Who made us all for happiness and love,
Infinite happiness, infinite love,
Partakers of his own eternity.”
Solemn and slow the reverend Priest replied, 515
“Much, woman, do I doubt that all-wise Heaven
Would thus vouchsafe its gracious miracles
On one fore-doom’d to misery; for so doom’d
Is that deluded one, who, of the mass
Unheeding, and the Church’s saving power, 520
Deems nature sinless. Therefore, mark me well!
Brethren, I would propose this woman try
The holy ordeal. Let her, bound and search’d,
Lest haply in her clothes should be conceal’d
Some holy relic so profaned, be cast 525
In some deep pond; there if she float, no doubt
The fiend upholds, but if at once she sink,
It is a sign that Providence displays
Her free from witchcraft. This done, let her walk
Blindfold and bare o’er ploughshares heated red, 530
And o’er these past her naked arm immerse
In scalding water. If from these she come
Unhurt, to holy father of the church,
Most blessed Pope, we then refer the cause 534
For judgement: and this Chief, the Son of Orleans,
Who comes to vouch the royal person known
By her miraculous power, shall pass with her
The sacred trial.”
“Grace of God!” exclaim’d
The astonish’d Bastard; “plunge me in the pool,
O’er red-hot ploughshares make me skip to please
Your dotard fancies! Fathers of the church, 541
Where is your gravity? what! elder-like
Would ye this fairer than Susannah eye?
Ye call for ordeals; and I too demand
The noblest ordeal, on the English host 545
By victory to approve her mission sent
From favouring Heaven. To the Pope refer
For judgement! Know ye not that France even now
Stands tottering on destruction!”
Starting then
With a wild look, the mission’d Maid exclaim’d,
“The sword of God is here! the grave shall speak
To manifest me!”
Even as she spake,
A pale blue flame rose from the trophied tomb 553
Beside her: and within that house of death
A sound of arms was heard, as if below 555
A warrior buried in his armour, stirr’d.
“Hear ye?” the Damsel cried; “these are the
arms
Which shall flash terror o’er the hostile host.
These, in the presence of our Lord the King,
And of the assembled people, I will take 560
Here from the sepulchre, where many an age,
They, incorruptible, have lain conceal’d,
For me reserved, the Delegate of Heaven.”
Recovering from amaze, the Priest replied:
“Thou art indeed the Delegate of Heaven! 565
What thou hast said surely thou shalt perform.
We ratify thy mission. Go in peace.”
JOAN OF ARC. THE FOURTH BOOK.
THE feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went round,
And in the assembled court the minstrel harp’d
A song of other days. Sudden they heard
The horn’s loud blast. “This is no time for cares;
Feast ye the messenger without!” cried Charles, 5
“Enough hath of the wearying day been given
To the public weal.”
Obedient to the King
The guard invites the way-worn messenger.
“Nay, I will see the monarch,” he replied,
“And he must hear my tidings; duty-urged, 10
I have for many a long league hasten’d on,
Not thus to be repell’d.” Then with strong arm
Removing him who barr’d his onward way,
The hall he enter’d.
“King of France! I come
From Orleans, speedy and effectual aid 15
Demanding for her gallant garrison,
Faithful to thee, though thinn’d in many a fight,
And now sore pressed by want. Rouse thou thyself,
And with the spirit that becomes a King
Responsive to his people’s loyalty, 20
Bring succour to the brave who in thy cause
Abide the extremity of war.”
He said,
And from the hall departing, in amaze
At his audacious bearing left the court.
The King exclaim’d, “But little need to send 25
Quick succour to this gallant garrison,
If to the English half so firm a front
They bear in battle!”
“In the field, my liege,”
Dunois replied, “yon Knight hath serv’d thee well.
Him have I seen the foremost of the fight, 30
Wielding so manfully his battle-axe,
That wheresoe’er he turn’d, the affrighted foe
Let fall their palsied arms with powerless stroke,
Desperate of safety. I do marvel much
That he is here: Orleans must be hard press’d 35
To send the bravest of her garrison,
On such commission.”
Swift the Maid exclaim’d,
“I tell thee, Chief, that there the English wolves
Shall never raise their yells of victory!
The will of God defends those fated walls, 40
And resting in full faith on that high will,
I mock their efforts. But the night draws on;
Retire we to repose. To-morrow’s sun,
Breaking the darkness of the sepulchre,
Shall on that armour gleam, through many an age 45
There for this great emergency reserved.”
