Joan of Arc (Southey)/Book 8

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JOAN of ARC.

BOOK THE EIGHTH.

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ARGUMENT.

Transactions of the night. Attack of the Tournelles. The garrison retreat to the tower on the bridge. Their total defeat there. Despondency of the English army. Their Chiefs counsel together and resolve on retreating. Nocturnal retreat of the English. Funeral of Theodore.

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JOAN of ARC.

BOOK THE EIGHTH.

Now was the noon of night; and all was stillSave where the centinel paced on his roundsHumming a broken song. Along the campHigh flames the frequent fire. The warrior Franks,On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs5Fatigued, their spears lay by them, and the shieldPillowed the helmed head: secure they slept,And busy Fancy in her dream renewedThe fight of yesterday.But not to JOAN,But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid,10Soother of sorrows, Sleep! no more her pulse,Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast, ​Allow'd no pause for thought. With clasped handsAnd fixed eye she sat, the while aroundThe Spectres of the Days departed rose,15A melancholy train! that rock-roof'd cellShe call'd to mind where many a winter's dayWith Theodore she mark'd the driving storm:She call'd to mind the hours of merrimentWhen mingling in the dance with careless glee20She join'd the blithesome train: then her wild eyeBeheld him cold, and his blood-clotted faceIn death distorted. O'er her shivering frameThe chill dews started, for upon the galeThe crow's hoarse croak was heard. Sudden she rose,25And passing thro' the camp with hasty stepStrode to the field of blood.The night was calm;Fair as was ever on Chaldea's plainWhen the pale moon-beams o'er the silvery sceneShone cloudless, whilst the watchful shepherd's eye30Survey'd the host of heaven, and mark'd them rise ​Successive, and successively decay;Lost in the stream of light, as lesser springsAmid Euphrates' current. The high wallCast a deep shadow, and her faltering feet35Stumbled o'er broken arms and carcasses;And sometimes did she hear the heavy groanOf one yet struggling in the pangs of death.She reach'd the spot where Theodore had fall'n,Before fort London's gate; but vainly there40Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold faceGazing with such a look as tho' she fear'dThe thing she sought. Amazement seiz'd the Maid,For there the victim of his vengeful arm,Known by the buckler's blazon'd heraldry,45Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stoodGazing around the plain, she mark'd a manPass slowly on, as burthened. Him to aidShe sped, and soon with unencumber'd speedO'ertaking, thus bespake: "Stranger! this weight50Impedes thy progress. Dost thou bear away ​Some slaughtered friend? or lives the suffererWith many a sore wound gash'd? oh if he lives!I will with earnest prayer petition HeavenTo shed its healing on him!"So she said, 55And as she spake stretched forth her careful handsTo ease the burthen. "Warrior," he replied,"Thanks for thy proffered succour: but this manLives not, and I with unassisted armCan bear him to the sepulchre. Farewell— 60The night is far advanced; thou to the campReturn: it fits not darkling thus to stray."
"Conrade!" the Maid exclaim'd, for well she knewHis voice:—with that she fell upon his neckAnd cried, "My Theodore! but wherefore thus 65Thro' the dead midnight dost thou bear his corse?"
"Peace, Maiden!" Conrade cried, "collect thy soul!He is but gone before thee to that world ​Whither thou soon must follow! in the morn,Ere yet from Orleans to the war we went, 70He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear.Lo Conrade where she moves—beloved Maid!Devoted for the realm of France she goesAbandoning for this the joys of life!Yea—life itself!" yet on my heart her words 75"Vibrate; if she must perish in the war,I will not live to bear the dreadful thought,Haply my arm had saved her. I shall goHer unknown guardian. Conrade, if I fall,(And trust me I have little love of life,) 80Bear me in secret from the gory field,Lest haply I might meet her wandering eyeA mangled corse. She must not know my fate.Do this last aft of friendship—in the floodWhelm me: so shall she think of Theodore 85Unanguish'd." Maiden, I did vow with him"That I would dare the battle by thy side,And shield thee in the war. Thee of his death ​I hoped unknowing."As the warrior spake,He on the earth the clay-cold carcass laid. 90With fixed eye the wretched Maiden gazedThe life-left tenement. The dews of nightWere on his arms, and o'er the ghastly woundHung his brown hair gore-clotted. "Gallant youth!"She cried, "I would to God the hour were come 95When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss!No, Theodore! the sport of winds and waves,Thy body shall not roll adown the streamThe sea-wolf's banquet. Conrade, bear with meThe corse to Orleans, there in hallowed ground 100To rest; the Priest shall say the sacred prayer,And hymn the requiem to his parted soul.So shall not Elinor in bitternessLament that no dear friend to her dead childPaid the last office."From the earth they lift 105The mournful burden, and along the plain ​Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate.The obedient centinel at Conrade's voiceAdmits the midnight travellers; on they pass,Till in the neighbouring Abbey's porch arrived 110They rest the lifeless load.Loud rings the bell;The awakened porter turns the heavy door.To him the Virgin: "Father, from the slainOn yonder reeking field a dear-loved friendI bring to holy sepulture: chaunt ye 115The requiem to his soul: to-morrow eveWill I return, and in the narrow houseBehold him laid to rest." The father knewThe mission'd Maid, and humbly bow'd assent.
