Joan of Arc — Book 7

STRONG were the English forts, by daily toilOf thousands rear'd on high, what time, elateWith fancied conquest, Salisbury bade riseThe amazing pile, from succour to includeBesieged Orleans. Round the city walls 5Stretch'd the wide circle, massy as the fenceErst by the fearful Roman on the boundsOf Caledonia rais'd, for, soul-enslavedHer hireling plunderers fear'd the car-borne chiefsWho rush'd from Morven down.Strong battlements 10Crested the mighty bulwark; on whose topSecure the charioteer might wheel along.From base declining; at just distance roseThe frequent buttress, and thrice twenty fortsLifted aloft their turret-crowned heads, 15All firm and massy. But of these most firmAs tho' of some large castle each the KeepStood six square fortresses with turrets flank'd,Piles of unequall'd strength—tho' now deem'd weak'Gainst puissance more than mortal, and the flames 20Shot from celestial banner. Safely henceThe skilful archer entering with his eyeThe city, might himself the while unseen,Thro' the long opening, shower his winged deaths.Loire's waves diverted fill'd the deep-dug moat 25Circling the pile, a bulwark vast, as whatRound their disheartened camp and stranded shipsThe Greeks uprear'd, a common sepulchreOf thousands slaughter'd, and the doom'd death-placeOf many a Chief, when Priam's patriot son 30Rush'd in his wrath and scattered their pale tribes.

But cowering now amid their sheltering fortsTremble the English host. Their leaders careIn anxious vigilance prepares to wardAssault expected. Nor the Maid's intent 35Did he not rightly areed: tho' vain the attemptTo kindle in their breasts the wonted flameOf valour; for by prodigies unmann'dThey wait the morning, or in silent dread,Or pouring out their fears in many a prayer. 40

The morning came. The martial Maid arose.Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gateEager again for conquest throng the troops.High towered the Son of Orleans, in his strengthPoising the ponderous spear. His batter'd shield, 45Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight,Hung on his sinewy arm."Maiden of Arc,Hail!" so to her approaching, cried the Chief."Well hast thou prov'd thy mission, as, by wordsAnd miracles attested when dismayed 50The stern Theologists forgot their doubts,So in the field of slaughter now confirm'd.Yon well-fenced forts protect the fugitives,And seem as in their strength they mock'd our force.Yet must they fall.""And fall they shall!" replied 55The Maid of Orleans. "Ere the sun be setThe lily on that shattered wall shall waveTriumphant.—Men of France! ye have fought wellOn that blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foesLurk trembling now amid their massy walls. 60Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock!The Shepherd—the Great Shepherd is arisen!Ye fly! yet shall not ye by flight escapeHis vengeance. Men of Orleans! it were vainBy words to waken wrath within your breasts. 65Look round. Your holy buildings and your homes—Ruins that choke the way! your populous town—One open sepulchre! who is there hereThat does not mourn a friend, a brother slain,A parent famish'd—or his dear loved wife 70Torn from his bosom—outcast—broken-hearted—Cast on the mercy of mankind?"She ceased.The cry of indignation from the hostBurst forth, and all impatient for the warDemand the signal. These Dunois arrays 75In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war,Commands the first; Xaintrailles, who oft subduedBy adverse fortune to the captive chain,Still more tremendous to the enemy,Lifted his death-fraught lance, as erst from earth 80Antæus vaunting in his giant bulk,When graspt by force Herculean, down he fellVanquisht; anon uprose more fierce for war.

Gaucour o'er one presides. The steady friendOf him imprisoned Orleans. Of his town 85Beloved guardian, he the dreadful siegeFirmly abiding, prudent still to planIrruption, and with youthful vigor swiftTo lead the battle, from his soldiers lovePrompter obedience gained, than ever fear 90Forced from the heart reluctant.The third bandAlencon leads. He on the fatal fieldVerneuil when Buchan and the Douglas died,Fell senseless. Guiltless he of that day's loss,Wore undisgraced awhile the captive chain. 95The Monarch him grateful to his high rankHad ransom'd, once again to meet the foeWith better fortune.O'er the last presidesDunois the Bastard, mighty in the war.His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame 100Confess'd, since when before his stripling armFled Warwick—Warwick that King-making Chief,In after days the arbiter of England,Who, bearing on his sword her diadem,Gave or bereft at will. Yet by Dunois 105Baffled, and yielding him the conqueror’s praise.And by his side the Martial Maiden pass’d,Lovely in arms as that Arcadian boyParthenopæus, when the war of beastsDisdaining, he to murder man rush’d forth, 110Bearing the bow, and those Dictæan shaftsDiana gave, when she the youth’s fair formSaw softened, and forgave the mother’s fault.

