So he said, and frown'd

Dark as the form who at Mahommed's door

Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearful look,

Bathed with cold damps, every beholder fled.

Even the prophet, almost terrified,

Endured but half to view him, for he knew
Azrael, the dreadful messenger of Fate,
And his death-day was come.

From Joan of Arc.

CORONATION OF CHARLES BY THE MAID OF ORLEANS

The morn was fair

When Rheims re-echoed to the busy hum

Of multitudes, for high solemnity

Assembled.

To the holy fabric moves

The long procession, through the streets bestrewn
With flowers and laurel boughs.

By the king

The delegated Damsel pass'd along,

Clad in her batter'd arms. She bore on high
Her hallow'd banner to the sacred pile,
And fix'd it on the altar, whilst her hand
Pour'd on the monarch's head the mystic oil,
Wafted of yore by milk-white dove from heaven
(So legends say) to Clovis, when he stood

At Rheims for baptism; dubious since that day,
When Tolbiac plain reek'd with his warrior's blood,
And fierce upon their flight the Almanni press'd,
And rear'd the shout of triumph; in that hour
Clovis invoked aloud the Christian God,

And conquer'd: waked to wonder thus, the chief
Became love's convert, and Clotilda led

Her husband to the font.

The mission'd Maid

Then placed on Charles's brow the crown of France;
And back retiring, gazed upon the king

One moment, quickly scanning all the past,
Till in a tumult of wild wonderment
She wept aloud. The assembled multitude
In awful stillness witness'd: then at once,
As with a tempest-rushing noise of winds,
Lifted their mingled clamours. Now the Maid
Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand,
And instant silence follow'd:

"King of France!"

She cried, 66 at Chinon, when my gifted eye
Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit
Prompted, I spake; arm'd with the sword of God
To drive from Orleans far the English wolves,
And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims.
All is accomplish'd. I have here this day
Fulfill'd my mission, and anointed thee
Chief servant of the people. Of this charge,
Or well perform'd or wickedly, high Heaven
Shall take account. If that thine heart be good,

I know no limit to the happiness

Thou mayst create. I do beseech thee, King!"
The Maid exclaim'd, and fell upon the ground
And clasp'd his knees, "I do beseech thee, King!
By all the millions that depend on thee,

For weal or woe-consider what thou art,

And know thy duty! If thou dost oppress

Thy people; if to aggrandize thyself

Thou tear'st them from their homes, and sendest them To slaughter, prodigal of misery!

If when the widow and the orphan groan

In want and wretchedness, thou turnest thee
To hear the music of the flatterer's tongue;
If when thou hear'st of thousands massacred,
Thou say'st, 'I am a king! and fit it is

That these should perish for me;' if thy realm
Should, through the counsels of thy government,
Be fill'd with woe, and in thy streets be heard
The voice of mourning and the feeble cry
Of asking hunger; if at such a time
Thou dost behold thy plenty-cover'd board,
And shroud thee in thy robes of royalty,
And say that all is well-Oh, gracious God!
Be merciful to such a monstrous man,
When the spirits of the murder'd innocent
Cry at thy throne for justice!

66

King of France!

Protect the lowly, feed the hungry ones,

And be the orphan's father! thus shalt thou
Become the representative of Heaven,

And gratitude and love establish thus

Thy reign. Believe me, King! that hireling guards,
Though flesh'd in slaughter, will be weak to save
A tyrant on the blood-cemented throne

That totters underneath him."

Thus the Maid

Redeem'd her country. Ever may the All-just
Give to the arms of freedom such success.

From Joan of Arc.

THE LOCUST CLOUD.

Onward they came, a dark continuous cloud
Of congregated myriads numberless,
The rushing of whose wings was as the sound
Of a broad river, headlong in its course

N

Plunged from a mountain summit; or the roar Of a wild ocean in the autumn storm, Shattering its billows on a shore of rocks. Onward they came, the winds impell'd them on, Their work was done, their path of ruin past, Their graves were ready in the wilderness.

"Behold the mighty army!" Moath cried,
"Blindly they move, impell'd
By the blind element.

And yonder birds, our welcome visitants,
Lo! where they soar above the embodied host,
Pursue their way, and hang upon their rear,
And thin their spreading flanks,

Rejoicing o'er their banquet! Deemest thou The scent of water on some Syrian mosque Placed with priest-mummery, and the jargon-rites Which fool the multitude, hath led them here From far Khorassan? Allah, who decreed Yon tribe the plague and punishment of man, These also hath he doom'd to meet their way: Both passive instruments

Of his all-acting will,

Sole mover he, and only spring of all."

From Thalaba the Destroyer.

THE RUINS OF BABYLON.

Once from her lofty walls the charioteer Look'd down on swarming myriads; once she flung Her arches o'er Euphrates' conquer'd tide, And through her brazen portals when she pour'd Her armies forth, the distant nations look'd As men who watch the thunder-cloud in fear, Lest it should burst above them. She was fallen, The Queen of Cities, Babylon, was fallen, Low lay her bulwark; the black scorpion bask'd In the palace courts; within the sanctuary The she-wolf hid her whelps.

Is yonder huge and shapeless heap, what once Hath been the aerial gardens, height on height Rising like Medea's mountains crown'd with wood, Work of imperial dotage? where the fane Of Belus? where the Golden Image now,

Which at the sound of dulcimer and lute,
Cornet and sackbut, harp and psaltery,
The Assyrian slaves adored?
A labyrinth of ruins, Babylon,
Spreads o'er the blasted plain:
The wandering Arab never sets his tent
Within her walls; the shepherd eyes afar
Her evil towers, and devious drives his flock.
Alone unchanged, a free and bridgeless tide,
Euphrates rolls along,

Eternal Nature's work.

From Thalaba the Destroyer.

THE PARADISE OF THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS.

Was it to earthly Eden, lost so long,

The

youth had found the wondrous way?
But earthly Eden boasts

No terraced palaces,

No rich pavilions, bright with woven gold,

Like these that in the vale

Rise amid odorous groves.

The astonish'd Thalaba,

Doubting as though an unsubstantial dream
Beguiled his passive sense,

A moment closed his eyes;

Still they were there-the palaces and groves,
And rich pavilions glittering golden light.

Where'er his eye could reach,
Fair structures, rainbow-hued, arose;
And rich pavilions through the opening woods
Gleam'd from their waving curtains sunny gold;
And winding through the verdant vale,
Flow'd streams of liquid light;

And fluted cypresses rear'd up
Their living obelisks;

And broad-leaved plane-trees in long colonnades
O'er-arch'd delightful walks,

Where round their trunks the thousand-tendril'd vine
Wound up and hung the boughs with greener wreaths,
And clusters not their own.

Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyes
Return for rest? beside him teems the earth
With tulips, like the ruddy evening streak'd;