Warwick and Arlington.

War. How swift a courier is this winged love!
Why I have made this journey in less time,
Impelled by thought of her, than ere before,
Though martial glory spurred me on the way,
And every proud ambitious hope to boot.

Arl. Our jaded horses prove that truth.

War. And yet
They sped not swift enough for my fond wishes.
Say, hast thou ever marked the moon's full beams
Upon the wave, when broken by the breeze?
Such is the image of my heart: joy's rays
Illume its depths and sparkle on its surface;
But all within is restless—bright confusion.

Arl. Well may she wake such love, such fond impatience;
Not breath of closing flowers, not eve's soft beam—

War. With nought that marks decline compare my Alice.
She is the blush of morn first caught by earth,
When seraph hands unbar the gates of heaven,
And from its courts bright beams of glory stream.
Fresh as the od'rous breath by zephyr scattered,
When first from dewy flowers he springs rejoicing;
Light as the froth by chafed ocean cast,
When young Aurora, laughing at his suit,
Refuses to retard her rosy steps;
And playful as the changeful hues reflected
Upon its quivering breast.

Arl. She comes.—Farewell.
Love bears no eyes but those he lights to view
The rapture he creates, and turns offended
From the stranger's gaze.

[Exit.

Enter Countess.

Countess. My life, my Warwick!

War. My own! thus let me clasp thee to my heart.

Count. No! let me see thou art indeed my Lord,
And read in those dear eyes the joy of mine.
Thou hast been long in coming.

War. Sweetest, no.
Impatient, like myself, thou hast, I see,
Been measuring the hours by love's slow glass,
And made them sad and heavy.

Count. Now thou'rt wrong—
Not sad.

War. Not sad when Warwick is away?

Count. Have I not hope to share the hours with me?
And who can e'er be sad in such sweet fellowship?
Thy last receding step dries up my tears,
For thus she gently whispers to my heart—
"The moment passed that bore him from thy view,
The next but draws him nearer to thy arms."

War. But how deceive the intervening moments?
Art thou not lonesome oft?

Count. How may that be?
From thee I never am divided. Thought
Personates thyself, and thus I talk with thee,
Sit by thy side, frame answers for thyself
So full of love, so paint thy face with smiles,
Thy eyes with such approval fill, my heart
Leaps with delight: then only am I lone
When some intruder comes intent to cheer me.

War. Why thus thou'lt make me jealous of myself,
And envious of the shadow I supply.

Count. Then too I sing to thee, or deck myself,
And try which ornament doth suit me best:
Smile at the smiling image I behold,
And bid the vivid blush, which spreads my cheek,
Fade not away, that it may tell my Warwick
'Twas thought of him which makes me value beauty,
And prize the charms that justifies his choice.

War. Sweet flatterer! Then thou art happy, Alice!

Count. Indeed I do not know what means unhappiness.
E'en from my infancy I have been blessed.
My eyes first opened on the laughing spring,
And all of life, of hope, of fond affection
Has been passed in springtide. I never shed
A tear till my great father died; and those
First tears were wiped away by him whom first
I loved.

War. But how! thou dost not even ask
If Salisbury's sad death has been avenged!

Count. Contains revenge then ought that may impart
Joy to felicity, or make repose
More tranquil, which already was complete,
That it should be desired?

War. Nor yet enquire
How speeds the war?

Count. I love not war.

War. And yet
Art Salisbury's child, art—

Count. Warwick's bride, thou'dst say.
Of him whose gallant heart of war makes pastime,
And who a rival gives me in renown.
And yet I do repeat, I love not war,
And rather in our native woods would stray,
Listening the thrush's early note of love,
Or plucking wild flowers from the bank to crown thee,
Than hail thee, Warwick, conqueror of France.
Ha! there is blood upon thy arm!

War. For shame!
Turn pale—a very coward thou.

Count. Not I:
But nature is to blame, who doth abhor
The sight of blood: but if I must, as fits
A soldier's wife, enquire of war, then tell me,
Not how many thousands perished, but what
New honours thou hast gained; and better still,
Say, how much nearer is the end of strife.

War. My honours gained is not to feel disgraced.
A strange reverse has visited our arms.
Not alone has Orleans been relieved,
And other strong posts fall'n, but at the name
Of Joan of Arc our stoutest cheeks turn pale.
Myself beheld the maid, banner in hand,
March by our troops, with Suffolk at their head,
Not only unmolested, but with dread,—
Such awe hath filled all hearts.

