The Maid exclaim’d, “that robed in flowing lawn, And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps Like Cardinals, I see in every ward, Performing menial service at the beck Of all who bid them?” Theodore replied, These men are they who in the name of CHRIST Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power, Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords. They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, And in fine linen: therefore are they here; And tho’ they would not minister on earth, Here penanced they perforce must minister: For he, the lowly man of Nazareth, Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world.” So Saying on they past, and now arrived Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode, That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, And shudder’d: each one was a loathly corpse, The worm did banquet on his putrid prey, Yet had they life and feeling exquisite Tho’ motionless and mute. “Most wretched men Are these, the angel cried. These, Joan, are bards, Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate Who sat them down, deliberately lewd, So to awake and pamper lust in minds Unborn; and therefore foul of body now As then they were of soul, they here abide Long as the evil works they left on earth Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom! Yet amply merited by that bad man Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!” And now they reached a huge and massy pile, Massy it seem’d, and yet in every blast As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, Remorse for ever his sad vigils kept. Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. Inly he groan’d, or, starting, wildly shriek’d, Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, Threatened its fall, and so expectant still Lived in the dread of danger still delayed. They enter’d there a large and lofty dome, O’er whose black marble sides a dim drear light Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. Enthroned around, the Murderers of Mankind, Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august! Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire, Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there, First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief Who did belie his mother’s fame, that so He might be called young Ammon. In this court Cæsar was crown’d, accurst liberticide; And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain, Octavius, tho’ the courtly minion’s lyre Hath hymn’d his praise, tho’ Maro sung to him, And when Death levelled to original clay The royal carcase, Flattery, fawning low, Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God. Titus was here,[7] the Conqueror of the Jews, He the Delight of human-kind misnamed; Cæsars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings, Here they were all, all who for glory fought, Here in the Court of Glory reaping now The meed they merited. As gazing round The Virgin mark’d the miserable train, A deep and hollow voice from one went forth; “Thou who art come to view our punishment, Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes, For I am he whose bloody victories Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here,