Wailing his wilder’d senses.
“Mission’d Maid!”
The warrior cried, “be happy! for thy power
Can make this sufferer so. From Orleans driven,
Orphan’d by war, and of her only friend 70
Bereft, I found her wandering in the wilds,
Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, Joan,
Wilt his beloved to the youth restore;
And trust me, Maid! the miserable feel
When they on others bestow happiness, 75
Their happiest consolation.”
She replied,
Pressing the damsel’s hand, in the mild tone
Of equal friendship, solacing her cares.
“Soon shall we enter Orleans,” said the Maid;
A few hours in her dream of victory 80
England shall triumph, then to be awaked
By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath!
Irksome meantime the busy camp to me
A solitary woman. Isabel,
Wert thou the while companion of my tent, 85
Lightlier the time would pass. Return with me;
I may not long be absent.”
So she spake.
The wanderer in half-utter’d words express’d
Grateful assent. “Art thou astonish’d, then,
That one though powerful is benevolent? 90
In truth thou well mayest wonder!” Conrade cried.
But little cause to love the mighty ones
Hath the low cottager; for with its shade
Too oft doth POWER, a death-dew-dropping tree,
Blast every herb beneath its baleful boughs! 95
Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel! Relate
How warr’d the chieftains, and the people died.
The mission’d Virgin hath not heard thy woes;
And pleasant to mine ear the twice-told tale
Of sorrow.”
Gazing on the martial Maid 100
She read her wish, and spake. “A wanderer now,
Friendless and hopeless, still I love to think
Upon my native home, and call to mind
Each haunt of careless youth; the woodbined wall,
The jessamine that round the straw-roof’d cot 105
Its fragrant branches wreathed, beneath whose shade
I wont to sit and watch the setting sun,
And hear the thrushes song. Nor far remote,
As o’er the subject landskip round I gazed,
The towers of Yenville rose upon the view. 110
A foreign master holds my father’s home!
I, far away, remember the past years,
And weep.
Two brethren form’d our family;
Humble we were, and happy; honest toil
Procured our homely sustenance; our herds 115
Duly at morn and evening to my hand
Gave their full stores; the vineyard we had rear’d
Purpled its clusters in the southern sun,
And, plenteous produce of my father’s toil,
The yellow harvest billow’d o’er the plain. 120
How cheerfully around the blazing hearth
When all the labour of the day was done,
We past the evening hours; for they would sing
Or merry roundelay, or ditty sad
Of maid forsaken and the willow weed, 125
Or of the doughty Paladins of France
Some warlike fit, the while my spinning wheel
A fitting music made.
Thus long we lived,
And happy. To a neighbouring youth my hand
In holy wedlock soon to be consign’d 130
Was plighted: my poor Francis!” Here she paused,
And here she wept awhile.
“We did not think
The desolating stream of war would reach
To us; but soon as with the whirlwind’s speed
Ruin rush’d round us. Mehun, Clery, fell, 135
The banner’d Leopard waved on Gergeau’s wall;
Baugenci yielded; soon the foe approach’d
The towers of Yenville.
Fatal was the hour
To me and mine: for from the wall, alas!
The rusty sword was taken, and the shield 140
Which long had moulder’d on the mouldering nail,
To meet the war repair’d. No more was heard
The ballad, or the merry roundelay;
The clattering hammer’s clank, the grating file
Harsh sounded through the day a dismal din; 145
I never shall forget their mournful sound!
“My father stood encircling his old limbs
In long-forgotten arms. ‘Come, boys,’ he cried,
I did not think that this grey head again 149
Should bear the helmet’s weight; but in the field
Better to bravely die a soldier’s death,
Than here be tamely butcher’d. Isabel,
Go to the abbey! if we should survive,
We soon shall meet again; if not, my child, 154
There is a better world!
In broken words,
Lifting his eyes to Heaven, my father breathed
His blessing on me. As they went away,
My brethren gazed on me and wrung my hand
In silence, for they loved their sister well.
From the near cottage Francis join’d the troop. 160
Then did I look on our forsaken home,
And almost sob my very soul away;
For all my hopes of happiness were fled,
Even like a dream!”
“Perish these mighty ones,
Cried Conrade, “these who let destruction loose,
Who walk elated o’er their fields of fame, 166
And count the thousands that lie slaughter’d there,
And with the bodies of the innocent, rear
Their pyramid of glory! perish these,
The epitome of all the pestilent plagues 170
That Egypt knew! who send their locust swarms
O’er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood.
