His wide intrenchments. From the watch-tower’s top
In vain with fearful hearts along the Seine
We strain’d the eye, and every distant wave
Which in the sun-beam glitter’d, fondly thought
The white sail of supply. Alas! no more 180
The white sail rose upon our aching sight;
For guarded was the Seine, and our stern foe
Had made a league with Famine. How my heart
Sunk in me when at night I carried home
The scanty pittance of to-morrow’s meal! 185
You know not, strangers, what it is to see
The asking eye of hunger!
“Still we strove,
Expecting aid; nor longer force to force,
Valour to valour, in the fight opposed,
But to the exasperate patience of the foe, 190
Desperate endurance. Though with Christian zeal
Ursino would have pour’d the balm of peace
Into our wounds, Ambition’s ear, best pleased
With the war’s clamour and the groan of death,
Was deaf to prajer. Day after day pass’d on; 195
We heard no voice of comfort. From the walls
Could we behold their savage Irish Kerns,
Ruffians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptized,
Come with their spoil, mingling their hideous shouts
With moan of weary flocks, and piteous low 200
Of kine sore-laden, in the mirthful camp
Scattering abundance; while the loathliest food
We prized above all price; while in our streets
The dying groan of hunger, and the cries
Of famishing infants echoed,.. and we heard, 205
With the strange selfishness of misery,
We heard, and heeded not.
“Thou wouldst have deem’d
Roan must have fallen an easy sacrifice,
Young warrior! hadst thou seen our meagre limbs
And pale and shrunken cheeks, and hollow eyes;
Yet still we struggled bravely! Blanchard still
Spske of the obdurate temper of the foe, 212
Of Harfleur’s wretched people driven out
Houseless and destitute, while that stem King
Knelt at the altar, and with impious prayer 215
Gave God the glory, even while the blood
That he had shed was reeking up to Heaven.
He bade us think what mercy they had found
Who yielded on the plain of Agincourt,
And w hat the gallant sons of Caen, by him, 220
In cold blood slaughter’d: then his scanty food
Sharing with the most wretched, he would bid us
Bear with our miseries manfully.
“Thus press’d,
Lest all should perish thus, our chiefs decreed
Women and children, the infirm and old, 225
All who were useless in the work of war,
Should forth and take their fortune. Age, that makes
The joys and sorrows of the distant years
Like a half-remember’d dream, yet on my heart
Leaves deep impress’d the horrors of that hour. 230
Then as our widow-wives clung round our necks,
And the deep sob of anguish interrupted
The prayer of parting, even the pious priest
As he implored his God to strengthen us,
And told us we should meet again in Heaven, 235
He groan’d and curs’d in bitterness of heart
That merciless King. The wretched crowd pass’d on;
My wife...my children,...through the gates they pass’d,
Then the gates closed.. Would I were in my grave
That I might lose remembrance!
“What is man
That he can hear the groan of wretchedness 241
And feel no fleshly pang! Why did the All-Good
Create these warrior scourges of mankind,
These who delight in slaughter? I did think
There was not on this earth a heart so hard 245
Could hear a famish’d woman ask for food,
And feel no pity. As the outcast train
Drew near, relentless Henry bade his troops
Drive back the miserable multitude.
They drove them to the walls;... it was the depth
Of winter,... we had no relief to grant. 251
The aged ones groan’d to our foe in vain,
The mother pleaded for her dying child,
And they felt no remorse!”
The mission’d Maid
Rose from her seat,.. “The old and the infirm, 255
The mother and her babes!.. and yet no lightning
Blasted this man!”
“Aye, Lady,” Bertram cried,
“And when we sent the herald to implore
His mercy on the helpless, his stern face
Assum’d a sterner smile of callous scorn, 260
And he replied in mockery. On the wall
I stood and watch’d the miserable outcasts,
And every moment thought that Henry’s heart,
Hard as it was, would melt. All night I stood,..
Their deep groans came upon the midnight gale;
Fainter they grew, for the cold wintry wind 266
Blew bleak; fainter they grew, and at the last
All was still, save that ever and anon
Some mother raised o’er her expiring child
A cry of frenzying anguish.
“From that hour
On all the busy turmoil of the world 271
I look’d with strange indifference; bearing want
With the sick patience of a mind worn out
Nor when the traitor yielded up our town
Aught heeded I as through our ruin’d streets, 275
Through putrid heaps of famish’d carcases,
The pomp of triumph pass’d. One pang alone
I felt, when by that cruel King’s command
The gallant Blanchard died: calmly he died,
And as he bow’d beneath the axe, thank’d God 280
That he had done his duty.
