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.
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!