Joan of Arc — Book 5

SCARCE had the earliest ray from Chinon's towersMade visible the mists that curl'd alongThe winding waves of Vienne, when from her couchStarted the martial Maid. She mail'd her limbs;The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head; 5She girt the temper'd falchion by her side,And, like some youth that from his mother's arms,For his first field impatient, breaks away,Poising the lance went forth.Twelve hundred men,Rearing in order'd ranks their well-sharp'd spears, 10Await her coming. Terrible in armsBefore them towered Dunois. His manly faceDark-shadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks.The assembled court gaz'd on the marshall'd train,And at the gate the aged Primate stoodTo pour his blessing on the chosen host. 15And now a soft and solemn symphonyWas heard; and chaunting high the hallow'd hymnFrom the near convent came the vestal maids.A holy banner, woven by virgin hands, 20Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentimentOf awe, and eager ardor for the fight,Thrill'd thro' the troops, as he the reverend manTook the white standard, and with heav'n-ward eyeCall'd on the God of Justice, blessing it. 25The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd,Her dark hair floating on the morning gale,Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her handReceiv'd the mystic ensign. From the hostA loud and universal shout burst forth, 30As rising from the ground, on her white brow,She placed the plumed casque, and waved on highThe banner'd lillies. On their way they march,And dim in distance, soon the towers of ChinonFade from the eye reverted.The third sun, 35Purpling the sky with his dilated light,Sunk westering; when embosom'd in the depthOf that vast forest, whose prodigious trackShadows the hills and vales of Orleannois,They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation 40Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale,The streamers wanton; and, ascending slowBeneath the foliage of the forest trees,With many a light hue tinged, the curling smokeMelts in the impurpled air: leaving her tent, 45The martial Maiden wander'd thro' the wood.There, by a streamlet, on its mossy bankReclined, she saw a damsel: her long locksEngarlanded, and as she nearer came,The Virgin knew it for the willow weed. 50Resting his head upon her lap, there layA dark-hair'd man, listening as she did singSad ditties, and enwreathe to bind his browThe melancholy rue. Scar'd at the soundOf one in arms approaching, she had fled; 55But Conrade, looking upward, recogniz'dThe Maid of Arc. "Fear not, poor Isabel,"He said, "for this is one of gentle kind,Whom even the wretched need not fear to love."

So saying, he arose and took her hand, 60And held it to his bosom. "My fond heart,Tho' school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind,Beats high, a rebel to its own resolves.Come hither outcast One! and call her friend,And she shall be thy friend more readily 65Because thou art unhappy."IsabelSaw a tear starting in the Virgin's eye,And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept,Wailing his wilder'd senses."Missioned Maid!"The warrior cried, "be happy! for thy power 70Can make this wanderer so. From Orleans driven,Orphan'd by war, and torn away from oneHer only friend, I found her in the wilds,Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, JOAN,Wilt his beloved to the youth restore. 75And, trust me Maid! the miserable feelWhen they on others bestow happinessHigh joys and soul-ennobling."She replied,Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild toneOf equal friendship, solacing her cares. 80"Soon shall we enter Orleans," said the Maid;A few hours in her dream of victoryEngland shall triumph; then to be awak'dBy the loud thunder of Almighty wrath!Irksome meantime the busy camp to me 85A solitary woman. Isabel,Wert thou the while companion of my tent,Lightly the time would pass. Return with me,I may not long be absent."So she spake.The Wanderer in half-uttered words express'd 90Grateful assent. Art thou, astonish'd Maid,"That one tho' pow'rful is benevolent?In truth thou well mayest wonder!" Conrade cried."But little cause to love the mighty onesHas the low cottager! for with its shadeDoes Power, a barren death-dew-dropping tree,Blast ev'ry herb beneath its baleful boughs!Tell thou thy sufferings Isabel! RelateHow warr'd the chieftains, and the people died.The mission'd Virgin hath not heard thy woes, 100And pleasant to my ear the twice-told taleOf sorrow."Gazing on the martial MaidShe read her wish and spake. "Of lowly lineNot distant far from Jenville, dwelt my sire.Two brethren form'd our family of love. 105Humble we were, but happy. Honest toilProcur'd our homely sustenance. Our herdsDuly at morn and evening to my handGave their full stores. The vineyard he had rear'dPurpled its clusters in the southern sun; 110And plenteous produce of my father's toilThe yellow harvest billowed o'er the plain.We were content and envied not the great;We fear'd them not, for we were innocent.How chearful seated round the blazing hearth 115When all the labour of the day was done,We past the ev'ning hours! for they would singOr chearful roundelay, or ditty sadOf maid forsaken and the willow weed,Or of the doughty Douzeperes of France, 120Some warlike fit, the while my spinning wheelHumm'd not unpleasing round!""Thus long we lived,And happy. To a neighbouring youth my handIn holy wedlock soon to be combin'dWas plighted. My poor Francis!" Here she paus'd, 125"And here she wept awhile."We did not dreamThe desolating sword of War would stoopTo us. But soon as with the whirlwind's speedRuin rush'd round us. Mehun, Clery, fell,The banner'd Lion waved on Gergeau's wall, 130Baugenci yielded: soon the foe approach'dThe towers of Jenville.""Fatal was the hourTo luckless Isabel. For from the wallThe rusty sword was taken, and the shieldThat long had mouldered on the mouldering nail, 135To meet the war repair'd. No more was heardThe ballad, or the merry roundelay.The clattering hammers clank, the grating fileHarsh sounded thro' the day a dismal din.I never shall forget their mournful sound! 140

