precious light of life! With fair possessions crowned, my father dwells In Wales' fair land, where among verdant meads The winding Severn rolls his silver tide, And fifty villages confess his sway. With heavy gold he will redeem his son, When he shall hear I'm in the camp of France. JHANNA. Deluded mortal! to destruction doomed! Thou'rt fallen in the maiden's hand, from which Redemption or deliverance there is none. Had adverse fortune given thee a prey To the fierce tiger or the crocodile—    Hadst robbed the lion mother of her brood—    Compassion thou might'st hope to find and pity; But to encounter me is certain death. For my dread compact with the spirit realm—    The stern inviolable—bindeth me, To slay each living thing whom battle's God, Full charged with doom, delivers to my sword. MONTGOMERY. Thy speech is fearful, but thy look is mild; Not dreadful art thou to contemplate near; My heart is drawn towards thy lovely form. Oh! by the mildness of thy gentle sex, Attend my prayer. Compassionate my youth. JOHANNA. Name me not woman! Speak not of my sex! Like to the bodiless spirits, who know naught Of earth's humanities, I own no sex; Beneath this vest of steel there beats no heart. MONTGOMERY. Oh! by love's sacred, all-pervading power, To whom all hearts yield homage, I conjure thee. At home I left behind a gentle bride, Beauteous as thou, and rich in blooming grace:    Weeping she waiteth her betrothed's return. Oh! if thyself dost ever hope to love, If in thy love thou hopest to be happy, Then ruthless sever not two gentle hearts, Together linked in love's most holy bond! JOHANNA. Thou dost appeal to earthly, unknown gods, To whom I yield no homage. Of love's bond, By which thou dost conjure me, I know naught Nor ever will I know his empty service. Defend thy life, for death doth summon thee. MONTGOMERY. Take pity on my sorrowing parents, whom I left at home. Doubtless thou, too, hast left Parents, who feel disquietude for thee. JOHANNA. Unhappy man! thou dost remember me How many mothers of this land your arms Have rendered childless and disconsolate; How many gentle children fatherless; How many fair young brides dejected widows! Let England's mothers now be taught despair, And learn to weep the bitter tear oft shed By the bereaved and sorrowing wives of France. MONTGOMERY.    'Tis hard in foreign lands to die unwept. JOHANNA. Who called you over to this foreign land, To waste the blooming culture of our fields, To chase the peasant from his household hearth, And in our cities' peaceful sanctuary To hurl the direful thunderbolt of war? In 

 Prev. P 40/81 next