Joan of Arc

Front matter

JOAN of ARC,

AN

EPIC POEM,

Preface

PREFACE.

EARLY in July 1793, the character of JOAN of ARC was the subject of conversation between myself and an intimate friend: the adventures of this extraordinary woman appeared to me well adapted for an Epic Poem; in the course of a few days I formed the rude outlines of a plan, and wrote the first three hundred lines; the remainder of the month was employed in travelling, and I made no progress even in idea. The subject was resumed on the 13th of August, and the original poem in twelve books, finished in six weeks, from that time.

My performance pleased myself, and those who had witnessed it's progress and completion. A few months afterwards it was shewn to a friend, whose taste and judgment I knew to be accurate.—"I am glad you have written this," said he, "it will serve you as a large collection, where you will find good passages for better poems." Our opinions differed, and I of course preferred my own. From this time the piece lay untouched in my desk, till the Autumn of 1794, when my intention of printing it was publicly announced.

Still the task of correction was unperformed. Many employments intervened; and a very few verbal alterations were all I had made when the paper and types arrived from London, and the Printer was ready to begin. The first proof was brought me. I saw its faults, and immediately formed my resolution. The first 340 lines remain nearly as they were: from thence the plan of the whole has been changed, and I believe there are not 1000 lines remaining as they were originally written. The rest was composed whilst the printing went on.

The 450 lines at the beginning of the second book, were written by S. T. Coleridge. But from this part must be excepted the lines 141, 142, 143; and the whole intermediate passage from 148 to 222. The lines from 266 to 272, are likewise mine, and the lines from 286 to 291.

The general fault of Epic Poems is, that we feel little interest for the Heroes they celebrate. The national vanity of a Greek or a Roman might have been gratified by the renown of Achilles, or Æneas, but to engage the unprejudiced, there must be more of human feelings than is generally to be found in the character of Warriors: from this objection the Odyssey alone may be excepted. Ulysses appears as the father and the husband, and the affections are enlisted on his side. The judgment must applaud the well-digested plan, and splendid execution of the Iliad, but the heart always bears testimony to the merit of the Odyssey: it is the poem of nature, and its personages inspire love rather than command admiration. The good herdsman Eumæus is worth a thousand heroes! Homer is indeed the best of Poets, for he is dignified yet simple; but Pope has disguised him in fop-finery, and Cowper has stripped him naked.

There are few readers who do not prefer Turnus to Æneas; an emigrant, suspected of treason, who negligently left his wife, seduced Dido, deserted her, and then took Lavinia forcibly from her betrothed husband! What avails a man's piety to the Gods, if in all his dealings with men he prove himself a villain? If we represent Deity as commanding a bad action, we make a Moloch God, and furnish arguments for the Atheist. The ill-chosen subjects of Lucan and Statius have prevented them from acquiring the popularity they would otherwise have merited, yet in detached parts, the former of these is perhaps unequalled, certainly unexcelled. The French Court honored the Poet of Liberty, by excluding him from the edition in Usum Delphini; , for the same reason, he may hereafter be published in Usum Reipublicæ. I do not scruple to prefer Statius to Virgil; his images are strongly conceived, and clearly painted, and the force of his language, while it makes the reader feel, proves that the author felt himself.

The power of Story is strikingly exemplified in the Italian Poets: they please universally, even in Translations. In the proportioning of his character, Tasso has generally failed. Godfrey is the hero of the poem, Rinaldo of the poet, and Tancred of the reader. Secondary characters should not be introduced like Gyas and Cloanthus; merely to fill a procession; neither should they be so prominent as to throw the principal into shade.

The lawless magic of Ariosto, and the singular theme as well as the singular excellence of Milton, render all rules of epic poetry inapplicable to these authors: so likewise with Spenser, the favourite of my childhood, from whose frequent perusal I have always found increased delight.

Against the machinery of Camoens, a heavier charge must be brought than that of profaneness or incongruity. His floating island is but a floating brothel, and no beauty can make atonement for licentiousness. The Lusiad, though excellent in parts, is uninteresting as a whole: it is read without interest, and remembered without pleasure.

The two poems of Glover have indeed the body of poetry, but there is no animating spirit: yet the Scholar must be pleased with their classical propriety, and the young heart will feel itself warmed by the struggle and success of free men.