Saint Loup’s strong fort stood first. Oe’r this commands,Nobled by valour, Gladdisdale; and here 115The heir of Poyning’s name, and Molyns leadThe fearful garrison.As lowering cloudsSwept by the hoarse wind o’er the blacken’d plain,Mov’d on the host of France: they from the fort,Thro' secret opening, shower their pointed shafts, 120Or from the battlements the death-tipt spearHurl fierce. Nor from the strong arm only launch'dThe javelin fled, but driven by the strained forceOf the balista, in one carcass spentStay'd not; thro' arms and men it makes its way, 125And leaving death behind, still holds its courseBy many a death unclogg'd. With rapid marchRight onward they advanced, and soon the shafts,Impell'd by that strong stroke beyond the hostWasting their force, fell harmless. Now they reach'd 130Where by the bayle's embattled wall in armsThe Knights of England stood. There Poynings shookHis lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy maceFor the death-blow prepar'd. Alencon here,And here the Bastard strode, and by the Maid 135That daring man who to the English hostThen insolent of many a conquest gain'd,Bore her bold bidding. A rude coat of mailUnhosed, unhooded, as of lowly lineArm'd him, tho' here amid the high-born chiefs 140Præeminent for prowess. On his headA black plume shadowed the rude-featur'd helm.Then was the war of men, when front to frontThey rear'd the hostile hand, for low the wallWhere the bold Frenchman's upward-driven spear, 145Might pierce the foe. Then rang along the listsThe clash of battle. As Alencon movedOn his crown-crested helm with ponderous blowFell Gladdisdale's huge mace. Back he recoil'dAstounded. Soon recovering, his keen lance 150Thrust on the warrior's shield. There fast-infix'd,Nor could Alencon the deep-driven spearRecover, nor the foeman from his graspWrench the contended weapon. Fierce againHe lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt 155Fell full. It shiver'd, and the Frenchman heldA pointless truncheon. Where the Bastard foughtThe spear of Poynings, thro' his plated mailPierced, and against the iron fence beneathBlunted its point. Again he speeds the spear; 160At once Dunois on his broad buckler bearsThe unharming stroke, and aims with better fateHis javelin. Thro' his sword-arm did it pierceMaugre the mail. Hot from the streaming woundAgain the weapon fell, and in his breast 165Even thro' the hauberk drove.But there the warRaged fiercest where the Martial Maiden movedThe minister of wrath. For thither throng'dThe bravest champions of the adverse host.And on her either side two warriors stood 170Of unmatch'd prowess, still with eager eyeShielding her form, and aiming at her foesTheir deadly weapons, of themselves the whileLittle regarding. One was that bold manWho bade defiance to the English Chiefs. 175Firmly he stood, untir'd and undismay'd,Tho' on his burgonet the frequent spearDrove fierce, and on his arm the buckler hungHeavy, thick-bristled with the hostile shafts,Even like the porcupine when in his rage 180Rous'd, he collects within him all his force,Himself a quiver. And of loftier portOn the other hand towered Conrade. Firmly fenced,A jazerent of double mail he wore,Beneath whose weight one but of common strength 185Had sunk. Untir'd the conflict he endur'd,Wielding a battle-axe ponderous and keen,That gave no second stroke. For where it fell,Not the strong buckler nor the plated mailMight save, nor crested casque. On Molyn's head, 190As at the Maid he aimed his javelin,Forceful it fell, and shiver'd with the blowThe iron helm, and to his brain-pan droveThe fragments. At their comrades death amaz'd,And for a moment fearful shrunk the foes. 195That instant Conrade, with an active bound,Sprung on the battlements. There firm he stood,Guarding ascent. The warrior Maid of Arc,And he the partner of that battle's fame,Followed, and soon the exulting cry of France 200Along the lists was heard, as waved aloftThe holy banner. Gladdisdale beheld,And hasting from his well-defended post,Sped to the fiercer conflict. To the MaidHe strode, on her resolved to wreak his rage, 205With her to end the war. Nor did not JOANRead his stern purpose. Lifting up her shieldPrepar'd she stood, and pois'd her sparkling spear.The English Chief came on; on high he rais'dHis mace, and all his might into one blow 210Collected. As the Maiden rear'd her shield,Before her rush'd the man of lowly line,And on his buckler caught the mighty stroke,And at that instant thro' the warrior's neckThrust the keen lance. Prone fell the English Knight. 215Fast from the deadly wound the blood gush'd forth.Then thro' the host contagious terror ran,Their Chieftain slain. And lo! where on the wallBulwark'd of late by Gladdisdale so wellThe son of Orleans stood, and swayed around 220His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe,Till on the battlements his comrades sprang,And rais'd the shout of conquest. Then appall'dThe English fled; nor fled they unpursued,For mingling with the foremost fugitives, 225The gallant Conrade rush'd; and with the throng,The Knights of France together o'er the bridgeFast speeded. Nor the garrison withinDurst let the ponderous portcullis fall,For in the entrance of the fort the fight 230Raged fiercely, and together thro' the gateThe vanquish'd English and their eager foesPass'd in the flying conflict.Well I deemAnd wisely did that daring Spaniard actAt Vera-Cruz, when he his yet sound ships 235Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous FearMight still with wild and wistful eye look back.For knowing no retreat, his desperate troopsIn conquest sought their safety. Victors henceAt Tlascala, and o'er the Cholulans, 240And by Otompan, on that bloody fieldWhen Mexico her patriot thousands pour'd,Fierce in vain valor on their ruffian foes.There was a portal to the English fortThat opened on the wall; a speedier path 245In peace affording, whence the charmed eyeMight linger down the river's pleasant course.Fierce in the gate-way raged the deadly war;For there the Maiden strove, and Conrade there,And he of lowly line, bravelier than whom 250Fought not in that day's battle. Of successDesperate, for from above, the garrisonCould wield no arms so certain to bestowEqual destruction; of the portal's aidThe foe bethought them: then with lesser force 255Their weapons fell: abandoned was the gate;And soon from Orleans the glad citizensBeheld the hallowed banner on the towerTriumphant. Swift along the lofty wallThe English haste to St. John's neighbouring fort, 260Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuitThe v16lors ceased, but with the fugitivesMingled and waged the war: the combatants,Lock'd in the hostile grasp, together fallPrecipitate.But foremost of the French, 265Dealing destruction, Conrade rush'd along:Heedless of danger, he to the near fortPass'd in the fight; nor did not then the ChiefWhat most might serve bethink him: firm he stoodIn the portal, and one moment looking back 270Lifted his loud voice: thrice the warrior cried,Then to the war addrest him, now assail'dBy numerous foes, who arrogant of powerThreatened his single valor. He the whileStood firm, not vainly confident, or rash, 275But of his own strength conscious, and the postFriendly; for narrow was the portal wayTo one alone fit passage, from aboveO'erbrow'd by no out-jutting parapet,Whence death might crush him. He in double mail 280Was arm'd; a massy burgonet, well triedIn many a hard-fought field, helming his head;A buckler broad, and fenced with iron plates,Bulwark'd his breast. Nor to dislodge the ChiefCould the English pour their numbers, for the way 285By upward steps presented from the fortNarrow ascent, where one alone could meetThe war. Yet were they of their numbers proud,Tho' useless numbers were in that strait path,Save by assault, unceasing to out-last 290A single warrior, who at length must sinkFatigued with conquering, by long victoryVanquished.There was amid the garrisonA fearless Knight who at Verneuil had fought,And high renown for his bold chivalry 295Acquir'd in that day's conquest. To his fameThe thronging English yield the foremost place.He his keen javelin to transpierce the FrankHurl'd forceful: harmless in his shield it fix'd,Advantaging the foe, for by his side 300The battle-axe, an unfit weapon there,He hung, and seized the spear; then in himselfCollected stood, and calm. Nor the English KnightRemain'd unweapon'd: to have sped so ill,Indignant, from behind he snatch'd a lance 305And hurl'd with fiercer fury. Conrade liftsThe ponderous buckler. Thro' three iron foldsPierced the keen point, there, innocent of illUnharming hung. He with forceful grasp,Plucking the javelin forth, with mightier arm, 310Launch'd on his foe. With wary bend, the foeShrunk from the flying death; yet not in vainFrom that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon fled:Full on the corselet of a meaner manIt fell, and pierced, there where the heaving lungs, 315With purer air distended, to the heartRoll back their purged tide: from the deep woundThe red blood gush'd: prone on the steps he fell,And in the strong convulsive grasp of deathGrasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name 320Died the mean man; yet did he leave behindOne who did never say her daily prayers,Of him forgetful; who to every taleOf the distant war, lending an eager ear,Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door, 325The wretched one shall sit, and with dim eyeGaze o'er the plain, where on his parting stepsHer last look hung. Nor ever shall she knowHer husband dead, but tortur'd with vain hope,Gaze on—then heart-sick turn to her poor babe, 330And weep it fatherless!The enraged KnightDrew his keen falchion, and with dauntless stepMoved to the closer conflict. Then the Frank,Laying his javelin by, his battle-axeUplifted. Where the buckler was below 335Rounded, the falchion struck; but impotentTo pierce its plated folds, more forceful driven,Fierce on his crested helm, the Frenchman's strokeFell; the helm shivered; from his eyes the bloodStarted; with blood the chambers of the brain 340Were fill'd; his breast-plate with convulsive throes,Heaved as he fell; victorious, he the prizeAt many a tournament had borne awayIn the mimic war: happy, if so contentWith bloodless glory, he had never left 345The mansion of his sires.Warn'd by his fall,With a long pike at distance, the next foeThrust on the Frank. Then Conrade his sharp spearFlung, and transfix'd him; seizing the fall'n pikeHe in the portal stood, so well prepared 350To greet who should assail. But terrifiedThe English stood, nor durst adventure nowNear that death-doing man. Amid their hostWas one who well could from the stubborn bowShower his sharp shafts: well skill'd in wood-craft he, 355Even as the merry Outlaws who their hauntsIn Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouseThe sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven grassThe dew-drops sparkled to the rising-sun.He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd 360The feather'd dart—with force he drew the bow:Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string:Deep in his shield it hung: then Conrade rais'dAgain his echoing voice, and call'd for aid,Nor was the call unheard: the troops of France, 365From St. Loup's captur'd fort along the wallHaste to the portal; cheering was the soundOf their near footsteps to the Chief: he drewHis falchion forth, and down the steps he rush'd.Then terror seized the English, for their foes 370Swarm'd thro' the open portal, and the swordOf Conrade was among them. Not more fierceThe injur'd Turnus swayed his angry arm,Slaughtering the robber emigrants of Troy:Nor with more fury thro' the streets of Paris 375Rush'd he, the King of Sarza, RodomontClad in his dragon mail.Like some tall rock,Around whose billow-beaten foot the wavesWaste their wild fury, stood the unshaken man;Tho' round him prest his foemen, by Despair 380Hearten'd. He, mowing thro' the throng his path,Call'd on the troops of France, and bade them hasteWhere he should lead the way. A daring bandFollowed the adventurous Chieftain: he moved onUnterrified, amid the arrowy shower, 385Tho' on his shield and helm the darts fell fast;As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling treeThe autumnal whirlwind shakes.Nor Conrade paus'd,Still thro' the fierce fight urging on his way,Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand 390Seiz'd on the massy bolts. These as he drew,Full on his helm the weighty English swordDescended; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath,When lo! the assailant gasping on the ground,Cleft by the Maiden's falchion: she herself 395To the foe opposing with that lowly man,For they alone following the adventurous stepsOf Conrade, still had equall'd his bold course,Shielded him as with eager hand he drewThe bolts: the gate turn'd slow: forth leapt the Chief 400And shivered with his battle-axe the chainsThat hung on high the bridge. The impetuous troops,By Gaucour led, rush'd o'er to victory.

