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The dolorous stroke,^[1]- the blameless and the brave,
Who died beneath a brother's erring arm.
Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel!
The songs of earlier years embalm your fame
And haply yet some Poet shall arise,
Like that divinest Tuscan,^[2] and enwreathe
The immortal garland for himself and you.

The harp still rung beneath the high-arch'd roof,
And listening eager to the favorite lay,
The guests sat silent, when into the hall
The Messenger from that besieged town,
Reënter'd. "It is pleasant, King of France,"
Said he, "to sit and hear the harper's song:
Far other music hear the men of Orleans!
Famine is there; and there the imploring cry
Of Hunger ceases not."
                         "Insolent man!"
Exclaim'd the Monarch, "cease to interrupt
Our hour of festival; it is not thine
To instruct me in my duty."
                                 Of reproof
Careless, the stranger to the minstrel cried,
"Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame
Amid these walls? Virtue and genius love
That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose, lewd tale
To pamper and provoke the appetite?
Such should procure thee worthy recompense!
Or rather sing thou of that wealthy Lord,
Who took the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom,
That was to him even as a daughter! Charles,
This parable would I tell, prophet-like,
And look at thee and say, 'Thou art the man!'"
 
He said, and with a quick and troubled step
Withdrew. Astonish'd at his daring guise,
The guests sat heedless of the lay awhile,
Pondering his words mysterious, till at length
The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hall,
Charles and the delegated damsel sought
The inner palace. There the gentle Queen
Awaited them: with her Joan lov'd to pass
Her intervals of rest; for she had won
The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy,
The calm and duteous patience that deplored
A husband's cold half-love. To her she told
With what strange words the messenger from Orleans
Had roused uneasy wonder in her mind;
For on her ear yet vibrated his voice,
When lo! again he came, and at the door
Stood scowling round.
                 "Why dost thou haunt me thus,"
The monarch cried; "is there no place secure
From thy rude insolence? unmanner'd man!
I know thee not!"
              "Then learn to know me, Charles!"
Solemnly he replied; "read well my face,
That thou may'st know it on that dreadful day,
When at the Throne of God I shall demand
His justice on thee!" Turning from the King,
To Agnes as she entered, in a tone
More low, more mournfully severe, he cried,
"Dost thou too know me not!"
                          She glanced on him,
And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed
In the Maid's bosom.
                      "King of France!" he said,
"She loved me, and by mutual word and will
We were betroth'd, when, in unhappy hour,
I left her, as in fealty bound, to fight
Thy battles. In mine absence thou didst come
To tempt her then unspotted purity —
For pure she was. — Alas! these courtly robes
Hide not the indelible stain of infamy!
Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on
An honorable name,^[3] O lost to me,
And to thyself, forever, ever lost,
My poor polluted Agnes! — Charles, that faith
Almost is shaken, which should be henceforth
My only hope: thou hast thy wicked will.
While I the victim of her guilt and thine,
Though meriting alike from her and thee
Far other guerdon, bear about with me
A wound for which this earth affords no balm,
And doubt Heaven's justice."
                        So he said, and frown'd
Austere as he who at Mahommed's door
Knock'd loud and frequent, at whose dreadful mien
Stricken with terror, all beholders fled.
Even the prophet, almost terrified,
Scarcely could bear his presence; for he knew
That this was the Death-Angel Azrael,
And that his hour was come. Conscious of guilt
The Monarch sate, nor could endure to face
His bosom-probing frown. The Maid of Arc
Meantime had read his features, and she cried
"I know thee, Conrade!" Rising from her seat,
She took his hand, for he stood motionless,
Gazing on Agnes now with steady eye
Severe though calm: him from the Court she drew,
And to the river side, resisting not,
Both sad and silent, led; till at the last
As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd
Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck,
He wept.
           "I know thee, Damsel!" he exclaim'd.
" Dost thou remember that tempestuous night,
When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought
Your hospitable door? Ah me! I then
Was happy! You too sojourn'd then in peace.
Fool that I was! I blamed such happiness,
Arraign'd it as a guilty, selfish sloth,
Unhappily prevailing, so I fear me,
Or why art thou at Chinon?"
                               Him the Maid
Answering, address'd: "I do remember well,
That night; for then the holy Spirit first,
Waked by thy words, possess'd me."
                                Conrade cried,
"Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst lived
Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd,
Needlessly rigid, from my peaceful path.
And thou hast left thine home then, and obey'd
The feverish fancies of an ardent brain!
And hast thou left him too, the youth whose eye
Forever glancing on thee, spake so well
Affection's eloquent tale?"
                             So as he said,
Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek

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