Now from the city, o'er the shadowy plain, 120Backward they bend their way. From silent thoughtsThe Maid awakeing cried, "There was a time,"When thinking on my closing hour of life,Tho' with resolved mind, some natural fears ​Shook the weak frame; now, the approaching hour, 125When my emancipated soul shall burstThe cumberous fetters of mortality,Wishful I contemplate. Conrade! my friend,My wounded heart would feel another pangShould'st thou forsake me!""JOAN!" the Chief replied, 130"Along the weary pilgrimage of lifeTogether will we journey, and beguileThe dreary road, telling with what gay hopes,We in the morning eyed the pleasant fieldsVision'd before; then wish that we had reach'd 135The bower of rest!"Thus communing they gain'dThe camp, yet hush'd in sleep; there separating,Each in the post allotted, restless waitsThe day-break.Morning came: dim thro' the shadeThe first rays glimmer; soon the brightening clouds 140Drink the rich beam, and o'er the landscape spread ​The dewy light. The soldiers from the earthLeap up invigorate, and each his foodReceives, impatient to renew the war.Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points. 145"Soldiers of France! your English foes are there!"
 As when a band of hunters, round the den Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate In hope of conquest and the future feast; (When on the hospitable board their spoil 150Shall smoak, and they, as the rich bowl goes round, Tell to their guests their exploits in the chase;) They with their shouts of exultation make The forest ring: so elevate of heart,With such loud clamors for the fierce assault 155The French prepare; nor, guarding now the lists Durst the disheartened English man to man Meet the close conflict. From the barbican,[1] ​Or from the embattled wall they their yeugh bowsBent forceful, and their death-fraught enginery 160Discharged; nor did the Gallic archers ceaseWith well-directed shafts their loftier foesTo assail: behind the guardian pavais[2] fenced,They at the battlements their arrows aim'd,Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the bayle 165Pass'd the bold troops with all their mangonels;Or tortoises, beneath whose roofing safe,They, filling the deep moat, might for the towersMake fit foundation, or their petraries,War-wolfs, and Beugles, and that murderous sling 170The Matafunda, whence the ponderous stoneFled fierce, and made one wound of whom it struck,Shattering the frame so that no pious hand ​Gathering his mangled limbs might him convey To where his fathers slept.Nor indolent 175Did the English troops lie trembling, for the fort Was ably garrison'd. Glacidas, the Chief, A gallant man, sped on from place to place Cheering the brave; or if the archer's hand, Palsied with fear, shot wide the ill-aim'd shaft, 180Threatening the coward who betrayed himself, He drove him from the ramparts. In his hand The Chief a cross-bow held; an engine dread[3] Of such wide-wasting fury, that of yore ​The assembled fathers of the Christian church 185Pronounced that man accurs'd whose impious handShould point the murderous weapon. Such decreesBefits the men of God to promulgate:Them it befits to wash their hands of blood,And with a warning voice, tho' haply vain, 190To cry aloud and spare not! "Woe to themWhose hands are full of blood! Woe, saith the Lord,To them who fast for strife, that they may smite[4]With the arm of wickedness."An English King, The lion-hearted Richard, their decree 195First broke, and heavenly retribution doom'd His fall by the keen quarrel; since that day ​Frequent in fields of battle, and from farTo many a good Knight, bearing his death woundFrom hands unknown. With such an instrument, 200Arm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eyeCast on the assailing host. A keener glanceDarts not the hawk when from the feather'd tribeHe marks his victim.On a Frank he fix'd His gaze, who kneeling by the trebuchet,[5] 205Charged its long sling with death. Him Glacidas Secure behind the battlements, beheld, And strung his bow; then, bending on one knee, He in the groove the feather'd quarrel[6] plac'd And levelling with firm eye, the death-wound mark'd. 210 The bow-string twang'd—on its swift way the dart ​Whizzed fierce, and struck, there where the helmet's claspsDefend the neck; a weak protection now,For thro' the tube that the pure air inhalesPierced the keen shaft; blood down the unwonted way 215Gush'd to the lungs: prone fell the dying manGrasping, convuls'd, the earth: a hollow groanIn his throat struggled, and the dews of deathStood on his livid