The banner'd lillies on the captur'd wallTossed to the wind. "On to the neighbouring fort!" 405Cried Conrade, "Xaintrailles! ere the night draws onOnce more to conquest lead the troops of France:Force ye the lists, and fill the deep-dug moat,And with the ram, shake down their batter'd walls.Anon I shall be with you." Thus he said; 410Then to the Damsel, "Maid of Arc! awhileCease we from battle, and by short reposeRenew our strength." So saying he his helmUnlaced, and in the Loire's near-flowing streamCleansed his hot face. The Maid her head unhelm'd, 415And stooping to the stream, reflected thereSaw her white plumage stain'd with human blood!Shudd'ring she saw, but soon her steady soulCollected: on the banks she laid her downFreely awhile respiring, for her breath 420Quick panted from the fight: silent they lay,For gratefully the cooling breezes bathedTheir throbbing temples.It was now the noon:The sun-beams on the gently-waving streamDanced sparkling. Lost in thought the warrior lay, 425And softening sadly his stern face, exclaim'd,"Maiden of Arc! at such an hour as this,Beneath the o'er-arching forest's checquer'd shade,With that lost woman have I wandered on,Talking of years of happiness to come! 430Oh hours for ever fled! delightful dreamsOf the unsuspecting heart! I do believeIf Agnes on a worthier one had fix'dHer love, that tho' mine aching heart had nurstIts sorrows, I had never on her choice 435Pour'd one upbraiding—but to stoop to him!A harlot!—an adulteress!"In his eyeRed anger flash'd; anon of what she wasEre yet the foul pollution of the CourtStain'd her fair fame, he thought. "Oh happy age!" 440He cried, "when all the family of manFreely enjoyed the goodly earth he gave,And only bow'd the knee in prayer to God!Calm flow'd the unruffled stream of years along,Till o'er the peaceful rustic's head, grew grey 445The hairs in full of time. Then he would sitBeneath the coetaneous oak, whilst round,Sons, grandsons, and their offspring join'd to formThe blameless merriment; and learnt of himWhat time to yoke the oxen to the plough, 450What hollow moanings of the western windForetel the storm, and in what lurid cloudsThe embryo lightning lies. Well-pleas'd, he taught,The heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek,Mild as decaying light of summer sun. 455Thus calmly constant flowed the stream of lifeTill lost at length amid that shoreless sea,Eternity. Around the bed of deathGathered his numerous race—his last adviceIn sad attention heard—caught his last sigh—460Then underneath the aged tree that grewWith him, memorial planted at his birth,They delved the narrow house: there oft at eveDrew round their children of the after days,And pointing to the turf, told how he lived, 465And taught by his example how to die.