"My father stood encircling his old limbsIn long forgotten arms. "Come boys," he cried,I did not think that this grey head againShould bear the helmet's weight! but in the fieldBetter to boldly die a soldier's death, 145Than here be tamely butcher'd. My dear girl,Go to the Abbey. Here is gold to buyThe kind protection of the holy church.Fare thee well Isabel! if we surviveAnd conquer, we shall meet again: if not, 150There is a better world!""In broken wordsLifting his looks to Heav'n! my father breath'dHis blessing on me. As they strode away,My brethren gazed on me and prest my handIn silence, for they lov'd their Isabel. 155From the near cottage Francis join'd the troop.Then did I look on our forsaken home,And almost sob my very soul away!For all my hopes of happiness were fled,Like a vain dream!"

"Perish these mighty ones," 160Cried Conrade, "these prime ministers of death,Who stalk elated o'er their fields of fame,And count the thousands they have massacred,And with the bodies of the innocent, rearTheir pyramid of glory! Perish these, 165The epitome of all the pestilent plaguesThat Egypt knew! who pour their locust swarmsO'er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood.Fear and Destruction go before their path,And Famine dogs their footsteps. God of Justice, 170Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain!"

Thus whilst he spake the murmur of the campRose on their ear. First like the distant soundWhen the full-foliaged forest to the stormShakes its hoarse head. Anon with louder din; 175And thro' the opening glade gleamed many a fire.The Virgin's tent they enter'd. There the boardWas spread. The Wanderer, of the fare partook,Then thus her tale renew'd."Slow o'er the hillWhose rising head conceal'd our cot I past, 180Yet on my journey paus'd awhile, and gaz'd,And wept—for often had I crost the hillWith chearful step, and seen the rising smokeOf hospitable fire. Alas! no smokeCurl'd o'er the melancholy chimneys now. 185Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stoodThe Abbey—and ere long I learnt the fallOf Jenville."On a day, a soldier ask'dFor Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feetSupport me. It was Francis, and alone— 190The sole survivor of the fatal fight!"And soon the foes approach'd. Impending WarSoon sadden'd Orleans. There the bravest chiefsAssemble. Gallant D'Orval shines in arms,And Xaintrailles ransom'd from the captive chain. 195Graville, La Hire, and Thouars, and preserv'dWhen fall'n and faint, Alencon on the field;Verneuil to France so fatal, and releas'd,La Fayette from his hard captivity,Boussac, Chabannes, and over all renown'd 200The Bastard Orleans."These within the townExpect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen menWell tried in war, uprear the guardian shieldBeneath their banners. Dreadful was the sightOf preparation. The wide suburbs stretch'd 205Along the pleasant borders of the Loire,Late throng'd with multitudes, now feel the handOf Ruin. These preventive Care destroys,Lest England, shelter'd by the friendly walls,Securely should approach. The monasteries 210Fell in the general waste. The holy MonksUnwillingly their long-accustom'd hauntsAbandon, haunts where every gloomy nookCall'd to awakened Memory some traceOf vision seen, or sound miraculous. 215Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cellsFor the rude uproar of a world unknown,The Nuns desert. Their Abbess, more composed,Collects her maids around, and tells her beads,And pours the timid prayer of piety. 220The citizens with strong and ceaseless strokeDug up the violated earth, to impedeThe foe. The hollow chambers of the deadEchoed beneath. The brazen-trophied tombThrown in the furnace, now prepares to give 225The death it late recorded. It was sadTo see so wide a waste; the aged onesHanging their heads, and weeping as they wentO'er the fall'n dwellings of their happier years;The stern and sullen silence of the men 230Musing on vengeance: and but ill represtThe mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'dHer ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs layOne ample ruin; the huge stones remov'd,Wait in the town to rain the storm of death." 235