It has been established as a necessary rule for the Epic, that the subject be national. To this rule I have acted in direct opposition, and chosen for the subject of my poem the defeat of my country. If among my readers there be one who can wish success to injustice, because his countrymen supported it, I desire not that man's approbation.

The History of JOAN of ARC is one of those problems that render investigation fruitless. That she believed herself inspired, few will deny: that she was inspired, no one will venture to assert; and who can believe that she herself was imposed on by Charles and Dunois? That she discovered the King when he disguised himself among the Courtiers to deceive her, and that, as a proof of her mission, she demanded a sword from a tomb in the church of St. Catharine, are facts in which all Historians agree: if this were done by collusion, the Maid must have known herself an impostor, and with that knowledge could not have performed the enterprise she undertook. Enthusiasm, and that of no common kind, was necessary to enable a young Maiden at once to assume the profession of arms, to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the foremost, and to subdue with an inferior force an enemy then believed invincible. One who felt herself the tool of a party, could not have performed this. The artifices of the Court could not have persuaded her that she discovered Charles in disguise; nor could they have prompted her to demand the sword they might have hidden, without discovering the deceit. The Maid then was not knowingly an impostor; nor could she have been the puppet of the Court: and to say that she believed herself inspired, will neither account for her singling out the King, or prophetically claiming the sword. After crowning Charles, she declared that her Mission was accomplished, and demanded leave to retire. Enthusiasm would not have ceased here; and if they who imposed on her could persuade her still to go with their armies, they could still have continued her delusion.

Fuller, of quaint memory, classes her among witches. He calls her a handsome, witty, and bold Maid, about twenty years of age. "People found out a nest of miracles in her education, that so lion-like a spirit should be bred among sheep like David. Ever after she went in man's cloaths, being armed cap-a-pee, and mounted on a brave steed: and, which was a wonder, when she was on horseback, none was more bold and daring; when alighted, none more tame and meek; so that one could scarce see her for herself, she was so changed and altered, as if her spirits dismounted with her body."

"Two customes had this Virago (call her now John or Joan), which can no way be defended: one was her constant going in man's clothes, flatly against Scripture; beside she shaved her hair in the fashion of a Frier, against God's express word: it being also a solecism in nature, all women being born votaries and the veil of their long hair minds them of their obedience they naturally owe to man: yea, without this comely ornament of hair, their most glorious beauty appears as deformed, as the sun would be prodigious without beams."

I have placed the death of Salisbury later, and of the Talbots earlier than these events occurred, and I believe these to be the only liberties taken with facts. The fall of the bridge at Orleans, a circumstance that the reader might deem invention, is historically true. The ninth book is the Original Sin of the poem. That it is a defect, I am myself sensible; but it is not uncommon at the age of twenty-one for the imagination to out-run the judgment. For the sake of variety, I thought it essential to introduce rough lines occasionally, and this I mention, lest some might suspect me of carelessness. Such as it is, the poem is before the world. I shall not witness its reception, and it will be long before the tidings will reach me in a distant part of Europe. Liberal criticism I shall attend to, and I hope profit by, in the execution of my Madoc, an Epic Poem on the discovery of America by that Prince, on which I am at present engaged. From line 121 to 131 in the tenth Book, of my writing, has been seen already by the public in another work; but as it is at present out of print and improbable that another edition will appear: on account of the appropriate sentiments they contained, I did not scruple to place them in their present situation.

M. Laverdy is now occupied in collecting whatever has been written concerning the Maid of Orleans. The result of his enquiries I anxiously expect. Of the various productions to the memory of JOAN of ARC, I have collected only a few titles, and if report may be trusted, need not fear a heavier condemnation than to be deemed equally bad. A regular Canon of St. Euverte has written un tres mauvaise poeme, intitled, The Modern Amazon. There is a prose tragedy called La Pucelle D'Orleans, variously attributed to Benserade, to Boyer, and to Menardiere. The Abbe Daubignee published a prose tragedy with the same title in 1642. In the Vatican, among the manuscripts of the Queen of Sweden, is a dramatic piece in verse, entitled, Le Mystere du Siege d'Orleans. Of my unfortunate predecessor Chapelain, I have been able to learn nothing but from Boileau. The Pucelle of Voltaire I have not read.