She said, and rising from the board, retired.
Meantime the herald’s brazen voice proclaim’d
Coming solemnity, and far and wide
Spread the glad tidings. Then all labour ceased; 50
The ploughman from the unfinish’d furrow hastes;
The armourer’s anvil beats no more the din
Of future slaughter. Through the thronging streets
The buzz of asking wonder hums along.
On to St. Katharine’s sacred fane they go; 55
The holy fathers with the imaged cross
Leading the long procession. Next, as one
Suppliant for mercy to the King of Kings,
And grateful for the benefits of Heaven,
The Monarch pass’d, and by his side the Maid; 60
Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest,
Wistless that every eye on her was bent,
With stately step she moved; her labouring soul
To high thoughts elevate; and gazing round
With a full eye, that of the circling throng 65
And of the visible world unseeing, seem’d
Fix’d upon objects seen by none beside.
Near her the warlike Son of Orleans came
Pre-eminent. He, nerving his young frame
With exercise robust, had scaled the cliff, 70
And plunging in the river’s full-swoln stream,
Stemm’d with broad breast its current; so his form,
Sinewy and firm, and fit for deeds of arms,
Tower’d above the throng effeminate.
No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs 75
Effaced the hauberk’s honourable marks;
His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints
Many and deep; upon his pictured shield
F %.
A Lion vainly struggled in the toils,
Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage, 80
Assail’d the huntsman. Tre
mouille followed them,
Proud of the favour of a Prince who seem’d
Given up to vain delights; conspicuous he
In arms with azure and with gold anneal’d,
Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade 85
Defaced, nor e’er with hostile blood distain’d;
Trimly accoutred court-habiliments,
Gay lady-dazzling armour, fit to adorn
Tourney, or tilt, the gorgeous pageantry
Of mimic warfare. After him there came 90
A train of courtiers, summer flies that sport
In the sunbeam of favour, insects sprung
From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers,
The foul corruption-gender’d swarm of state.
As o’er some flowery field the busy bees 95
Fill with their happy hum the fragrant air,
A grateful music to the traveller, t
Who in the shade of some wide-spreading tree
Rests on his way awhile; or like the sound
Of many waters down some far-off steep 100
Holding their endless course, the murmur rose
Of admiration. Every gazing eye
Dwelt on the Prophetess; of all beside,
The long procession and the gorgeous train,
Though glittering they with gold and sparkling gems.
And their rich plumes high waving to the air, 106
Heedless.
The consecrated dome they reach,
Rear’d to St. Katharine’s holy memory
Her tale the altar told; how Maximin,
His raised lip kindled with a savage smile, 110
In such deep fury bade the tenter’d wheel
Rend her life piecemeal, that the very face
Of the hard executioner relax’d
With pity; calm she heard, no drop of blood
Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn’d 115
Heaven-ward, and hope and meekest piety
Beam’d in that patient look. Nor vain her trust,
For lo! the Angel of the LORD descends
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel!
One glance of holy triumph Katharine cast, 120
Then bow’d her to the sword of martyrdom.
Her eye averting from the pictured tale,
The delegated damsel knelt and pour’d
To Heaven her earnest prayer.
A trophied tomb
Stood near the altar where some warrior slept 125
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone
And rude-ensculptured effigy o’erlaid
The sepulchre. In silent wonderment
The expectant multitude with eager eye
Gaze, listening as the mattock’s heavy stroke 130
Invades the tomb’s repose: the heavy stroke
Sounds hollow; over the high-vaulted roof
Roll the repeated echoes: soon the day
Dawns on the grave’s long night, the slant sunbeam
Falls on the arms inshrined, the crested helm, 135
The bauldrick, and the shield, and sacred sword.
A sound of awe-repress’d astonishment
Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid
Over her robes the hallowed breast-plate threw,
Self-fitted to her form; on her helm’d head 140
The white plumes nod, majestically slow;
She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword,
Gleaming portentous light.
The wondering crowd
Raise their loud shout of transport. “God of Heaven,”
The Maid exclaim’d, “Father all merciful! 145
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield
The sword of vengeance; go before our host Î
All-just avenger of the innocent,
Be thou our Champion Î God of Peace, preserve
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms.” 150
She ceased, and with an eager hush the crowd
Still listen’d; a brief while throughout the dome
Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst
Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn,
“Thee LORD we praise, our GOD!” the throng
without.
Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy, 156
And thundering transport peals along the heaven.
