Chapter 154

_"O France," he cried, "my country"!_ When soft as breeze that curls the summer clouds At close of day, stole on his ear a voice 35 Seraphic. "Son of Orleans! grieve no more. His eye not slept, tho' long the All-just endured The woes of France; at length his bar'd right arm Volleys red thunder. From his veiling clouds Rushes the storm, Ruin and Fear and Death. 40 Take Son of Orleans the relief of Heaven: Nor thou the wintry hours of adverse fate Dream useless: tho' unhous'd thou roam awhile, The keen and icy wind that shivers _thee_ Shall brace thine arm, and with stern discipline 45 Firm thy strong heart for fearless enterprise As who, through many a summer night serene Had hover'd round the fold with coward wish; Horrid with brumal ice, the fiercer wolf From his bleak mountain and his den of snows 50 Leaps terrible and mocks the shepherd's spears."

ll. 57-59.

_nor those ingredients dire Erictho mingled on Pharsalia's field_, Making the soul retenant its cold corse.

ll. 220-222.

the groves of Paradise Gave their mild echoes to the choral songs Of new-born beings.--

ll. 267-280.

_And oft the tear from his averted eye He dried; mindful of fertile fields laid waste_, Dispeopled hamlets, the lorn widow's groan, And the pale orphan's feeble cry for bread. 270 But when he told of those fierce sons of guilt That o'er this earth which God had fram'd so fair-- Spread desolation, and its wood-crown'd hills Make echo to the merciless war-dog's howl; And how himself from such foul savagery 275 Had scarce escap'd with life, then his stretch'd arm Seem'd, as it wielded the resistless sword Of Vengeance: in his eager eye the soul Was eloquent; warm glow'd his manly cheek; And beat against his side the indignant heart. 280

ll. 454-460.

_then methought_ From a dark lowering cloud, the womb of tempests, 455 A giant arm burst forth and dropt a sword That pierc'd like lightning thro' the midnight air. Then was there heard a voice, which in mine ear Shall echo, at that hour of dreadful joy When the pale foe shall wither in my rage. 460

ll. 484-496[1029:1]

Last evening lone in thought I wandered forth. Down in the dingle's depth there is a brook 485 That makes its way between the craggy stones, Murmuring hoarse murmurs. On an aged oak Whose root uptorn by tempests overhangs The stream, I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds Gather before the wind, while the rude dash 490 Of waters rock'd my senses, and the mists Rose round: there as I gazed, a form dim-seen Descended, like the dark and moving clouds That in the moonbeam change their shadowy shapes. His voice was on the breeze; he bade me hail 495 The missioned Maid! for lo! the hour was come.