"And now without the walls the desolate plainStretch'd wide, a rough and melancholy waste.With uptorn pavements and foundations deepOf many a ruined dwelling—horrid scene!Nor was within less drear. At evening hour 240No more the merry tabor's note was heard,No more the aged matron at her doorHumm'd cheery to her spinning wheel, and mark'dHer children dancing to the roundelay.It was a hurried, melancholy scene! 245The chieftains strengthening still the massy walls,Survey them with the prying eye of fear.The eager youth in dreadful preparationStrive in the mimic war. Silent and sternThey urge with fearful haste their gloomy work. 250All day the armourer's busy beat was heard,All night it sounded. In the city dweltSuch a dead silence of all pleasant sounds,As in the forest when the lowering cloudsMeet, and the deep and hollow wind is heard 255That omens tempest: trembles to its voiceThe grove, and casts a darker gloom around."

"At length the foe approach. The watchman soundsHis dreadful warning. From the lofty towerOf old cathedral I beheld the scene. 260Trembling as when upon some little rockIslanded from the not-far-distant shore,The shipwreck'd seamen difficultly escap'dStands, and beholds the tide fast rising round."

"With standards proudly waving to the breeze, 265Onward they move. The clarions breathe aloudTheir martial clangor, and the chearful fife,According to the thundering drum's deep sound,Directs their measur'd march. Before the ranksStalks the stern form of Salisbury, the scourge 270Of France; and Talbot towered by his side,Talbot, at whose dread name the froward childClings mute and trembling to his nurse's breast.Suffolk was there, and Hungerford, and Scales,And Fastolffe, victor in the frequent fight. 275Dark as the autumnal storm they roll'd along,That big with ruin chills tire blacken'd vale;A countless host! From the high tower I mark'dThe dreadful scene.—I saw the iron blazeOf javelins sparkling to the noontide sun, 280Their banners tossing to the troubled gale,And—fearful music—heard upon the windThe modulated step of multitudes."

"There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I sawThe dreadful stores of death. Tremendous roll'd 285Over rough roads the harsh wheels. The brazen tubesFlash'd in the sun their fearful splendor far,And last the loaded waggons creak'd along.An awful scene! that chill'd me as I gaz'd.Thus from the black womb of the mutinous sky, 290When the red lightning rushes, and illumesWith lurid light the cloud-clad hemisphere,The traveller speeds across the plain, yet marksAll fearful as he is, with strange delight,The forked flash.""Meantime, a pensive train, 295The fearful Nuns in sad solemnityPass to the temple. In this hour of ill,Earnest of soul they pray to Heav'n for aid."

