Joan of Arc Part 15

JOAN. Alas! I may not so deceive myself.

Too well I know what I must soon endure.

My charm of life is gone. My full, bold pulse Has learnt to swell with mighty hopes, my mind On food of such excitement has been fed, That common, quiet life will be a load Too heavy for endurance. Mem'ry too Will goad with bitter thoughts!

BER. Oh! say not so; Joy is the rainbow of this weeping life, From deepest gloom of sorrow first awoke: But mem'ry is that secondary arch Where each bright shade is seen distinct and clear, Though softened and subdued, and dear to sight, As faithful copy of the dearer truth.

Be but thyself--forget but him!

JOAN. Forget!

As clings the woodbine to the new-felled tree, I cling to him, though not a hope remains.

But how shall I forget? My very prayers Are holy thoughts of him. Leave me awhile.

BER. I obey thee. Ah, why should this be so?

Alas! the heart is e'er a wayward thing, Loving too oft that most which loves it not.

[_Exit._

JOAN. For the last time I see you, beauteous scenes!

The last! oh, word of heaviest sense, Where all that's lovely finds one common grave.

Light footsteps soon shall tread these gay parterres, And sighs, but not like these, shall mingle bliss With bliss. None will regret me here; the proud Who envied, or the brave who shared my fame, Alone will recollect that I have lived.

And he!--he'll never give one thought on me When I am gone:--the great, the beautiful Will share his smiles, or soothe his cares, while tears Shall stagnate in these eyes; and lovely forms Shall charm his gaze, when the pale eye of night Alone shall view the spot where I am laid, And weep for me.

_Enter WIDOW._

WID. Where dost thou speed so fast?

Shall not the net be spread in vain before The simple bird, and wilt thou rush to peril?

Seest thou yon star? Observe how dim it shines, How its wan disk is overspread with spots.

Those spots are blood!--that fading star thine own!

Fainter and fainter still it quivers.--Now 'Tis gone! I've cast thy horoscope, and read Thy fate is linked with mine! Beware thee, maiden!

If e'er on earth we meet again, 'twill be-- To meet the spectre king.

[_Exit._

JOAN. What may this mean?

Awe steals upon my mind, and my faint heart Beats heavily!

_Enter ATTENDANT._

ATT. Haste! the king calls thee!

The council is a.s.sembling--danger presses.

JOAN. Hath then the unchanging voice of destiny Indeed been heard, and I and death in league?

He hath bade farewell--shall I refuse?--no!-- Protect me, Heaven!--Lead on!

SCENE IV.--_Gardens._

RICHEMONT. ATTENDANT.

RICHE. Hast found the wretch?

ATT. She stands hard by.

RICHE. Summon her!

I must be rid of thee, maid of Orleans!

The cup or poniard were an easy way!

But this were simple vengeance--poor revenge!

Disgrace! yes infamy must stain her glory, Shame, public hate. But much I fear her firmness, High belief of Heaven's consenting will.

Yet shall she yield! To Compeigne, not to Domremie Must she depart. The hag must aid me then.

Persuade her to depart--their meeting known, Shall stamp suspicion first of foulest crime; And in the event of victory or defeat Shall work her ruin!

_Enter WIDOW._

WID. Am I then so near him?

Lie still, my heart, lest these convulsive throbbings Mar my last wish.

RICHE. Time wears--dares she delay?

(_perceives her,_) I sent for thee.

WID. And I, at risk of life, Am come. What wouldst thou have from me?

RICHE. Respect.

WID. I give it where 'tis due: never where not.

RICHE. Wretch! knowst of what thou art accused?--of arts Which make obedient slaves and friends of devils.

WID. And thou of h.e.l.l's worst crimes--of pride, of murder.

Richemont, I know thee, who thou art and what!

Put up thy ready dagger; I despise it-- Ay, mock thy wrath! my misery is my safeguard; None care, not even thou, to murder one Who would most gladly die!

RICHE. What thus unnerves My arm and chains my tongue?

WID. Thy wishes too, Thy aim I know. The maid has roused thy hate, And thou wouldst work her fall:--'tis worthy thee.

There is no need of aiding hand of thine-- Her lamp burns dim, to utter darkness dim.

RICHE. (_aside._ Ha! that were worth belief! but true or false They must be seen together, and report Be spread the fiend himself had tempted her.) Not hate, mine is good will. France needs her arm, Yet doth she hesitate. Go, seek her quick!

(I will secure thee,) win her to comply, And richly paint the glory which awaits her.

WID. Thinkst thou that she will heed what I might say?

She cannot if she would; none may avoid Their fated hour!--thine too is fixed, and mine!

And, oh, that it were come!

RICHE. Dost thou refuse?

WID. I neither do refuse nor promise thee; My inclination is my law, and mark!

None else will I obey.

RICHE. Dost seek a bribe?

If hunger pinch, or thirst provoke desire, This purse--

WID. Perish thy gold! back with thy dross!