half from the sheath
Drew forth its glittering blade. I gazed upon it,
And shuddering, as I touch'd its edge, exclaim'd,
How horrible it is with the keen sword
To gore the finely-fibred human frame!
I could not strike a lamb.

"He answer'd me,

Maiden, thou sayest well. I could not strike

A lamb!- - But when the merciless invader
Spares not gray age, and mocks the infant's shriek
As it doth writhe upon his cursed lance,

And forces to his foul embrace the wife
Even where her slaughter'd husband bleeds to
death,

Almighty God! I should not be a man
If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling
Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down.
Think well of this, young man! '12 he cried, and took
The hand of Theodore; think well of this;
As you are human, as you hope to live
In peace, amid the dearest joys of home,
Think well of this! You have a tender mother;
As you do wish that she may die in peace,
As you would even to madness agonize
To hear this maiden call on you in vain
For help, and see her dragg'd, and hear her scream
In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful grasp,
Think that there are such horrors ! 13 that even now,
Some city flames, and haply, as in Roan,
Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breast
Yet hangs and pulls for food! 14-Woe be to those
By whom the evil comes! And woe to him,—