And now Dunois. for he had seen the campWell-order'd, enter'd. "One night more in peace 300"England shall rest," he cried, "ere yet the storm"Bursts on her guilty head! then their proud vaunts"Forgotten or remember'd to their shame,"Vainly her chiefs shall curse the hour, when first"They pitch'd their tents round Orleans.""Of that siege," 310The Maid of Arc replied, "gladly I hear"The detail. Isabel proceed; for soon"Destin'd to rescue that devoted town,"All that has chanced, the ills she has endur'd,"I listen, sorrowing for the past, and feel 315"High satisfaction at the saviour power"To me commission'd."Thus the Virgin spake,Nor Isabel delayed. "And now more near"The hostile host advancing pitch their tents."Unnumber'd streamers wave, and clamorous shouts, 320"Anticipating conquest, rend the airWith universal uproar. From their campA Herald comes. His garb emblazon'd o'erWith British lions, and foul blot to France!The lilies from the field of Azincour 325In slaughter pluck'd. The summons of the foeHe brought."The Bastard interrupting cried,"I was with Gaucour and the assembled chiefs,When by his office privileged and proudThat Herald spake, as certain of success 330As he had made a league with Victory.""Nobles of France rebellious! from the chiefOf yon victorious host, the mighty EarlOf Salisbury, now there in place of himYour Regent John of Bedford: in his name 335I come, and in our sovereign Lord the King's,Henry. Ye know full well our master's claim,Incontrovertible to this good realm,By right descent, and solemnly confirm'dBy your late Monarch and our mighty King 340Fifth Henry, in the treaty ratifiedAt Troyes, wherein your Monarch did disclaimAll future right and title to this crown,His own exempted, for his son and heirsDown to the end of time. This sign'd and seal'd 345At the holy altar, and by nuptial knotOf Henry and your Princess, yields the realm,Charles dead and Henry, to his infant sonHenry of Windsor. Who then dares opposeMy master's title, in the face of God 350Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crimeStands guilty, and of flat rebellion 'gainstThe Lord's anointed. He at Paris crown'd,With loud acclaim from duteous multitudeThus speaks by me. Deliver up your town 355To Salisbury, and yield yourselves and arms,So shall your lives be safe. And—mark his grace!If of your free accord, to him you payDue homage as your sovereign Lord and King,Your rich estates, your houses shall be safe, 360And you in favour stand, as is the Duke,Philip of Burgundy. But—mark me well—If obstinately wilful, you persistTo scorn his proffer'd mercy; not one stoneUpon another of this wretched town 365Shall then be left. And when the English hostTriumphant in the dust have trod the towersOf Orleans, who survive the dreadful warShall die like traitors by the hangman's hand.Ye men of France, remember Caen and Rouen!" 370

"He ceased. Nor Gaucour for a moment paus'dTo form reply."Herald! to all thy vauntsOf English sovereignty let this sufficeFor answer: France will only own as KingHim whom the people chuse. On Charles's brow 375Transmitted thro' a long and good descentThe crown remains. We know no homage dueTo English robbers, and disclaim the peaceInglorious made at Troyes by factious menHostile to France. Thy master's proffer'd grace 380Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, yes,We shall remember Meaux, and Caen, and Rouen.Go tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury,That as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power;Like Blanchard, he can mock his cruelty, 385And triumph by enduring. Speak I wellYe men of Orleans?""Never did I hearA shout so universal as ensuedOf approbation. The assembled hostAs with one voice pour'd forth their loyalty, 390And struck their sounding shields. The towers of OrleansEchoed the loud uproar. The Herald went.The work of war began.""A fearful scene,"Cried Isabel. "The iron storm of deathClash'd in the sky. From the strong engines hurl'd 395Huge rocks with tempest force convuls'd the air.Then was there heard at once the clang of arms,The bellowing cannon's, and the soldier's shout,The female's shriek—the affrighted infant's cry:The groan of death.—Discord of dreadful sounds 400That jarr'd the soul!Nor while the encircling foeLeager'd the walls of Orleans, idly sleptOur friends. For winning down the Loire its wayThe frequent vessel with provision fraught,And men, and all the artillery of death, 405Cheer'd us with welcome succour. At the bridgeThese safely stranded mock'd the foeman's force.This to prevent, Salisbury their watchful chief,Prepares the amazing work. Around our walls,Encircling walls he builds, surrounding thus 410The city. Firm'd with massiest buttresses,At equal distance, sixty forts protectThe pile. But chief where in the sieged townThe six great avenues meet in the midst,Six castles there he rear'd impregnable, 415With deep-dug moats and bridges drawn aloft,Where over the strong gate suspended hungThe dread portcullis. Thence the gunner's eyeFrom his safe shelter could with ease surveyIntended sally, or approaching aid, 420And point destruction.It were long to tellAnd tedious, how with many a bold assaultThe men of Orleans rush'd upon their foes;How fell the Tournelles (where in time of peaceJustice had held her seat), and that strong tower 425That shadowed from the bridge the subject Loire;Tho' numbering now three thousand daring men,Frequent and fierce the garrison repell'dTheir far out-numbring foes. From ev'ry aidIncluded, they in Orleans groan'd beneath 430All ills accumulate. The shatter'd roofsGave to the midnight dews free passage there.And ever and anon with hideous crashSome house fell; starting from his scanty restThe wearied soldier. Thro' the streets were seen 435The frequent fire, and heaps of dead, in hastePiled up and steaming to infected Heaven.For ever the incessant storm of deathShowers down, and shrouded in unwholesome vaultsThe wretched females hide, not idle there, 440Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ'd,Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal,Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds:A sad equality of wretchedness!"