The following account of the imprisonment and execution of the Maid, I translate from Millin's National Antiquities of France. "JOAN was oppressed with outrages of all kinds: at every question they called her Joan the Heretic—the Sorceress—the Lascivious. Questions the most ridiculous were put to her; her confession was drawn from her, yet could they not find her culpable. The University of Paris assembled, and pronounced her a Heretic and Schismatic. The account of the process was read to Joan, and she complained fruitlessly, that her answers were falsified. They threatened her with the stake if she did not abjure: they read to her a passage which contained a promise to quit the habit of a man, and never again to bear arms. This writing she thought she signed, but they substituted another, in which she confessed herself an Harlot, an Idolatress, a Sorceress, Seditious, &c. &c.—She was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment."

"But this was not what had been promised to the English, and to satisfy them, it was necessary to destroy the unhappy JOAN. She had promised never more to wear the habit of a man; during the night they removed her own clothes, and placed in their stead those of a man: in vain did she demand her own—they were refused—vainly did she say that death was threatened her; her prayers were unregarded. She remained in bed till necessity obliged her to cover herself with the apparel of a man. Then was she seized, declared to have relapsed—excommunicated—crowned with paper upon which was written—An Heretic! an Apostate! an Idolatress!" and then reserved for punishment, "guarded by an hundred and twenty armed soldiers."

At last she was condemned to the flames. Over the stake was placed a large writing, bearing these words:—"JOAN, calling herself the Maid, is a Liar, a Diviner, a Blasphemer of God, a Disbeliever of the "Faith, an Idolatress, cruel, lewd, an Invocator of the Devil, an Apostate, a Schismatic, and an Heretic."

On the right and left of the stake were two scaffolds; upon the one were seen Pierre Cauchon and his clergy, on the other the Bailli of Rouen and the Assesseurs.

The Theologian Nicolas Midi pronounced an hypocritical discourse, concluding with these words:—"JOAN, go in peace, the Church abandons you to the "secular justice." The Bailli of Rouen had not power to pronounce sentence, all he could utter was, "menez la—let it be."

The preparation for death shook the firmness of JOAN:—she wept, and her tears softened the executioner, but not the Theologians. She was consumed before a numerous people, who, always late in their regrets, detested the atrocity on which they had assembled to glut their eyes.

The Assesseurs of Rouen abhorred their crime; and said themselves that they were dishonoured and undone. The executioner ran to throw himself at the feet of his confessor, but the Priests sung hymns for their detestable triumph.

Thus perished this admirable heroine, "to whom" (says Hume) "the more generous superstition of the ancients would have erected altars."

On the eighth of May, the epoch of it's deliverance, an annual fête is held as Orleans: and monuments have been erected to her memory. Her family was ennobled by Charles, but it should not be forgotten in the history of this monarch, that in the hour of misfortune he abandoned to her fate, the woman who had saved his kingdom.

Book the First

JOAN of ARC.

BOOK THE FIRST.

ARGUMENT.

Dunois (the Bastard of Orleans) carried away by his wounded Steed, faints with loss of blood. JOAN discovers and heals him. They proceed to the King. Narrative of the Maid. She relates the capture of Harfleur, and the expulsion of the inhabitants by Henry the 5th. Her education with Bizardo. The annunciation of her mission and subsequent life.

JOAN of ARC.

BOOK THE FIRST.

WAR's varied horrors, and the train of ills That follow on Ambition's blood-stain'd path And fill the world with woe; of France preserv'd By maiden hand, what time her chiefs subdued, Or slept in death, or lingered life in chains, I sing: nor wilt thou Freedom scorn the song.

Sunk was the sun: o'er all the expanse of air The mists of evening deepening as they rose Chill'd the still scene; when thro' the forest gloom, Rapt on with lightning speed, in vain Dunois Now check'd with weaker force the unheeded rein,

Now rais'd the unheeded voice. Swift as the storm Tremendous urges o'er the dangerous cape His sweeping pinions, rush'd the steed; for deep The heavy-hanging arrow's barbed point Gor'd his red flank. Impatient of defeat Shame and Revenge boil'd in the Bastard's breast. Adown his batter'd arms the tide of life Roll'd purpling; soon its grasp the nerveless hand Relax'd, and faint and fainter wax his limbs. Dim rolls the shadowy eye—he droops—he falls. Chill drop the dews of night. The new-born sun Refulgent smiles around. From trance reviv'd In dubious life Dunois unseals his eyes, And views a Form with mildly-melting gaze Hang o'er his wounds: loose to the morning breeze Waved her brown hair, and on her rubied cheek Hung Pity's crystal gem. Fearful awhile Lest wandering Fancy's unsubstantial shapes Had mock'd the vagrant sense, silent he gaz'd,