Count. Tell me no more.
Unbend that brow, and think alone of me,
And in these smiles forget—

War. Aye! all forget
But this—that thou art mine—my own for ever.
Forget that with the dawn I must depart.

Count. Oh, no! thou must not go.

War. I dare not tarry.
Exasperated by our late reverse,
And fearing that success to bolder deeds
May tempt the foe, the regent hath desired
Lord Scales and Talbot to unite with us—
We wait at Patay for their promised force.

Count. No more. Now let love's rosy fingers
Press the swift foot of time and stay his flight.

Scene II.

Richemont. Valancour.

Riche. Pass on to Rheims!
E'en through the heart of Bedford's army!
What rashness!

Val. 'Tis by order of the maid.

Riche. What folly next, is son as father mad?
Thou canst not mean it.

Val. 'Tis fact, my lord.
She must behold the crown plac'd on his head.

Riche. Eternal curses light upon her own.
Thwarted in all my views, fortune but mocks,
Instead of crowning me. These rival states
Should from my fiat take their destiny.
Nor care I whether Charles or Bedford win,
So either make a step for my ascent.

Val. Yet both have slighted—

Riche. Me!—'tis false as hell.
They may appear to show me some neglect,
And why? Both fear me, both are jealous of me.
What else could instigate the wary Bedford
To waive my offer to command his host?
What too but envy influences Charles?

Val. The dauphin's heart is warm—he may feel sore.

Riche. At what? That I should cause his myrmidons
To shed their forfeit blood! his fav'rites banish?
Yet little have I gained—his present minion
Provokes my stronger hate, and worse contempt.

Val. But you will grace the fÊte with your high presence.

Riche. No: let them play the part of fools without me.
His majesty of Bourges doth well to merge
His title, erst bestowed on him, for one
Still more absurd in folly.

Val. Think, my lord—
With reverence—

Riche. Peace! I see the issue.
My own name tarnished by severe defeat
On Beuvron's plains, my promises proved empty,
While hers, though most extravagant, fulfilled,
The fools will honour her, o'erlook myself;
Or worse, most odious contrast may be made
Betwixt successful rashness on her part,
And baffled skill on mine. Not Heaven itself
Shall force me to such chance.

Val. If fortune's tide
Have met a turn, no matter by what means,
Would it be well to stand aloof, and miss
The way to honour? Will not thy absence
Rather awake impertinent remark,—
Be deemed his will?

Riche. There's reason in thy words;
And more, so prodigal is he, so reckless,
New honours he may heap on her, and plead
Omission on my part as his excuse.
I'll spare him that pretence.—Prepare for Baugenci.

Scene III.—Camp.

Du Nois. Xaintrailles.

Du N. There is a magic
In the full sweet tones of her impressive voice,
Which heard but once, dwells long upon the ear,
Charmed with the sound; then sinks into the heart,
No more to be forgotten, pleading still
When she herself is mute. How goes the hour?

Xaint. Day's harbinger, with chilly lips, has kissed
The pine's tall top. The camp is locked in sleep
So deep, that yon marauding fox's step
Distinctly may be heard.

Du N. Sleep flies my lids—
For the first time I dread to-morrow's chance.
The attempt is bold, and skilfully conceived,
On Suffolk's ranks to fall, and break his force
Ere Talbot can arrive and strength unite;
But if the project fail!—(Aside,) I cannot think
Of her disgraced, without a pang.

Xaint. Should fail!
Who fears defeat in what the maid devises?

Du N. Heaven doth not always smile on those he loves.
Time offers marvels: once the name of Joan
I scorned, abhorred! I do not hate it now,
Though now I've cause. She robs me of renown,
And at her bidding I unsheath my sword.

Xaint. She may be proud!—a victory she has won,
That spirit to subdue. She hath in truth
A charm to make stern hearts most meek, and yet
She is not beautiful, as men count beauty.

Du N. She is the better suited to my taste;
I do despise the doll, where nought of soul
Is ever seen to light the faultless eye.

Xaint. Yet glances have been cast on thee
Which might have thawed the coldest heart, and caused
An angry lance to tremble in its rest.

