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O'ershadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks.
The assembled court gazed on the marshall'd train,
And at the gate the aged prelate stood
To pour his blessing on the chosen host.
And now a soft and solemn symphony
Was heard, and chanting high the hallow'd hymn,
From the near convent came the vestal maids.
A holy banner, woven by virgin hands,
Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment
Of awe and eager ardor for the fight,
Thrill'd through the army, as the reverend man
Took the white standard, and with heaven-ward eye
Call'd on the God of Justice, blessing it.
The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd,
Her dark hair floating on the morning gale,
Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand
Received the mystic banner. From the host
A loud and universal shout burst forth,
As rising from the ground, upon her brow
She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high
The banner'd lilies. On their way they march,
And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon
Fade from the eye reverted.
                            The sixth sun,
Purpling the sky with his dilated light,
Sunk westering; when embosom'd in the depth
Of that old forest, which for many a league
Shadow'd the hills and vales of Orleannois,
They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation
Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale
The streamers flutter; and ascending slow
Beneath the foliage of the forest trees,
With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke
Melts in the impurpled air. Leaving her tent,
The martial Maiden wander'd through the wood;
There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank
Reclined, she saw a damsel, her long locks
With willow wreathed; upon her lap there lay
A dark-hair'd man, listening the while she sung
Sad ditties, and enwreathed to bind his brow
The melancholy garland. At the sound
Of one in arms approaching, she had fled;
But Conrade, looking upward, recognized
The Maid of Arc. "Nay, fear not, Isabel,"
Said he, "for this is one of gentle kind,
Whom even the wretched need not fear to love."

So saying, he arose and took her hand.
And press'd it to his bosom. "My weak heart
Though school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind,
Will beat, rebellious to its own resolves.
Come hither, outcast one! and call her friend,
And she will be thy friend more readily
Because thou art unhappy."
                             Isabel
Saw a tear starting in the virgin's eye
And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept,
Wailing his wilder'd senses.
                             "Mission'd Maid!"
The warrior cried, "be happy! for thy power
Can make this sufferer so. From Orleans driven,
Orphan'd by war, and of her only friend
Bereft, I found her wandering in the wilds,
Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, Joan,
Wilt his beloved to the youth restore;
And trust me, Maid! the miserable feel
When they on others bestow happiness,
Their happiest consolation."
                            She replied,
Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone
Of equal friendship, solacing her cares.
"Soon shall we enter Orleans," said the Maid;
A few hours in her dream of victory
England shall triumph, then to be awaked
By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath!
Irksome meantime the busy camp to me
A solitary woman. Isabel,
Wert thou the while companion of my tent,
Lightlier the time would pass. Return with me;
I may not long be absent."
                            So she spake.
The wanderer in half-utter'd words express'd
Grateful assent. "Art thou astonish'd, then,
That one though powerful is benevolent?
In truth thou well mayst wonder!" Conrade cried.
"But little cause to love the mighty ones
Hath the low cottager; for with its shade
Too oft doth Power, a death-dew-dropping tree,
Blast every herb beneath its baleful boughs!
Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel! Relate
How warr'd the chieftains, and the people died.
The mission'd Virgin hath not heard thy woes;
And pleasant to mine ear the twice-told tale
Of sorrow."
              Gazing on the martial Maid
She read her wish, and spake. "A wanderer now,
Friendless and hopeless, still I love to think
Upon my native home, and call to mind
Each haunt of careless youth; the woodbined wall,
The jessamine that round the straw-roof'd cot
Its fragrant branches wreathed, beneath whose shade
I wont to sit and watch the setting sun,
And hear the thrush's song. Nor far remote,
As o'er the subject landscape round I gazed.
The towers of Yenville rose upon the view.
A foreign master holds my father's home!
I, far away, remember the past years,
And weep.
              "Two brethren form'd our family;
Humble we were, and happy; honest toil
Procured our homely sustenance; our herds
Duly at morn and evening to my hand
Gave their full stores; the vineyard we had rear'd
Purpled its clusters in the southern sun,
And, plenteous produce of my father's toil,
The yellow harvest billow'd o'er the plain.
How cheerfully around the blazing hearth,
When all the labor of the day was done,
We past the evening hours; for they would sing
Or merry roundelay, or ditty sad
Of maid forsaken and the willow weed,
Or of the doughty Paladins of France
Some warlike fit, the while my spinning-wheel
A fitting music made.
                      "Thus long we lived,
And happy. To a neighboring youth my hand,
In holy wedlock soon to be consign'd,