And gazing wonder'd; o'er his aching soul Soon Memory rush'd and woke with ruthless hand Each sleeping care. O France, he cried, my country!" When soft as breeze that curls the summer clouds At close of day, stole on his ear a voice Seraphic. "Son of Orleans! grieve no more. His eye not slept, tho' long the All-Just endur'd The woes of France; at length his bar'd right arm Volleys red thunder. From his veiling clouds Rushes the storm, Ruin, and Fear, and Death. Take Son of Orleans the relief of Heaven: Nor thou the wintry hour of adverse fate Deem useless: tho' unhous'd thou roam awhile, The keen and icy wind that shivers thee Shall brace thine arm, and with stern discipline Firm thy young heart for fearless enterprise. As who, through many a summer night serene Had hover'd round the fold with coward wish; Horrid with brumal ice, the fiercer wolf

From his bleak mountain and his den of snows Leaps terrible, and mocks the shepherd's spear." So spake the delegated Maid. Meantime From many a potent herb the juice she press'd Medicinal, and touch'd with lenient hand Each gaping wound, where life as loath to fly Sat trembling: not the plants Medea cull'd On Colchis' plain, nor those ingredients dire Erichtho mingled on Pharsalia's field, Making the soul retenant its cold corse, More potent; thro' his frame with force divine The subtle spirit ran, and every limb Fill'd with unwonted vigor; from the ground On nimble feet he sprang, and knelt, and spake.

"O more than mortal! thou whose powerful hand Avails to check the rapid step of Death, Snatching his prey even from the open'd grave. O Powerful! O Benignant! for myself Thus saved, I thank thee; for my country, more; Angel of Heaven! for surely thou wilt aid My country, and mine arm nerv'd with new life Shall on these proud invaders pour the war With tenfold fury." "Son of Orleans, cease;" With loveliest smile she said, "nor thus misgive What Heaven alone can claim. To Heaven return The grateful prayer; to Heaven, whose bounteous will Me, most unworthy, delegates to wield His thunder. Hear Dunois the tale of Her, Offspring of frail Mortality, yet doom'd To save her country. Lead me to the king, And as we journey on, these lips shall tell The wonderous work of Fate."

She paus'd: meantime, As down the steep descent with many a step They urge their way, her eye with wistful gaze Views the departing scene; so his last glance High from the deck the wretched exile sends To all that life holds dear; the glist'ning tear, Soften'd her eye and all the Woman reign'd. Soon the delufion dies; in distance lost Fades every spot belov'd; the hillock's top, The oak wide-branching, and the rising smoke Slow o'er the copse that floated on the breeze Melt in the morning clouds. She dried the tear, Then thus: "Near Harfleur's wall, where rolls the Seine Full to the sea his congregated waves, Dwelt Albert once.—Seat of my earliest years! Still busy Fancy loves with fairy touch To paint its faded scenes: even now mine eye Darts thro' the past its retrospective glance, And calls to view each haunt of sportive youth,

Each long-lost haunt I lov'd: the woodbin'd wall, The jasmine that around the straw-roof'd cot Its fragrant branches wreath'd, beneath whose shade I wont to sit and mark the setting sun And hear the redbreast's lay. Nor far remote As o'er the subject landskip round I gaz'd, The tow'rs of Harfleur rose upon the view. A foreign master holds my father's home! I, faraway, remember the past years, And weep. "The invader came. High o'er the waves Rides the proud armament in dreadful pomp That wafted slaughter; to the pebbled shore The anxious natives throng, and gaze upon The approaching ruin. On the fav'ring gale, The banner'd lion floats. Then might be heard, (That dreadful emblem of destruction seen,) The mother's anguish'd shriek, the old man's groan Of deep despondence. Desolate the cot; Silent the hamlet haunts of Innocence;

For the poor villagers remembering all Their grandsires told of war, fled wing'd with fear To Harfleur's shelter; thither me, yet young, (For scarce four summers o'er my head had beam'd Their radiance) bore my sire; the well barr'd gate, The massy wall, the turrets guarded strength, Too fondly wish'd, too fondly deem'd secure.