"Maiden! and such the evening of my daysFondly I hoped; but I shall be at restSoon, in that better world of Peace and LoveWhere evil is not: in that better world 470JOAN we shall meet, and he too will be there,Thy Theodore."Sooth'd by his words, the MaidHad listened sadly, till at that loved nameShe wept. "Nay, Maid!" he cried, "I did not thinkTo wake a tear; but pleasant is thy grief! 475Thou know'st not what it is, round thy warm heartTo have a false one wreath in viper folds.But to the battle! in the clang of arms,We win forgetfulness."Then from the bankHe sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose, 480Bidding awhile adieu to milder thoughts.On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'dEngland's proud capital to the English host,Now half subdued, anticipating death,And vainly wishing they from her white clifts 485Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creepsThro' every vein: already they turn backTheir eager eyes to meditate the flight,Tho' Talbot there presided, with their Chief,The gallant Salisbury."Soldiers fam'd in arms!" 490Thus, in vain hope to renovate the strengthOf England, spake the Chief. "Victorious friends,So oft victorious in the hard-fought fight,What—shrink ye now dismay'd? have ye forgotThe plains of Azincour, when vanquished France 495Fled with her thousands from your father's arms,Tho' worn with sickness? or your own exploits,When on Verneuil, the flower of chivalryFell by your daring prowess? when the ScotBit the red earth in death, and Narbonne died, 500And the young boaster proud Alencon feltThe weight of English fetters? then we brokeThe plated shield, and cleft the warrior's helm,For ever victors. On Baugenci's wallYe placed the English flag; beneath your force 505Fell Jenville and Gergeau, the neighbouring townsOf well-nigh captur'd Orleans. I omitTo speak of Caen subdued, and vanquish'd Rouen,And that late day when Clermont fled the fight,And the young Bastard of that prison'd Duke. 510Shame! shame! that beaten Boy is here in arms,And ye will fly before the fugitives;Fly from a woman! from a frenzied girl!That with her empty mummeries, would blastYour courage; or if miracles she brings, 515Aid of the Devil! who is there among youFalse to his country—to his former fame—To me—your leader to the frequent field,The field of glory?"From the heartless hostA timid shout arose: then Talbot's cheek 520Grew red with indignation. "Earl!" he cried,Addressing him the Chief: "there is no hopeFrom these white-liver'd dastards; and this fortWill fall an easy conquest: it were wellTo reach the Tournelles, better fortified, 525Fit to endure long siege: the hope in viewTo reach a safer fortress, these our troopsShall better dare the battle."So he spake,Wisely advising. Him the Chief replied:"Well hast thou said; and, Talbot, if our swords 530Could thro' the thickest ranks this Sorceress reach,The hopes of France were blasted. I have stroveIn many a field, yet never to a foeStoop'd my proud crest: nor difficult to meetThis wizard girl, for from the battlements, 535Her have I mark'd the foremost in attack,Playing right valiantly the soldier's part;Yet shall not all her witcheries availTo blunt my good sword's edge."Thus communed they,And thro' the host the gladdening tidings ran, 540That they should seek the Tournelles. Then their heartsGathered new strength, placing on those strong wallsDependence; empty hope! nor the strong wall,Nor the deep moat can save, if Fear withinPalsy the soldier's arm.Them issuing forth, 545As from the river's banks they past along,The Maid beheld! "Lo! Conrade!" she exclaim'd,"The foes advance to meet us—look! they lowerThe bridge—and now they rush upon the troops:A gallant onset! Dost thou mark that man 550Who all the day has by our side endur'dThe hottest conflict? I did then beholdHis force, and wonder: now his deeds of deathMake all the actions of the former fightSeem as of no account: know'st thou the man? 555There is not one amid the host of France,Of fairer promise.""He," the Chief replied,"Wretched and prodigal of life atchievesThe exploits of Despair: a gallant youthWidowed like me of Hope, and but for whom, 560I had been seen among mankind no more.Maiden! with me thy comrade in the war,His arm is vowed to Heaven. Lo! where he standsBearing the battle's brunt in unmoved strength,Firm as the mountain round whose misty head, 565The unharming tempest breaks!"Nor paus'd they nowIn farther converse, to the perilous fraySpeeding, not unobserved—them Salisbury sawAnd call'd on Talbot. Six, the bravest KnightsAnd vow'd with them, against the Virgins life 570Bent their fierce course. She by that unknown manNow urged the war, when on her plumed helmThe hostile falchion fell. On high she liftsThat hallowed sword, the tenant of the tomb,And drench'd it in his bosom. On the front 575Of one, his comrade, fell the battle-axeOf him the dark-brow'd Chief: the ponderous blowShattered his brain. With Talbot's giant forceThe daring Herald urged unequal fight;For like some oak that firm with deep-fix'd roots 580Mocks at the storm, the undaunted Earl endur'dHis rude assault. Warding with wary eyeThe angry sword, the Frank around his foeWheels rapid, flashing his keen weapon fast;Now as he marks the Earl's descending stroke 585Bending, anon more fierce in swift attack.Ill-fated man! one deed of glory moreShall with the short-lived lightning's splendor graceThis thy death-day; for Slaughter even nowStands o'er the loom of life, and lifts his sword. 590

