‘Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely thence
The skilful bowman, entering with his eye 21
The city, might, himself the while unseen,
Through the long opening aim his winged deaths.
Loire’s waves diverted fill’d the deep-dug moat
Circling the whole; a bulwark vast it was 25
As that which round their camp and stranded ships
The Achaians raised, a common sepulchre
Of thousands slaughter’d, and the doom’d death-place
Of many a chief, when Priam’s virtuous son
Assail’d them, then in hope, with favouring Jove.
But cowering now amid their sheltering forts 31
Trembled the invading host. Their leader’s care
In anxious vigilance prepares to ward
The assault expected. Rightly he ared
The Maid’s intent, but vainly did he seek 35
To kindle in their breasts the wonted flame
Of valour; for, by prodigies unmann’d,
They wait the morn. The soldiers’ pride was gone;
The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay
Defiled and unrepair’d, they sharpen’d not » 40
Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer’s hand
Relax’d not his bent bow. To them, confused
With fears of unknown danger, the long night
Was dreadful, but more dreadful dawn’d the day.
The morning came; the martial Maid arose; 45
Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gate,
Eager again for conquest, throng the troops.
High tower’d the Son of Orleans, in his strength
Poising the ponderous spear. His batter’d shield,
Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight, 50
Hung on his sinewy arm.
“Maiden of Arc,”
So as he spake approaching, cried the chief,
“Well hast thou proved thy mission, as by words
And miracles attested when dismay’d
The grave theologists dismiss’d their doubts, 55
So in the field of battle 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
The Maid of Orleans. “Ere the sun be set 60
The lily on that shattered wall shall wave
Triumphant. — Men of France I ye have fought well
On yon blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foes
Lurk trembling now behind their massy walls.
Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock! 65
The Shepherd — the Great Shepherd is arisen!
Ye fly! yet shall not ye by flight escape
His vengeance. Men of Orleans! it were vain
By words to waken wrath within your breasts. 69
Look round! Your holy buildings and your homes —
Ruins that choke the way! your populous town —
One open sepulchre! who is there here
That does not mourn a friend, a brother slain,
A parent famished,.. or his dear loved wife
Torn from his bosom.. outcast.. broken-hearted..
Cast on the mercy of mankind?”
She ceased; 76
A cry of indignation from the host
Burst forth, and all impatient for the war
Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays.
In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war, 80
Commands the first; Xaintrailles, who oftentimes
Defeated, oft a prisoner, and as oft
Released for ransom, both with friend and foe
Growing repute of active hardihood,
And martial skill obtained; so erst from earth 85
Antæus vaunting in his giant bulk,
When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell
Vanquish’d, anon uprose more fierce for war.
Gaucour the second battle led, true friend
And faithful servant of the imprison’d Duke; 90
In counsel provident, in action prompt,
Collected always, always self-controul’d,
He from the soldiers’ confidence and love
Prompter obedience gain’d, than ever fear
Forced from the heart reluctant.
The third band
Alençon leads. On Verneuil’s fatal field 96
The day when Buchan and the Douglas died,
Wounded and senseless with the loss of blood,
He fell, and there being found, was borne away
A prisoner, in the ills of that defeat 100
Participant, partaking not the shame:
But for his rank and high desert, the King
Had ransom’d him, doom’d now to meet the foe
With better fortune.
O’er the last presides
The bastard son of Orleans, great in arms. 105
His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame
Acknowledged, since before his stripling arm
Fled Warwick; Warwick, he whose wide renown
Greece knew and Antioch and the holy soil
Of Palestine, since there in arms he went 110
On gallant pilgrimage; yet by Dunois
Baffled, and yielding him the conqueror’s praise.