“I survive,
A solitary, friendless, wretched one,
Knowing no joy save in the certain hope
That I shall soon be gather’d to my sires,
And soon repose, there where the wicked cease
From troubling, and the weary are at rest.” 286
“And happy,” cried the delegated Maid,
And happy they who in that holy faith
Bow meekly to the rod! A little while
Shall they endure the proud man’s contumely, 290
The injustice of the great: a little while
Though shelterless they feel the wintry wind,
The wind shall whistle o’er their turf-grown grave,
And all be peace below. But woe to those,
Woe to the Mighty Ones who send abroad 295
Their ministers of death, and give to Fury
The flaming firebrand; these indeed shall live
The heroes of the wandering minstrel’s song;
But they have their reward; the innocent blood
Steams up to Heaven against them: God shall hear
The widow’s groan.”
“I saw him,” Bertram cried,
“Henry of Agincourt, this mighty King, 302
Go to his grave. The long procession pass’d
Slowly from town to town, and when I heard
The deep-toned dirge, and saw the banners wave
A pompous shade, and the tall torches cast 306
In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light,
I thought what he had been on earth who now
Was gone to his account, and blest my God
I was not such as he!”
So spake the old man, 310
And then his guests betook them to repose
.
JOAN OF ARC. THE THIRD BOOK.
FAIR dawn’d the morning, and the early sun
Pour’d on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam,
And up the travellers rose, and on their way
Hasten’d, their dangerous way, through fertile tracks
Laid waste by war. They pass’d the Auxerrois; 5
The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth
The unreap’d harvest; from the village church
No even-song bell was heard; the shepherd’s dog
Prey’d on the scatter’d flock, for there was now
No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth 10
Where he had slumber’d at his master’s feet
Weeds grew and reptiles crawl’d. Or if they found
Sometimes a welcome, those who welcomed them
Were old and helpless creatures, lingering there
Where they were bom, and where they wish’d to die,
The place being all that they had left to love. 16
They pass’d the Yonne, they pass’d the rapid Loire,
Still urging on their way with cautious speed,
Shunning Auxerre, and Bar’s embattled wall,
And Romorantin’s towers.
So journeying on,
Fast by a spring, which welling at his feet 21
With many a winding crept along the mead,
A Knight they saw, who there at his repast
Let the west wind play round his ungirt brow.
Approaching near, the Bastard recognised 25
That faithful friend of Orleans, the brave chief
Du Chastel; and their mutual greeting pass’d,
They on the streamlet’s mossy bank reclined
Beside him, and his frugal fare partook, 29
And drank the running waters.
“Art thou bound
For the Court, Dunois?” exclaim’d the aged Knight;
“I thought thou hadst been far away, shut up
In Orleans, where her valiant sons the siege
Right loyally endure!”
“I left the town,”
Dunois replied, “thinking that my prompt speed
Might seize the enemy’s stores, and with fresh force
Re-enter. Fastolffe’s better fate prevail’d, 37
And from the field of shame my maddening horse
Bore me, an arrow having pierced his flank.
Worn out and faint with that day’s dangerous toil,
My deep wounds bleeding, vainly with weak hand
I check’d the powerless rein. Nor aught avail’d 42
When heal’d at length, defeated and alone
Again to enter Orleans. In Lorraine
I sought to raise new powers, and now return’d 45
With strangest and most unexpected aid
Sent by high Heaven, I seek the Court, and thence
To that beleaguer’d town shall lead such force,
That the proud English in their fields of blood
Shall perish.” 50
“I too,” Tanneguy reply’d,
In the field of battle once again perchance
May serve my royal Master; in his cause
My youth adventur’d much, nor can my age
Find better close than in the clang of arms 55
To die for him whom I have lived to serve.
Thou art for the Court. Son of the Chief I loved!
Be wise by my experience. He who seeks
Court-favour, ventures like a boy who leans
Over the brink of some high precipice 60
To reach the o’er-hanging fruit. Thou seest me here
A banish’d man, Dunois! so to appease
Richemont, who jealous of the royal ear,
With midnight murder leagues, and down the Loire
Sends the black carcass of his strangled foe. 65
Now confident of strength, at the King’s feet
He stabs the King’s best friends, and then demands,
As with a conqueror’s imperious tone,
The post of honour. Son of that good Duke
Whose death my arm avenged, may all thy days 70
Be happy; serve thy country in the field,
But in the hour of peace amid thy friends
Dwell thou without ambition.”
So he spake.
But when the Bastard told his wonderous tale,
How interposing Heaven had its high aid 75
Vouchsafed to France, the old man’s eyes flash’d fire,
And rising from the bank, his ready steed
That grazed beside he mounted. “Farewell friend,
And thou, the Delegate of Heaven!” he cried.