Upon her shield the Martial Maiden boreAn English warrior's blow, and in his sidePierced him: that instant Salisbury speeds his swordThat glancing from her helm fell on the foldsThat arm'd her neck, and making there its way, 595Stain'd with her blood its edge. The Herald saw,He saw her red blood gushing from the wound,And turn'd from Talbot heedless of himself,And lifting up his falchion, all his forceConcenter'd. On the breast of Salisbury 600It fell, and pierced his mail, and thro' the plateBeneath drove fierce, and in his heart's-blood plunged.Lo! as he struck the strength of Talbot came:Full on his treacherous helm he smote: it burst,And the stern Earl against his fenceless head 605Drives with strong arm the murderous sword. She saw—She knew—she could not save—her Theodore.

Conrade beheld, and from his vanquish'd foeStrode terrible in vengeance. Front to frontThey stood, and each for the death-blow prepar'd 610His angry might. At once their weapons fell,The Frank's huge battle-axe, and the keen swordOf Talbot. He, stunn'd by the weighty blow,Sunk senseless; by his followers from the fieldConveyed with fearful speed: nor did his stroke 615Fall vainly on the Frenchman's crested helm,Tho' weak to wound, for from his eyes the fireSparkled, and back recoiling with the blow,He in the Maiden's arms astounded fell.

But now their troops all captainless confus'd, 620Fear seized the English. Not with more dismayWhen over wild Caffraria's wooded hills,Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herdFly the death-boding sound. The forts they seek.Now reckless which, so from that battle's rage 625A present refuge. On their flying ranksThe victors press, and mark their course with blood.

But loud the trumpet of retreat resounds,For now the westering sun with many a hueStreak'd the gay clouds."Dunois!" the Maiden cried, 630"Form we around yon stronger pile the siege,There for the night encamping." So she said.The Chief to Orleans for their needful food,And enginery to batter that huge pile,Dismiss'd a troop, and round the Tournelles led 635The host beleagering. There they pitch their tents,And plant their engines for the morrow's war,Then to their meal, and o'er the chearful bowl,Recount the tale of danger; soon to restBetaking them, for now the night drew on. 640