Fear and Destruction go before their path,
And Famine dogs their footsteps. God of Justice,
Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain!” 175
Thus while he spake, the murmur of the camp
Rose on their ear; first like the distant sound
When the full-foliaged forest to the storm
Shakes its hoarse head; anon with louder din; 179
And through the opening glade gleam’d many a fire.
The Virgin’s tent they enter’d; there the board
Was spread, the wanderer of the fare partook,
Then thus her tale renew’d: —
“Slow o’er the hill
Whose rising head conceal’d our cot I past,
Yet on my journey paused awhile, and gazed 185
And wept; for often had I crost the hill
With cheerful step, and seen the rising smoke
Of hospitable fire; alas! no smoke
Curl’d o’er its melancholy chimneys now!
Orleans I reach’d. There in the suburbs stood 190
The abbey; and ere long I learnt the fall
Of Yenville.
On a day, a soldier ask’d
For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet
Support me. It was Francis, and alone...
The sole survivor of that company! 195
“And soon the foes approach’d: impending war
Soon sadden’d Orleans. There the bravest chiefs
Assemble: Thouars, Coarase, Chabannes,
And the Sire Chapelle, in successful war 199
Since wounded to the death; and that good Knight
Giresme of Rhodes, who in a better cause
Can never wield the crucifix that hilts
His hallowed sword; and Xaintrailles ransom’d now,
&
nbsp; And Fayette late released, and that young Duke
Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound 205
Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest man
That ever yet did win his soldiers’ love,
And over all for hardihood renown’d
The Bastard Orleans.
These within the town
Expect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen men 210
Well tried in war, uprear the guardian shield
Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight
Of preparation. The wide suburbs stretch’d
Along the pleasant borders of the Loire, 214
Late throng’d with multitudes, now feel the hand
Of ruin. These preventive care destroys,
Lest England, shelter’d by the friendly walls,
Securely should approach. The monasteries
Fell in the general waste. The holy monks
Unwillingly their long-accustom’d haunts 220
Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook
Call’d to awaken’d memory some trace
Of vision seen, or sound miraculous.
Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells,
For the rude uproar of a world unknown, 225
The nuns desert: their abbess, more composed,
Collects her maids around, and tells her beads,
And pours the timid prayer of piety.
The pioneers, by day and night employ’d,
Throw up the violated earth, to impede 230
The foe: the hollow chambers of the dead
Echo’d beneath their stroke. The brazen tomb
Which late recorded death, in the furnace cast
Is made to inflict it now. Sad sight it was
To see so wide a waste; the aged ones 235
Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went
O’er the fallen dwellings of their happier years;
The stern and sullen silence of the men
Musing on vengeance: and but ill represt,
The mother’s fears as to her breast she clasp’d, 240
Her ill-doom’d infant. Soon the suburbs lay
One ample ruin; whence the stones were borne
Within the town to serve in its defence.
“And now without the walls the desolate space
Appear’d, a rough and melancholy waste, 245
With uptorn pavements and foundations deep
Of many a ruin’d dwelling. Nor within
Less dreary was the scene; at evening hour
No more the merry viol’s note was heard;
No more the aged matron at her door 250
Humm’d cheery to her spinning wheel, and saw
Her children dancing to the roundelay.
The chieftains strengthening still the ancient walls,
Survey them every where with prying eye;
The eager youth in anxious preparation 255
Practise the arts of war; silent and stern,
With the hurrying restlessness of fear, they urge
Their gloomy labours. In the city dwelt
An utter silence of all pleasant sounds, 259
But all day long the armourer’s beat was heard,
And all night long it echoed.
Soon the foe
Led to our walls the siege: as on they move
The clarions clangor, and the cheerful fife,
Accordant to the thundering drum’s deep sound,
Direct their measured march. Before the ranks
Salisbury was seen, Salisbury, so long the scourge
Of France; and Talbot towered by his side, 267
Talbot, at whose dread name the froward child
Clings mute and trembling to his nurse’s breast.
Suffolk was there, and Hungerford, and Scales,
And Fastolffe, victor in the frequent fight. 271
Dark as the autumnal storm they roll’d along,
A countless host! From the high tower I mark’d
The dreadful scene; I saw the iron gleam
Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun, 275
Their banners tossing to the troubled gale,
And.. fearful music.. heard upon the wind
The modulated step of multitudes.