"Firm on the battlements the natives stand, Heedless of Death that rode the iron storm. Fire-brands and darts and stones and javelins (Vainly destructive) thinn'd the hostile host. The intrepid foe rush onward. "Fourteen years Young as I was, have not effaced the scene From bleeding memory. The widow's cry

The shrieks of anguish and the yell of war And Death's deep groan, yet vibrate on my heart, Yet wake the strings of grief! "Twere long to tell The vast variety of woe that fill'd Unhappy Harfleur. Long Estouteville strove, Long Gaucour's forceful arm repell'd the foe. In vain they strove, for weak were the wide walls And few the gallant garrison, worn out With days of ceaseless toil, and fearful nights Of unseen peril. O'er the wasted town The dreadful engines of destruction hurl'd Their ponderous ruin: then my father died! Spirit of Albert! bend from yon high Heaven

Thy head; look down—behold thine orphan child! She goes to fill her destiny; like thee, Leaving domestic joys, in rugged arms. To clasp her limbs;—like thee to dare the war, To die—yet not inglorious! "Wild with woe O'er my poor father's shatter'd corse I lay, And kist his rigid cheek, and tore my vest To bind his mangled limbs; nor, now bereft Of him the only parent of my youth, Fear'd I the horrors that prevail'd around. Suddenly all was still: anon burst forth The shout of conquest: from their long lov'd homes Thrust forth, the unhappy natives wander o'er

The wasted plain, in want and wretchedness. Feebly I followed; one who knew and lov'd My fallen father, fav'd his helpless child. Long time he journeyed on in hopes to gain Beyond old Arden, in his sister's home A safe asylum; and we now had reach'd The wood, with many a painful day's hard toil, When by the rankling wound that prey'd upon him Worn out, he fell. "My agonizing shrieks Pierced thro' the forest, and a holy man Drew near: he bore him to his rock-roof'd cell, And many a precious balm, and virtuous herb The aged leech applied; his earthly cares Were fruitless, for worn nature sunk to rest. Yet of a Judge, all just, all merciful, A God of Love, inspir'd the hermit told,

And solaced his departing soul with strains Of sweetest piety, and bade it rise On Faith's strong wings to Heaven. Thus, once again Bereav'd of friends, the sport of adverse fate, On his turf'd grave I pour'd the orphan tear.

"Rude was Bizardo's cell; the beetling rock Frown'd o'er its ivied entrance; the hewn stone Form'd his rough seat, and on a bed of leaves The aged hermit took his nightly rest. A pure stream welling from the mossy rock Crept murmuring thro' the wood, and many a flow'r Drank on its side the genial sap of life. The rich soil wasted not in worthless weeds Its nurture; for Bizardo's patient hand Cultur'd each healing and salubrious herb; And every fruit that courts the summer sun Bloom'd for the holy hermit's blameless food. Oft would the sage exclaim "ah why should Man Stern tyrant of the field, with blood pollute

His festive board! Nature has spread around The unguilty food of life abundantly. How frolic in the sun yon little fawn Strains his young limbs; now browzes the sweet grass, Now o'er the plain leaps lightly; that man's heart Were hard and alien from humanity Who could endure to gore his innocent side! Sport on poor forester! sport on secure, Fearless of one by hard misfortune school'd To feel for others." "Here my infant years Roll'd on at length in peace; he taught my knees To bend in prayer to that all-gracious God Whose parent power had call'd me into life; And who, from every perilous chance preserv'd, Had to the friendless orphan given a friend. Of every herb that blooms amid the grove, Or on the high cliff drinks a purer air He bade me know the virtue; with the morn Up from the homely couch we rose to pour

The soul expanding prayer: his eyes would beam Seraphic rapture, as with eloquent tongue He told the works of Heaven to thankless man. How from the womb of darkness nature rose Refulgent: at the Godhead's high command How matter teem'd with life: the Earth put forth Her various stores: the groves of Paradise Gave their mild echoes to the choral song Of new-born beings: and the last best work Form'd in God's image, reared the lordly face To Heaven. But when Bizardo told how man Fell from perfection, from angelic state, Plung'd deep in sin, and pluck'd the fruit of woe, And bow'd the knee to fiends, and mock'd at God, 'Till Christ expiring on the sacred cross Pour'd forth the atoning life; the tears ran down His aged cheeks with woe-mixt gratitude.