As through the parting crowd the Virgin pass’d,
He who from Orleans on the yesternight 159
Demanded succour, clasp’d with warmth her hand,
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim’d,
“Ill-omen’d Maid! victim of thine own worth,
Devoted for this king-curst realm of France,
Ill-omen’d Maid, I pity thee!” so saying,
He turn’d into the crowd. At his strange words
Disturb’d, the warlike Virgin pass’d along, 166
And much revolving in her troubled mind,
Retrod the court.
And now the horn announced
The ready banquet; they partook the feast,
Then rose and in the cooling water cleansed 170
Their hands, and seated at the board again
Enjoy’d the bowl, or scented high with spice,
Or flavour’d with the fragrant summer fruit,
Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich.
Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp; he sung
Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest Knight 176
That ever loved fair Lady; and the youth
Of Cornwall underneath whose maiden sword
The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck
The dolorous stroke, the blameless and the brave,
Who died beneath a brother’s erring arm. 181
Ye have not perish’d, Chiefs of Carduel!
The songs of earlier years embalm your fame;
And haply yet some Poet shall arise,
Like that divinest Tuscan, and enwreathe 185
The immortal garland for himself and you.
The harp still rung beneath the high-arch’d roof,
And listening eager to the favourite lay,
The guests sat silent, when into the hall
The Messenger from that besieged town, 190
Re-enter’d. “It is pleasant, King of France,”
Said he, “to sit and hear the harper’s song;
Far other music hear the men of Orleans!
Famine is there; and there the imploring cry
Of Hunger ceases not.”
“Insolent man!” 195
Exclaim’d the Monarch, “ cease to interrupt
Our hour of festival; it is not thine
To instruct me in my duty.”
Of reproof
Careless, the stranger to the minstrel cried, 199
“Why harpest thou of good King Arthur’s fame
Amid these walls? Virtue and genius love
That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose lewd tale
To pamper and provoke the appetite?
Such should procure thee worthy recompence!
Or rather sing thou of that wealthy Lord, 205
Who took the ewe lamb from the poor man’s bosom.
That was to him even as a daughter! Charles,
This parable would I tell, prophet-like,
And look at thee and say, ‘Thou art the man!’”
He said, and with a quick and troubled step 210
Withdrew. Astonish’d at his daring guise,
The guests sat heedless of the lay awhile,
Pondering his words mysterious, till at length
The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hall,
Charles and the delegated damsel sought 215
The inner palace. There the gentle Queen
Awaited them: with her Joan lov’d to pass
Her intervals of rest; for she had won
The Virgin’s heart by her mild melancholy,
The calm and duteous
patience that deplored 220
A husband’s cold half-love. To her she told
With what strange words the messenger from Orleans
Had roused uneasy wonder in her mind;
For on her ear yet vibrated his voice,
When lo! again he came, and at the door 225
Stood scowling round.
“Why dost thou haunt me thus,”
The monarch cried, “Is there no place secure
From thy rude insolence? unmanner’d man!
I know thee not!”
“Then learn to know me, Charles!”
Solemnly he replied; “read well my face, 230
That thou may’st know it on that dreadful day,
When at the Throne of God I shall demand
His justice on thee!” Turning from the King,
To Agnes as she enter’d, in a tone
More low, more mournfully severe, he cried, 235
Dost thou too know me not!”
She glanced on him,
And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed
In the Maid’s bosom.
“King of France!” he said,
“She loved me, and by mutual word and will
We were betroth’d, when, in unhappy hour, 240
I left her, as in fealty bound, to fight
Thy battles. In mine absence thou didst come
To tempt her then unspotted purity...
For pure she was;.. Alas! these courtly robes
Hide not the indelible stain of infamy! 245
Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on
An honourable name, O lost to me,
And to thyself, for ever, ever lost,
My poor polluted Agnes!.. Charles, that faith
Almost is shaken, which should be henceforth 250
My only hope: thou hast thy wicked will,
While I the victim of her guilt and thine,
Though meriting alike from her and thee
Far other guerdon, bear about with me
A wound for which this earth affords no balm, 255
And doubt Heaven’s justice.”
So he said, and frown’d
Austere as he who at Mahommed’s door
Knock’d loud and frequent, at whose dreadful mien
Stricken with terror, all beholders fled.
Even the prophet almost terrified, 260
Scarcely could bear his presence; for he knew
That this was the Death-Angel AZRAEL,
And that his hour was come. Conscious of guilt
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 7