“There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I saw
The dreadful stores of death; tremendous roll’d
Over rough roads the harsh wheels; the brazen tubes
Flash’d in the sun their fearful splendor far, 282
And last the loaded waggons creak’d along.
“Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care procured
Human defence, neglectful to implore 285
That heavenly aid, deprived of which the strength
Of man is weakness. Bearing through our streets
The precious relics of the holy dead,
The monks and nuns pour’d many an earnest prayer,
Devoutly join’d by all. Saint Aignan’s shrine 290
Was throng’d by supplicants, the general voice
Call’d on Saint Aignan’s name again to save
His people, as of yore, before he past
Into the fulness of eternal rest;
When by the Spirit to the lingering camp 295
Of Ætius borne, he brought the timely aid,
And Attila with all his multitudes
Far off retreated to their field of shame.”
And now Dunois, for he had seen the camp 299
Well-order’d, enter’d. “One night more in peace
England shall rest,” he cried, “ere yet the storm
Burst 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,”
The Maid of Arc replied, “gladly I hear 306
The detail. Isabel proceed! for soon
Destined to rescue this devoted town,
The tale of all the ills she hath endured
I listen, sorrowing for the past, and feel 310
Joy and contentment in the merciful task
For which I am sent forth.”
Thus spake the Maid,
And Isabel pursued. “And now more near
The hostile host advancing pitch their tents. 314
Unnumber’d streamers wave, and clamorous shouts,
Anticipating conquest, rend the air
With universal uproar. From their camp
A herald came; his garb emblazon’d o’er
With leopards and the lilies of our realm, 319
Foul shame to France! The summons of the foe
He brought.”
The Bastard interrupting cried,
“I was with Gaucour and the assembled chiefs,
When by his office privileged and proud
That herald spake, as certain of success
As he had made a league with Victory. 325
“Nobles of France rebellious! from the chief
Of yon victorious host, the mighty Earl
Of Salisbury, now there in place of him
Your Regent John of Bedford: in his name
I come, and in our sovereign Lord the King’s, 330
Henry. Ye know full well our master’s claim,
Incontrovertible to this good realm,
By right descent, and solemnly confirm’d
By your great monarch and our mighty king
Fifth Henry, in the treaty ratified 335
At Troyes, wherein your monarch did disclaim
All future right and title to this crown,
His own exempted, for his son and heirs
Down to the end of time. This sign’d and seal’d
At the holy altar, and by nuptial knot 340
Of Henry and your princess, gives the realm,
Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son
&n
bsp; Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose
My Master’s title, in the face of God,
Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime, 345
Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion ‘gainst
The Lord’s anointed. He at Paris crown’d
With loud acclaim of duteous multitudes,
Thus speaks by me. Deliver up your town
To Salisbury, and yield yourselves and arms, 350
So shall your lives be safe: and such his grace,
If of your free accord to him you pay
Due homage as your sovereign lord and King,
Your rich estates, your houses shall be safe,
And you in favour stand, as is the Duke, 355
Philip of Burgundy. But... mark me well!
If obstinately wilful, you persist
To scorn his proffer’d mercy, not one stone
Upon another of this wretched town
Shall then be left; and when the English host 360
Triumphant in the dust have trod the towers
Of Orleans, who survive the dreadful war
Shall die like traitors by the hangman’s hand.
Ye men of France, remember Caen and Roan!”
“He ceased: nor Gaucour for a moment paused
To form reply.
‘Herald! to all thy vaunts
Of English sovereignty let this suffice 367
For answer: France will only own as King
Her own legitimate Lord. On Charles’s brow,
Transmitted through a long and good descent, 370
The crown remains. We know no homage due
To English robbers, and disclaim the peace
Inglorious made at Troyes by factious men
Hostile to France. Thy master’s proffer’d grace
Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, yes, 375
Be sure we shall remember Caen and Roan!
Go tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury,
That as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power,
Like Blanchard, he can brave his cruelty,
And triumph by enduring. Speak I well, 380
Ye men of Orleans?’
“Never did I hear
A shout so universal as ensued
Of approbation. The assembled host
As with one voice pour’d forth their loyalty, 384
And struck their sounding shields; and walls and
towers,
Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went.’
The work of war began.
A fearful scene,”
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 9