cheek. The days of youthHe had pass'd peaceful, and had known what joys 220Domestic love bestows, the father onceOf two fair infants; in the city hem'dDuring the hard siege; he had seen their cheeksGrow pale with famine, and had heard their criesFor bread! his wife—a broken-hearted one— 225Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babesWith hunger pined, and followed: he survived,A miserable man! and heard the shoutsOf joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd,As o'er the corse of his last little one 230He heap'd the unhallowed earth. To him the foe ​Perform'd a friendly part, hastening the hour, Grief else had soon brought on.The English Chief,Pointing again his arbalist, let looseThe string; the quarrel, driven by that strong blow, 235True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struckDragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'dDeep in his liver; blood and mingled gallFlow'd from the wound; and writhing with keen pangs,Headlong he fell: he for the wintry hour 240Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale,A man in his small circle well-beloved.None better knew with prudent hand to guideThe vine's young tendrils, or at vintage timeTo press the full-swoln clusters: he, heart-glad, 245Taught his young boys the little all he knew,Enough for happiness. The English hostLaid waste his fertile fields; he, to the war,By want compell'd, adventur'd,—in his goreNow weltering. ​Nor the Gallic host remit 250Their eager efforts; some, the watry fence,Beneath the tortoise roof'd, with engines aptDrain painful; part, laden with wood, throw thereTheir buoyant burdens, labouring so to gainFirm footing: some the mangonels supply, 255Or charging with huge stones the murdering sling,Or petrary, or in the espringalFix the brass-winged arrows. Hoarse aroundRose the confused din of multitudes.
Fearless along the ramparts Gargrave moved, 260Cheering the English troops. The bow he bore;The quiver rattled as he moved along.He knew aright to aim the feather'd shafts,Well-skill'd to pierce the mottled roebuck's side,O'ertaken in his flight. Him, passing on, 265From some huge engine driven, a ponderous stoneCrush'd: on his breast-plate falling, the vast force,Shattered the bone, and with his mangled lungs ​The fragments mingled. On the sunny browOf a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home, 270A pleasant dwelling, whence the ample kenGaz'd o'er subjected distance, and surveyedStreams, hills, and forests, fair variety!The traveller knew its hospitable towers,For open were the gates, and blazed for all 275The friendly fire. By glory lur'd, the youthWent forth; and he had bathed his falchion's edgeIn many a Frenchman's gore; now crush'd beneathThe ponderous fragments force, his mangled limbsLie quiv'ring.Lo! towards the levelled moat, 280A moving tower the men of Orleans wheelFour stages elevate. Above was hung,Equalling the walls, a bridge; in the lower stageThe ponderous battering-ram: a troop withinOf archers, thro' the opening, shot their shafts. 285In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepar'dTo mount the rampart, for he loath'd the chase, ​And loved to see the dappled forestersBrowze fearless on their lair, with friendly eye,And happy in beholding happiness, 290Not meditating death: the bowman's artTherefore he little knew, nor was he wontTo aim the arrow at the distant foe,But uprear in close conflict, front to front,His death-red battle-axe, and break the shield, 295First in the war of men. There too the MaidAwaits, impatient on the wall to wieldHer falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower,Slow o'er the moat and steady, tho' the foeShowered there their javelins, aim'd their engines there, 300And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dartShot lightening thro' the air. In vain it flam'd,For well with many a reeking hide secured,Pass'd on the dreadful pile, and now it reach'dThe wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven, 305The iron-horned engine swings its stroke,Then back recoils, whilst they within who guide, ​In backward step collecting all their strength,Anon the massy beam with stronger armDrive full and fierce; so rolls the swelling sea 310Its curly billows to the unmoved footOf some huge promontory, whose broad baseBreaks the rough wave; the shiver'd surge rolls back,Till, by the coming billow borne, it burstsAgain, and foams with ceaseless violence. 315The Wanderer, on the sunny clift outstretch'd,Harks to the roaring surges, as they rockHis weary senses to forgetfulness.