And by his side the martial Maiden pass’d,
Lovely in arms as that Arcadian boy
Parthenopæus, when the war of beasts 115
Disdaining, he to cope with men went forth,
Bearing the bow and those Dictæan shafts
Diana gave, when she the youth’s fair form
Saw, soften’d, and forgave the mother’s fault. 119
Loup’s was the nearest fort. Here Gladdisdale
Commands the English, who as the enemy
Moved to the assault, from bow and arbalist
Their shafts and quarrels shower’d. Nor did they use
Hand-weapons only and hand-engines here,
Nor by the arm alone, or bow-string sped 125
The missile flew, but driven by the strain’d force
Of the balista, in one body spent
Stay’d not; through arms and men it made its way,
And leaving death behind, still held its course 129
By many a death unclogg’d. With rapid march
Onward the assailants came, and now they reach’d
Where by the bayle’s embattled wall in arms
The knights of England stood. There Poynings shook
His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace
For the death-blow prepared. Alençon here, 135
And here the Bastard came, and by the Maid,
That daring man who to the English host
Then insolent of many a conquest gain’d,
Had borne her bidding. A rude coat of mail
Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line 140
He wore, though here amid the high-born chiefs
Pre-eminent for prowess. On his head
A black plume shadow’d the rude-featured helm.
Then was the war of men, when front to front
They rear’d the hostile hand, for low the wall 145
Where an assailant’s upward-driven spear
Might reach his enemy.
As Alençon moved,
On his crown-crested helm with ponderous blow
Fell Gladdisdale’s huge maee. Back he recoil’d
Astounded; soon recovering, his sharp lance 150
Thrust on the warrior’s shield: there fast-infixed,
Nor could Alençon the deep-driven spear
Recover, nor the foeman from his grasp
Wrench the contended weapon. Fierce again
He lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt 155
Fell full; it shiver’d, and the Frenchman held
A pointless tr
uncheon. Where the Bastard fought,
The spear of Poynings, through his plated mail
Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath
Blunted its point. Again he thrust the spear; 160
At once Dunois on his broad buckler met
The unharming stroke, and aim’d with better hap
His javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce
Maugre the mail: hot from the streaming wound
He pluck’d the weapon forth, and in his breast 165
Clean through the hauberk drove.
But there the war
Raged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved
A minister of wrath; for thither throng’d
The bravest champions of the adverse host.
And on her either side two warriors stood 170
Protecting her, and aiming at her foes
Watchful their weapons, of themselves the while
Little regarding: on the one side he
Who to the English had her bidding borne;
Firmly he stood, untired and undismay’d, 175
Though many a spear against his burgonet
Was thrust, and on his arm the buckler hung
Heavy, thick-bristled with the hostile shafts,
Even like a porcupine when in his rage
Roused, he collects within him all his force, 180
Himself a quiver. On the other hand
Competing with him to protect the Maid,
Conrade maintain’d the fight; at all points arm’d,
A jazerent of double mail he wore,
Its weight in little time had wearied one 185
Of common strength; but unencumber’d he
And unfatigued, alertly moved in it,
And wielded with both hands a battle-axe,
Which gave no second stroke; for where it fell,
Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail 190
Might save, nor crested casque. On Molyn’s head,
As at the Maid he aim’d his javelin,
Forceful it fell, and shiver’d with the blow
The iron helm, and to his brain-pan drove
The fragments. At his fall the enemy, 195
Stricken with instantaneous fear, gave way.
That instant Conrade, with an active bound,
Sprung on the battlements; and there he stood,
Keeping the ascent. The herald and the Maid
Follow’d, and soon the exulting cry of France 200
Along the lists was heard, as there they saw
Her banner planted. Gladdisdale beheld,
And hastened from his well-defended post,
That where immediate danger more required
There he might take his stand; against the Maid
He bent his way, and hoped one happy blow 206
Might end at once the new-raised hopes of France,
And by her death, to the English arms their old
Ascendancy restore. Nor did not Joan
A reed his purpose, but with lifted shield 210
Prepared she stood, and poised her sparkling spear.
The English chief came on; he raised his mace;
With circling force the iron weight swung high,
And Gladdisdale with his collected strength
Impell’d the blow. The man of lowly line 215
That instant rush’d between, and rear’d his shield
And met the broken stroke, and thrust his lance
Clean through the gorget of the English knight.
A gallant man, of no ignoble line,
Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace; 220
They heap’d the hospitable hearth, they spread
The feast, their vassals loved them, and afar
The traveller told their fame. In peace they died,
And to their ancient burial-place were borne 224
With book and bell, torches, and funeral chaunt;
And duly for their souls the neighbouring monks
The solemn office sung. Now far away
Their offspring falls, the last of all his race,
Slain in a foreign land, and doom’d to share
A common grave.