Du N. Hers is that beauty by the mind conferred,
The outward vestment lumined by the soul,
Which sets respect as centinel to guard
The treasure stored within, and from approach
Too near, restrains those whisperers of nought,
Who throng impertinent around the form,
Which owes to symmetry alone, and feature,
Its power to fascinate. There is a dignity
Withal in her simplicity, which awes
The surer for the company unwont
In which 'tis found. Nature herein has mocked
The cunning artist's skill, who, in a rim
Of purest silver sets his goodliest stone,
Making the metal richer for the gem.

Xaint. Thou lovest her then?

Du N. Are words denied the heart
Of firmest mould, or what enchains my tongue?
If life for life, if soul for soul exchanged,
So honour were retained, be mark of love,
Then love I her.

Xaint. Thou surely wilt not wed her,
When easier terms—

Du N. Now, by my sword's good point,
For that foul thought I could a vengeance take
Which should forbid all chance of like offence.
Ah! witness not these swelling veins, that I
Myself am heir of wanton shame, and worse,
Of broken faith? Sits not the stamp accursed
Of bastardy upon my brow, to dim
The gems that in my coronet might sparkle?
And shall I imitate the vice I scorn,
And wring some breast with anguish like my own?
Hear me, ye mighty Pow'rs above, if e'er,
Through me, should fall the tear of broken virtue;
If cry of babe that may not bear my name,
Ascend, then may that tear consume my heart,
And that faint cry o'erpower my prayer for mercy.

Xaint. I meant not to offend: my foolish words
Thus oft disgrace my thoughts.

Du N. Enough! if mine
She e'er become 't shall be in holiest bands;
But if thou value me, ne'er breathe the secret.
She is not to be won as other maids,
And never can I brook refusal. Hark!
The trumpet calls.

Xaint. I leave thee for my post.

Du N. And I for mine.

Scene IV.

Joan, Du Nois, Xaintrailles, Valancour, &c.

Joan. Warriors and chiefs of France! from such a presence
I should have shrunk, had I not felt within me
A mighty impulse not to be controlled.
Impute not then to arrogance, or worse,
Unfeminine delight, that here I stand
Prepared to lead to deeds of ghastly carnage.
Let my sex and weakness sleep in my mission,
And view me only as the choice of Heaven.
Look at this banner! mark its waving folds!
The breath of liberty doth swell it wide,
And liberty shall make its ample shade
A freeman's shroud to cover him that falls;
A freeman's home for him who shall survive.
This day we must inflict a blow so fatal
That our proud foe may stagger in her strength.

Du N. And time it were that such a blow were struck.
Look on our desolated fields, our vines,
Our groves destroyed. The sword hath mown the corn,
And felled the arm that should have reaped the harvest.

Xaint. And heavy made the foot of many a maid
Whose heart was only lighter than her steps.

Joan. Oh, hapless country! loved, insulted soil!
Birth-place of heroes, martyrs, and of saints!
Land of my sires, by kindred blood embued!
Grave of my mother! altar of my God!
To thee I pledge the life which first thou gavest,
Nor ask a higher, happier boon than this—
To die for thee!

Du N. Here also do I swear
To pluck my country from a foreign yoke,
Or perish in her cause!

Omnes. So swear we all!

Val. (aside.) Ah! 'tis not glory's flame, nor love of France,
But love of her that flashes in his eye.

Joan. What wait we?

Du N. But the signal.

Joan. Give the word:—
Advance!

Scene V.—An English Camp.

Suffolk, Officers, &c.

Suff. To arms! sound an alarm!
Summon our chiefs!—each to his post!—away!

Enter Warwick and John Talbot.

War. War's hounds have slipped again their leash,
And bear upon us.—Hark! the cry is up.

Suf. Be thine then first to meet the foe.

[Exit Warwick.

John T. And I!
Oh! give me danger's post!—forget my youth;—
Think the father's honour hangs on the son.

Suf. Seek Warwick's side.

John T. My deeds shall thank thee. Father!
Oh! tarry only till this field I've fought.
We must not meet till I have proved this gift,
Whose motto to the sun I now display,[A] (draws his sword,)
And claim it witness to the truth it speaks.
For my brave sire, old England, and St. George!

[Exit.

[A] Sum Talboti, sur vincere inimicos meos.