But nearer danger threats the invaders now, For on the ramparts, lowered from above 320The bridge reclines. An universal shout Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant Franks Clamor their loud rejoicing, whilst the foe Lift up the warning voice, and call aloud For speedy succour there, with deafening shout 325Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din ​The mountain torrent flings precipitateIts bulk of waters, tho' amid the fallShattered, and dashing silvery from the rock.
Lo! on the bridge he stands, the undaunted man 330Conrade! the gathered foes along the wallThrong opposite, and on him point their pikes,Cresting with armed men the battlements.He, undismayed tho' on that perilous height,Stood firm, and hurl'd his javelin; the keen point 335Pierced thro' the destined victim, where his armJoin'd the broad breast: a wound that skilful careHaply had heal'd; but, him disabled nowFor farther service, the unpitying throngOf his tumultuous comrades from the wall 340Thrust headlong.Nor did Conrade cease to hurlHis deadly javelins fast, for well withinThe tower was stor'd with weapons, to the ChiefQuickly supplied: nor did the mission'd Maid ​Rest idle from the combat; she, secure 345Aim'd the keen quarrel, taught the cross-bow's useBy the willing mind that what it well desiresGains aptly: nor amid the numerous throng,Tho' haply erring from their destin'd mark,Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower 350Ceaseless the bow-strings twang: the Knights below,Each by his pavais bulwark'd, thither aim'dTheir darts, and not a dart fell woundless there,So thickly throng'd they stood, and fell as fastAs when the Monarch of the East goes forth 355From Gemna's banks and the proud palacesOf Delhi, the wild monsters of the woodDie in the blameless warfare: closed withinThe still-contracting circle, their brute forceWasting in mutual rage, they perish there, 360Or by each other's fury lacerate,The archer's barbed arrow, or the lanceOf some bold youth of his first exploits vain,Rajah or Omrah, for the war of beasts ​Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood. 365The shout of terror rings along the wall,For now the French their scaling ladders place,And bearing high their bucklers, to the assaultMount fearless: from above the furious troopsHurl down such weapons as inventive care, 370Or frantic rage supplies: huge stones and beamsCrush the bold foe; some, thrust adown the height,Fall living to their death; some in keen pangsAnd wildly-writhing, as the liquid leadGnaws thro' their members, leap down desperate, 375Eager to cease from suffering. Still they mount,And by their fellows' fate unterrified,Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerlessTo the English was the fight, tho' from aboveEasy to crush the assailants: them amidst 380Fast fled the arrows; the large brass-wing'd darts,[7]There driven resistless from the espringal, ​Keeping their impulse even in the wound,Whirl as they pierce the victim. Some fall crush'dBeneath the ponderous fragment that descends 385The heavier from its height: some, the long lanceImpetuous rushing on its viewless way,Transfix'd. The death-fraught cannon's thundering roarConvulsing air; the soldier's eager shout;And Terror's wild shriek echo o'er the plain 390In dreadful harmony.Meantime the Chief,Who equall'd on the bridge the rampart's height,With many a well-aim'd javelin dealing death,Made thro' the throng his passage: he advancedIn wary valor o'er his slaughtered foes, 395On the blood-reeking wall. Him drawing near,Two youths, the boldest of the English hostPrest on to thrust him from that perilous height;At once they rush'd upon him: he, his axeDropping, the dagger drew: one thro' the throat 400He pierced, and swinging his broad buckler round, ​Dash'd down his comrade. So, unmoved he stood,The sire of Guendolen, that daring man,Corineus; grappling with his monstrous foe,He the brute vastness held aloft, and bore, 405And headlong hurl'd, all shatter'd to the sea,Down from the