Then terror seized the host, 230
Their chieftain dead. And lo! where on the wall,
Maintain’d of late by Gladdisdale so well,
The Son of Orleans stands, and sways around
His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe,
Till on the battlements his comrades climb 235
And raise the shout of conquest. Then appall’d
The English fled: nor fled they unpursued,
For mingling with the foremost fugitives,
The gallant Conrade rush’d; and with the throng
The knights of France together o’er the bridge 240
Press’d forward. Nor the garrison within
Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall,
For in the entrance of the fort the fight
Raged fiercely, and together through the gate
The vanquish’d English and their eager foes 245
Pass’d in the flying conflict.
Well I deem
And wisely did the heroic Spaniard act
At Vera-Cruz, when he his yet sound ships
Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous fear
Might still with wild and wistful eye look back:
For knowing no retreat, his desperate troops 251
In conquest sought their safety; victors hence
At Tlascala, and o’er the Cholulans,
And by Otompan, on that bloody field
When Mexico her patriot thousands pour’d, 255
Fierce in vain valour, on their dreadful foes.
There was a portal in the English fort
Which open’d on the wall; a speedier path
In the hour of safety, whence the soldiers eye
Might overlook the river’s pleasant course. 260
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
Fought not in that day’s battle. Of success
Desperate, for from above the garrison 265
(Lest upon friend and enemy alike
The indiscriminating blow should light,)
Could give no aid, the English of that way
Bethought them; by that egress they forsook
St. Loup’s, and the Orleanites with shouts of joy
Beheld the Virgin’s banner on its height 271
In triumph planted. Swift along the wall
The English haste to St. John’s neighbouring fort,
Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuit
The victors ceased, but with the fugitives 275
Mingled and waged the war; and combatants,
Lock’d in each other’s grasp, together fell
Precipitate.
But foremost of the French,
Dealing destruction, Conrade made his way
Along the wall, and to the nearest fort 280
Came in pursuit; nor did not then the chief
What most might serve bethink him; but he took
His stand in the portal, and first looking back,
Lifted his voice aloud; three times he raised,
Cheering and calling on his countrymen, 285
That voice o’er all the uproar heard afar,
Then to the strife addrest himself, assail’d
By numerous foes, who clamorously now
Menaced his single person. He the while
Stood firm, not vainly confident, or rash, 290
But in his vantage more than his own strength
Trusting; for narrow was the portal way,
To one alone fit passage, from above
Not overbrow’d by jutting parapet,
Whence aught might crush him. He in double mail
Was arm’d; a massy burgone
t, well tried 296
In many a hard-fought field, helming his head;
And fenced with iron plates, a buckler broad
Hung from his neck. Nor to dislodge the chief.
Could the English bring their numbers, for the way
By upward steps presented from the fort 301
A narrow ascent, where one alone could meet
The war. Yet were they of their numbers proud,
Though useless numbers were in that strait path,
Save by assault unceasing to out-last 305
A single warrior, who at length must sink
Fatigued with slaughter, and by toil foredone
Succumb.
There was amid the garrison
A gallant knight who at Verneuil had fought,
And good renown for feats of arms achieved 310
Had gain’d in that day’s victory. For him
His countrymen made way, and he his lance
Thrust upward against Conrade, who perceived
The intent, and as the weapon touch’d his shield
Smote with his battle-axe the ashen shaft; 315
Then plucking from the shield the severed head,
He threw it back. With wary bend the foe
Shrunk from the flying death; yet not in vain
From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon flew:
Full on the corslet of a meaner man 320
It fell, and pierced him where the heaving lungs,
In vital play distended, to the heart
Roll back their brighten’d tide: from the deep wound
The red blood gush’d; prone on the steps he fell,
And in the strong convulsive grasp of death 325
Grasp’d his long pike. Of unrecorded name
The soldier died; and yet he left behind
One who then never said her daily prayers
Of him forgetful; who to every tale
Of the distant war lending an eager ear, 330
Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door
The wretched one shall sit, and with fix’d eye
Gaze on the path, where on his parting steps
Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know
Her husband dead, but cherishing a hope, 335
Whose falsehood inwardly she knows too well,
Feel life itself with that false hope decay;
And wake at night from miserable dreams
Of his return, and weeping o’er her babe,
Too surely think that soon that fatherless child 340
Must of its mother also be bereft.
Dropping his broken spear, the exasperate knight
Drew forth the sword, and up the steps advanced,
Like one who disregarded in his strength
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 12