"Forgive the prolix tale! Oh I could dwell For ever thus; for weeks, and months, and years,

Roll'd undistinguish'd down the stream of Time, 'Till fourteen summers smiling o'er my head Saw my young mind rich with the precious lore Of virtue, and the leeches healing art By him—the good man—taught. "One morn it chanc'd, As wandering thro' the wilds my steps stray'd on, And from the high grass brushed the morning dew, The track of blood alarm'd me; void of fear, For the innocent fear little; eagerly I traced the stain, thinking some mangled fawn Or lamb had from the savage wolf escap'd, And I might haply heal its bleeding wounds. It led me where outstretch'd on the red earth There lay a youth wounded, and faint; his hair Clotted with gore; fast from his side stream'd out The blood; on his pale cheek the cold dews stood, And from his hand the blood-stain'd sword had fall'n. Fearful to leave, yet impotent alone To bear him to our cell—my echoing voice

Calls on Bizardo's aid; he heard; our hands Enwove the osier car; the cave receives The senseless stranger. "O'er his couch I bent With pious vigilance and fearful hope, Watching the wounded man till fugitive life Dubious return'd. His eyes gazed wistful round And e're again the heavy lids closed on them Beam'd languid gratitude. Long time elapsed E're thro' his frame the temperate current roll'd Of former strength: for deeply had he felt The ruffian's sword, and distant many a league Domremi lay the strangers native home.

"Scarce eighteen years had nerv'd the stripling's arm; Yet Theodore had view'd each deathful scene: And oft the tear from his averted eye He dried; mindful of fertile fields laid waste, Dispeopled hamlets, the lorn widow's groan, And the pale orphan's feeble cry for bread.

But when he told of those fierce sons of guilt That o'er this earth which God had fram'd so fair Spread desolation, and its wood-crown'd hills Make echo to the merciless war dog's howl; And how himself from such foul savagery Had scarce escap'd with life, then his stretch'd arm Seem'd, as it wielded the resistless sword Of Vengeance: in his eager eye the soul Was eloquent; warm glow'd his manly cheek; And beat against his side the indignant heart.

"Meantime autumnal gales had swept the grove, And to the cold blast now the sullen oak Spread his unfoliag'd arms; the cloud-clad sky Frown'd o'er the drear and melancholy scene. At length the snows fell fast, and drifting deep Choak'd up the road; yet felt not Theodore One tedious hour of all the live-long day. Oh! he would sit and mark the driving storm, Whilst o'er the high-heap'd hearth, of a bad world

And of the woes that Man creates for Man He told. Then gazing round our peaceful cell, Here (he would cry) let Theodore remain, Till at the last his wasted lamp of life Gently go out." "Yet were not then the hours Devoid of sorrow; for our anxious eyes Beheld Bizardo waining to the tomb. In the full of years he sunk: his eyes grew dim, And on the bed of leaves his feeble frame Lay helpless. Patiently did he endure, In faith anticipating blessedness, Already more than Man in that dread hour When Man is meanest. His were the best joys The pious know, and his last prayer was praise. I saw him die: I saw the dews of Death Starting on his cold brow: I heard him then Pour out a blessing on me.—Son of Orleans! I would not wish to live to know that hour, When I could think upon a dear friend dead, And weep not.

"Aching at the heart we delv'd The narrow house, and o'er the inearthed corse Heapt we the grass-green sod. "The spring came on; I felt a pang that may not be express'd, Leaving that little cell where many a year Had past in peace. We journeyed on our way, Seeking the distant home of Theodore; And at the last saw o'er the budding copse The curling smoke rise slow: onward he speeds Elate of heart. The watch dog with hoarse bark Announc'd the coming guest; then, wild with joy Soon as Remembrance spake his long-lov'd Lord, Fawn'd on his feet and howl'd with ecstasy. 'Twas happiness indeed, one face of bliss Shines thro' the house: the eager plough-man quits The labouring team, for Theodore is come. Fast down his mother's cheek roll'd the warm tear Of transport, to her breast she claspt her child, Long wept as one no more; nor me forgot,