“I go to do my part, and we shall meet 80
At Orleans.” Saying thus, he spurr’d away.
They journey on their way till Chinons towers
Rose on the distant view; the royal seat
Of Charles, while Paris with her servile sons,
A headstrong, mutable, ferocious race, 85
Bow’d to the invader’s yoke; City even then
Above all Cities noted for dire deeds!
Yet doom’d to be the scene of blacker guilt,
Opprobry more enduring, crimes that call’d
For heavier vengeance, than in those dark days 90
When the Burgundian faction fill’d thy streets
With carnage. Twice hast thou since then been made
A horror and a warning to all lands;
When kingly power conspired with papal craft
To plot and perpetrate that massacre, 95
Which neither change of kalendar, nor lapse
Of time, shall hide from memory, or efface;
And when in more enlighten’d days,.. so deem’d,
So vaunted,.. the astonish’d nations saw
A people, to their own devices left, 100
Therefore as by judicial frenzy stricken,
Lawless and godless, fill the whole wide realm
With terror, and with wickedness and woe,..
A more astounding judgement than when Heaven
Shower’d on the cities of the accursed plain 105
Its fire and sulphur down.
In Paris now
The Invader triumph’d. On an infant’s head
Had Bedford placed the crown of Charlemagne,
And factious nobles bow’d the subject knee,
And own’d an English infant for their King, 110
False to their own liege Lord.
“Beloved of Heaven,”
Then said the Son of Orleans to the Maid,
“Lo these the walls of Chinon, this the abode
Of Charles our monarch. Here in revelry
He of his armies vanquish’d, his fair towns 115
Subdued, hears careless and prolongs the dance.
And little marvel I that to the cares
Of empire still he turns the unwilling ear,
For loss on loss, defeat upon defeat,
His strong holds taken, and his bravest Chiefs 120
Or slain or captured, and the hopes of youth
All blasted have subdued the royal mind
Undisciplined in Fortitude’s stern school.
So may thy voice arouse his sleeping virtue!”
The mission’d Maid replied, “Do thou, Dunois,
Announce my mission to the royal ear. 126
I on the river’s winding bank the while
Will roam, collecting for the interview
My thoughts, though firm, yet troubled. Who essays
Achievements of great import will perforce 130
Feel the heart heave; and in my breast I own
Such perturbation.”
On the banks of Vienne
Devious the Damsel turn’d, while through the gate
The Son of Orleans press’d with hasty step
To seek the King. Him from the public view 135
He found secluded with
his blameless Queen,
And his partaker of the unlawful bed,
The lofty-minded Agnes.
“Son of Orleans!”
So as he enter’d cried the haughty fair,
Thou art well come to witness the disgrace, 140
The weak, unmanly, base despondency
Of this thy Sovereign Liege. He will retreat
To distant Dauphiny and fly the war!
Go then, unworthy of thy rank! retreat
To distant Dauphiny, and fly the war, 145
Recreant from battle! I will not partake
A fugitive’s fate; when thou hast lost thy crown
Thou losest Agnes. — Do’st not blush, Dunois!
To bleed in combat for a Prince like this,
Fit only like the Merovingian race 150
On a May morning deck’d with flowers, to mount
His gay-bedizen’d car, and ride abroad
And make the multitude a holiday.
Go Charles! and hide thee in a woman’s garb,
And these long locks will not disgrace thee then! 155
“Nay, Agnes!” Charles replied, “reproach me not!
I have enough of sorrow. Look around,
See this fair country ravaged by the foe,
My strong holds taken, and my bravest friends
Fallen in the field, or captives far away. 160
Dead is the Douglas; cold thy gallant heart,
Illustrious Buchan! ye from Scotland’s hills,
Not mindless of your old ally distress’d,
Came to his succour; in his cause ye fought, 165
For him ye perish’d. Rash impetuous Narbonne!
Thy mangled corse waves to the winds of Heaven.
Cold, Graville, is thy sinewy arm in death;
Fallen is Ventadaur; silent in the grave
Rambouillet sleeps. Bretagne’s unfaithful chief
Leagues with my foes; and Richemont,’or in arms 170
Defies my weak controul, or from my side,
A friend more dreaded than the enemy,
Scares my best servants with the assassin’s sword.
Soon must beleaguer’d Orleans fall. — But now
A truce to these sad thoughts! We are not yet 175
So utterly despoil’d but we can spread
The friendly board, and giving thee, Dunois,
Such welcome as befits thy father’s son
Win from our public cares a day for joy.
Dunois replied, “So may thy future years 180
Pass from misfortune free, as all these ills
Shall vanish like a vision of the night!
I come to thee the joyful messenger
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 5