rock's high summit, since that dayHim, hugest of the giant's, chronicling,Hight Langoemagog.The Maid of ArcBounds o'er the bridge, and to the wind unfurls 410Her hallowed banner. At that welcome sightA general shout of acclamation rose,And loud, as when the tempest-tossing forestRoars to the roaring wind; then terror seiz'dThe garrison; and fired anew with hope, 415The fierce assailants to their prize rush onResistless. Vainly do their English foesHurl there their beams, and stones, and javelins,And fire-brands: fearless in the escalade,Firm mount the French, and now upon the wall 420 ​Wage equal battle.Burning at the sightWith indignation, Glacidas beheldHis troops fly scattered; fast on every sideThe foes up-rushing eager to their spoil;The holy standard waving; and the Maid 425Fierce in pursuit. "Speed but this arrow Heaven!"The Chief exclaim'd, "and I shall fall content."So saying, he his sharpest quarrel chose,And fix'd the bow-string, and against the MaidLevelling, let loose: her arm was rais'd on high 430To smite a fugitive: he glanced aside,Shunning her deadly stroke, and thus receiv'dThe Chieftain's arrow: thro' his ribs it pass'd,And cleft that vessel, whence the purer blood,Thro' many a branching channel o'er the frame 435Meanders."Fool!" the enraged Chief exclaim'd,"Would she had slain thee! thou hast lived too long."Again he aim'd his arbalist: the string ​Struck forceful: swift the erring arrow spedGuiltless of blood, for lightly o'er the court 440Bounded the warrior Virgin. GlacidasLevelled his bow again; the fated shaftFled true, and difficultly thro' the mailPierced to her neck, and tinged its point with blood."She bleeds! she bleeds!" exulting cried the Chief; 445"The Sorceress bleeds! nor all her hellish artsCan charm my arrows from their destined course."Ill-fated Man! in vain with murderous handPlacing thy feathered quarrel in its groove,Dream'st thou of JOAN subdued! She from her neck 450Plucking the shaft unterrified, exclaim'd,"This is a favour! Frenchmen, let us on!Escape they cannot from the hand of God!"
 But Conrade, rolling round his angry eyes, Beheld the English Chieftain as he aim'd 455Again the bow; with rapid step he strode; Nor did not Glacidas the Frank perceive; ​At him he drew the string: the powerless dartFell blunted from his buckler. Fierce he cameAnd lifting high his ponderous battle-axe, 460Full on his shoulder drove the furious strokeDeep-buried in his bosom: prone he fell—The cold air rush'd upon his heaving heart.A gallant man, of no ignoble line,Was Glacidas. His sires had lived in peace; 465Wisely secluded from the jarring worldThey heap'd the hospitable hearth, they spreadThe feast; their vassals loved them, and afarThe traveller told their fame. In peace they died;Exhausted Nature sinking slow to rest. 470For them the venerable fathers pour'dA requiem when they slept, and o'er them rais'dThe sculptur'd monument. Now far awayTheir offspring falls, the last of all his race!Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share 475The common grave.And now their leader slain, ​The vanquish'd English fly towards the gate,Seeking the inner court,[8] as hoping thereAgain to dare the siege, and with their friendsFind present refuge. Ah! mistaken men! 480The vanquish'd have no friends! defeated thus,Prest by pursuit, in vain with eager voiceThey call their comrades in the suppliant tonesOf pity now, now in the indignant phraseOf fruitless anger: they indeed within 485Fast from the ramparts on the victor troopsHurl their keen javelins,—but the gate is barr'd—The huge portcullis down!Then terror seiz'd Their hopeless hearts: some, furious in despair, Turn on their foes; fear-palsied, some await 490The coming death; some drop the useless sword And cry for mercy. ​Then the Maid of Arc Had pity on the vanquished; and she call'd Aloud, and cried to all the host of France, And bade them cease from slaughter. They obeyed 495 The delegated damsel. Some there were Apart that communed murmuring, and of these D'Orval address'd