Thus this sword I seize in pledge That I again behold thee!        [He snatches her sword. JOHANNA. Madman, hold! Thou darest? LIONEL. Now I yield to force—again I'll see thee!                  [He retires. 

  

       SCENE XI.     

       JOHANNA, DUNOIS, LA HIRE. LA HIRE. It is she! The maiden lives! DUNOIS. Fear not, Johanna! friends are at thy side. LA HIRE. Is not that Lionel who yonder flies? DUNOIS. Let him escape! Maiden, the righteous cause Hath triumphed now. Rheims opens wide its gates; The joyous crowds pour forth to meet their king. LA HIRE. What ails thee, maiden? She grows pale—she sinks!        [JOHANNA grows dizzy, and is about to fall. DUNOIS. She's wounded—rend her breastplate—'tis her arm! The wound is not severe. LA HIRE. Her blood doth flow. JOHANNA. Oh, that my life would stream forth with my blood!        [She lies senseless in LA HIRE'S arms. 

  

       ACT IV.     

       A hall adorned as for a festival; the columns are hung with garlands; behind the scene flutes and hautboys. 

  

       SCENE I.     

    JOHANNA. Hushed is the din of arms, war's storms subside, Glad songs and dance succeed the bloody fray, Through all the streets joy echoes far and wide, Altar and church are decked in rich array, Triumphal arches rise in vernal pride, Wreathes round the columns wind their flowery way, Wide Rheims cannot contain the mighty throng, Which to joyous pageant rolls along. One thought alone doth every heart possess, One rapt'rous feeling o'er each breast preside. And those to-day are linked in happiness Whom bloody hatred did erewhile divide. All who themselves of Gallic race confess The name of Frenchman own with conscious pride, France sees the splendor of her ancient crown, And to her monarch's son bows humbly down. Yet I, the author of this wide delight, The joy, myself created, cannot share; My heart is changed, in sad and dreary plight It flies the festive pageant in despair; Still to the British camp it taketh flight, Against my will my gaze still wanders there, And from the throng I steal, with grief oppressed, To hide the guilt which weighs upon my breast! What! I permit a human 

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