"Now came the worst of ills, for Famine came! 445The provident hand deals out its scanty dole,Yielding so little a supply to lifeAs but protracted death. The loathliest foodHunted with eager eye, and dainty deem'd.The dog is slain, that at his master's feet 450Howling with hunger lay. With jealous fear,Hating a rival's look, each man concealsHis miserable meal. The famish'd babeClings closely to his dying mother's breast;And—horrible to tell!—where, thrown aside 455There lay unburied in the open streetsHuge heaps of carcasses. The soldier standsEager to seize the carrion crow for food."

"Oh peaceful scenes of childhood! pleasant fields!Haunts of my infancy, where I have stray'd 460Tracing the brook along its winding way,Or pluck'd the primrose, or with giddy speedChaced the gay butterfly from flower to flower!Oh days in vain remember'd! how my soulSick with calamity, and the sore ills 465Of hunger, dwelt upon you! quiet home!Thinking of you amid the waste of war.I could in bitterness have curs'd the GreatWho made me what I was! a helpless one,Orphan'd, and wanting bread!""And be they curst," 470Conrade exclaim'd, his dark eye flashing rage;"And be they curst! Oh groves and woodland shades,How blest indeed were you, if the iron rodShould one day from Oppression's hand be wrench'dBy everlasting Justice! come that hour 475When in the Sun the Angel of the LordShall stand and cry to all the fowls of Heaven,Gather ye to the supper of your God,That ye may eat the flesh of mighty men,Of Captains, and of Kings! Then shall be peace 480When—Author of all ills that flesh endures,Oppression, in the bottomless abyssShall fall to rise no more!"

The Maid pursued,"And now, lest all should perish, was decreedThat from the town the females and the infirm 485Should, out-cast, seek their fate.""I may not nowRecall the moment, when on my poor Francis,With a long look I hung! At dead of night,Made mute by fear, we mount the secret bark,And glide adown the stream with silent oars: 490Thus thrown upon the mercy of mankind.I wandered reckless where, till wearied outAnd cold at heart, I laid me down to die:So by this warrior found. Him I had knownAnd loved, for all loved Conrade who had known him. 495Nor did I feel so pressing the hard handOf want in Orleans, ere he parted thenceOn perilous envoy. For of his small fare"—"Of this enough," said Conrade, "Holy Maid!One duty yet awaits me to perform. 500Orleans her envoy sent me, claiming aidFrom her inactive sovereign. WillinglyDid I atchieve the hazardous enterprize,For Rumour had already made me fearThe ill that had fallen on me. It remains 505Ere I do banish me from human kind,That I re-enter Orleans, and announceThy march. 'Tis night—and hark! how dead a silence!Fit hour to tread so perilous a path!"

So saying Conrade from the tent went forth. 510