her. "Missioned Maid! our troops Are few in number; and to well secureThese many prisoners such a force demands, 500As should we spare might shortly make us needThe mercy we bestow: not mercy then,Rather to these our soldiers, cruelty.Justice to them, to France, and to our King,And that regard wise Nature has in each 505Implanted of self-safety, all demandTheir deaths.""Foul fall such evil policy!"The indignant Maid exclaim'd. "I tell thee, Chief, God is with us! but God shall hide his faceFrom him who sheds one drop of human blood 510 ​In calm cold-hearted wisdom—him who weighsThe right and the expedient, and resolves,Just as the well-pois'd scale shall rise or fall.These men shall live—live to be happy Chief,And in the latest hour of life, shall bless 515Us who preserved. What is the Conqueror's name,Compar'd to this when the death hour shall come?To think that we have from the murderous swordRescued one man, and that his heart-pour'd prayers,Already with celestial eloquence, 520Plead for us to the All-just!"Severe she spake, Then turn'd to Conrade. "Thou from these our troops Appoint fit escort for the prisoners:I need not tell thee, Conrade, they are men,Misguided men, led from their little homes, 525The victims of the mighty! thus subdued They are our foes no longer: be they held Safely in Orleans. Thou chuse forth with speed One of known prudence, but whose heart is rich ​In Heaven's most precious boon humanity, 530Their captain. From the war we may not spareThy valor long."She said: when Conrade castHis eyes around, and mark'd amid the courtFrom man to man where Francis rush'd along,Bidding them spare the vanquish'd. Him he hail'd. 535"The Maid hath bade me chuse a leader forthTo guard the captives: thou shalt be the man;For thou wilt guard them with due diligence,Yet not forgetting they are men, bereftOf all they love, and who may largely claim 540Thy pity."Nor meantime the garrisonCeas'd from the war; they, in the hour of need,Abandoning their comrades to the sword,A daring band, resolved to bide the siegeIn desperate valor. Fast against the walls 545The batteting-ram drove fierce: the engineryPly'd at the ramparts fast; the catapults ​Drove there their dreadful darts; the war-wolfs thereHurl'd their huge stones; and, by the pavais fenced,The Knights of France sped there their well-aim'd shafts. 550
"Feel ye not, Comrades, how the ramparts shake Beneath the ponderous ram's unceasing stroke?"Cried one, a venturous Englishman. "Our foes,In woman-like compassion, have dismissedA powerful escort, weakening thus themselves, 555And giving us fair hope, in equal field, Of better fortune. Sorely here annoyed,And slaughtered by their engines from afar,We perish. Vainly does the soldier boastUndaunted courage and the powerful arm, 560If thus pent up; like some wild beast he falls,Mark'd for the hunter's arrows: let us rushAnd meet them in the battle, man to man,Either to conquer, or, at least, to dieA soldier's death.""Nay nay—not so," replied 565 ​One of less daring valor. "Tho' they pointTheir engines here, our archers not in vainSpeed their death-doing shafts. Let the strong wallsFirst by the foe be won; 'twill then be timeTo meet them in the battle man to man, 570When these shall fail us."Scarcely had he spoke,When full upon his breast a ponderous stoneFell fierce impell'd, and drove him to the earth,All shattered. Horror the spectators seiz'd!For as the dreadful weapon shivered him, 575His blood besprinkled round, and they beheldHis mangled lungs lie quivering!"Such the fateOf those who trust them to their walls defence."Again exclaim'd the soldier: "thus they fall,Betrayed by their own fears. Courage alone 580Can save us.”Nor to draw them from the fortNow needed eloquence; with one accord ​They bade him lead to battle. Forth they rush'dImpetuous. With such fury o'er the plain,Swoln by the autumnal tempest, Vega rolls 585His rapid waters, when the gathered storm,On the black hills of Cambria bursting, swellsThe tide of desolation.Then the Maid Spake to the