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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."
 
                  "Doubt!" the Maid exclaim'd:
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.
To doubt God's goodness! There are feelings. Chief,
Which cannot lie; and I have oftentimes
Felt in the midnight silence of my soul
The call of God."

                       They listened 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,
He to the King might send me. Now beseech you
Speed our departure!"

                         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!
Pray for me, that I fail not in my hour!"
Thereat awhile, as if some awful thought
Had overpower'd her, on his neck she hung;
Then rising with flush'd cheek and kindling eye,
"Farewell!" quoth she, "and live in hope! Anon
Thou shalt hear tidings to rejoice thy heart,
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
And gazed where o'er the plain the stately towers
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,
Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain
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