E'en that frail skiff from all danger might tear me,
And to the dwellings of friends it might bear me.
Scarcely his earnings can keep life afloat.
Richly with treasures his lap I'd heap over,--
Oh! what a draught should reward him to-day!
Fortune held fast in his nets he'd discover,
If in his bark he would take me away!

Hear'st thou the horn of the hunter resound,
Wakening the echo through forest and plain?
Ah, on my spirited courser to bound!
Once more to join in the mirth-stirring train!
Hark! how the dearly-loved tones come again!
Blissful, yet sad, the remembrance they wake;
Oft have they fallen with joy on mine ear,
When in the highlands the bugle rang clear,
Rousing the chase over mountain and brake.


From The Maid of Orleans, Prologue, scene 4.

JOAN OF ARC (soliloquizing).

Farewell, ye mountains, and ye pastures dear,
Ye still and happy valleys, fare ye well!
No longer may Joan's footsteps linger here,
Joan bids ye now a long, a last farewell!

Ye meadows that I watered, and each bush
Set by my hands, ne'er may your verdure fail!