son of Orleans, "Let our troopsFall back, so shall the English in pursuit 590Leave this strong fortress, thus an easy prey."Time was not for long counsel. From the court, Obedient to Dunois, a band of Franks Retreat, as at the irruption of their foes Disheartened; they, with shouts and loud uproar, 595Rush to their fancied conquest; JOAN, the while Placing a small but gallant garrison, Bade them secure the gates: then forth she rush'd, With such fierce onset charging on their rear, That terror smote the English, and they wish'd 600Again that they might hide them in their walls ​Rashly abandoned, for now wheeling roundThe son of Orleans fought. All captainless,Ill-marshall'd, ill-directed, in vain rage,They waste their furious efforts, falling fast 605Before the Maid's good falchion and the swordOf Conrade: loud was heard the mingled soundOf arms and men; the earth, that trampled lateBy multitudes, gave to the passing windIts dusty clouds, now reek'd with their hot gore. 610
High on the fort's far-summit Talbot mark'd The fight, and call'd impatient for his arms, Eager to rush to war; and scarce withheld, For now, disheartened and discomfited, The troops fled fearful.On the bridge there stood 615A strong-built tower, commanding o'er the Loire. The traveller, sometimes lingered on his way, Marking the playful tenants of the stream, Seen in its shadow, stem the sea-ward tide. ​This had the invaders won in hard assaultEre she, the Delegate of Heaven, came forthAnd made them fear who never fear'd before.Hither the English troops with hasty stepsRetir'd, yet not forgetful of defence,But waging still the war: the garrison 625Them thus retreating saw, and open threwTheir guarded gates, and on the Gallic host,Covering their vanquish'd fellows, pour'd their shafts.Check'd in pursuit they stopt. Then D'Orval cried,"Ill Maiden hast thou done! those valiant troops 630Thy womanish pity has dismissed, with usConjoin'd might press upon the vanquish'd foes,Tho' aided thus, and plant the lillied flagVictorious on yon tower.""Dark-minded man!The Maid of Orleans answered, "to act well 635Brings with itself an ample recompence.Chieftain! let come what will, me it behoves,Mindful of that Good Power whose delegate ​I am, to spare the fallen: that gracious GodSends me the minister of mercy forth, 640Sends me to save this ravaged realm of France.To England friendly as to all the world,Foe only to the great blood-guilty ones,The masters and the murderers of mankind."
 She said, and suddenly threw off her helm; 645Her breast heaved high—her cheek grew red—herFlash'd forth a wilder lustre. "Thou dost deemThat I have illy spar'd so large a band,Disabling from pursuit our weakened troops—God is with us!" she cried—"God is with us! 650Our Champion manifest!"Even as she spake,The tower, the bridge, and all its multitudes,Sunk with a mighty crash.AstonishmentSeized on the French—an universal cryOf terror burst from them. Crush'd in the fall, 655 ​Or by their armour whelm'd beneath the tide, The sufferers sunk, or vainly plied their arms, Caught by some sinking wretch, who grasp'd them fast And dragged them down to death: shrieking they sunk;Huge fragments frequent dash'd with thundering roar, 660Amid the foaming current. From the fortTalbot beheld, and gnash'd his teeth, and curs'dThe more than mortal Virgin; whilst the towersOf Orleans echoed to the loud uproar,And all who heard, trembled, and cross'd their breasts, 665And as they hastened to the city walls,Told fearfully their beads.'Twas now the hour When o'er the plain the pensive hues of eve Shed their meek radiance; when the lowing herd, Slow as they stalk to shelter, draw behind 670The lengthening shades; and seeking his high nest, As heavily he flaps the dewy air, The hoarse rook pours his not unpleasing note."Now then Dunois for Orleans!" cried the Maid, ​The strongest forts are ours, and who remain, 675Saved from our swords awhile, in heart subdued,Will yield an easy conquest; rest we nowOur wearied soldiers, for the night draws on."
 She said, and joyful of their finish'd toil The host retire. Hush'd is the field of fight, 680And silent as the deep, but late uptorn By vernal tempests, when the storm is past And o'er the gently-swelling surface, sleeps The unruffling wind.Meantime the English troops Now loud in terror, clamour'd for retreat, 685Deeming that, aided by the powers of Heaven, The Maid went forth to conquer. One more bold, Learning reflection in the hour of ill, Exclaimed, "I marvel not that the Most HighHath hid his face from England! Wherefore thus 690Quitting the comforts of domestic life,Swarm we to desolate this goodly land, ​Making the drench'd earth, rank with human blood,Scatter pollution on the winds of Heaven?Oh! that the sepulchre had closed its jaws 695On that foul Priest, that bad blood-guilty man,[9]Who, trembling for the Church's ill-got wealth,Bade Henry look on France, ere he had drawnThe desolating sword, and sent him forthTo slaughter! think that in this fatal war 700Thousands and tens of thousands, by the swordCut off, and sent before the Eternal Judge,With all their unrepented crimes upon them,Cry out for vengeance! that the widow's groan,Tho' here she groan unpitied or unheard, 705Is heard in Heaven against us! o'er this landThat hills of human slain, unsepulchred,Steam pestilence, and cloud the blessed sun!The wrath of God is on us—God has call'd ​This Virgin forth, and gone before her path— 710Our brethren, vainly valiant, fall beneath them,Clogging with gore their weapons, or in the floodWhelm'd like the Egyptian tyrant's impious host,Mangled and swoln, their blackened carcasesToss on the tossing billows! We remain, 715For yet our rulers will pursue the war,We still remain to perish by the sword,Soon to appear before the throne of God,Lost, guilty wretches, hireling murderers,Uninjur'd, unprovok'd, who dared to risk 720The life his goodness gave us, on the chanceOf war, and in obedience to our Chiefs,Durst disobey our God."Then terror seized The troops and late repentance: and they thought The Spirits of the Mothers and their Babes, 725Famish'd at Rouen, sat on the clouds of night, Circling the forts, to hail with gloomy joy The hour of vengeance. ​Nor the English Chiefs Heard their loud murmurs heedless: counselling They met despondent. Suffolk (now their Chief, 730Since conquered by the arm of Theodore Fell Salisbury) thus began."It now were vain Lightly of this our more than mortal foe, To speak contemptuous. She has vanquish'd us, Aided by Hell's leagued powers, nor ought avails 735Man unassisted 'gainst the powers of Hell To dare the conflict: it were better far Retreating as we may, from this sad scene, What of our hard won conquests yet remain,Haply to save."He ceas'd, and with a sigh 740Struggling with pride that heav'd his gloomy breast, Talbot replied—"Our council little boots;The soldiers will not fight, they will not heedOur vain resolves, heart-withered by the spellsOf this accursed Sorceress: soon will come 745 ​The expected host from England: even nowPerchance the tall bark scuds across the deepThat bears my son—young Talbot comes—he comesTo find his sire disgraced! but soon mine arm,By vengeance nerved, and shame of such defeat, 750Shall, from the crest-fallen courage of yon witch,Regain its antient glory. Near the coastBest is it to retreat, and there expectThe coming succour."Thus the warrior spake.Joy ran thro' all the troops, as tho' retreat 755Were safety. Silently in ordered ranksThey issue forth, favoured by the deep cloudsThat mantled o'er the moon. With throbbing heartsFearful they speeded on: some, thinking sadOf distant England, and, now wise too late, 760Cursing in bitterness that evil hourThat led them from her shores: some in faint hopeCalling to mind the comforts of their home:Talbot went musing on his blasted fame ​Sullen and stern, and feeding on dark thoughts, 765And meditating vengeance.In the wallsOf Orleans, tho' her habitants with joyHumbly acknowledged the high aid of Heaven,Of many a heavy ill and bitter lossMindful; such mingled sentiments they felt 770As one from shipwreck saved, the first warm glowOf transport past, who contemplates himself,Preserved alone, a solitary wretch,Possessed of life indeed, but reft of allThat makes man love to live. The Chieftains shared 775The social bowl, glad of the town relieved,And communing of that miraculous Maid,Who came the saviour of the realm of France,When vanquish'd in the frequent field of shame,Her bravest warriors trembled.JOAN the while 780Foodless and silent to the Convent pass'd:Conrade, with her and Isabel; both mute, ​Yet gazing on her oft with eloquent eye,Looking the consolation that they fear'dTo give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome: 785The glaring torches o'er the house of deathStream'd a sad splendour. Flowers and funeral herbsBedeck'd the bier of Theodore: the rue,The dark green rosemary, and the violet,That pluck'd like him withered in its first bloom. 790Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her griefPour'd copious; Conrade wept: the Maid aloneWas tearless, for she stood, unheedingly,Gazing the vision'd scene of her last hour,Absorb'd in contemplation; from her eye 795Intelligence was absent; nor she seem'dTo hear, tho' listening to the dirge of death.Laid in his last home now was Theodore,And now upon the coffin thrown, the earthFell heavy: the Maid started—for the sound 800Smote on her heart; her eye one lightning glanceShot wild, and shuddering, upon Isabel ​She hung, her pale lips trembling, and her cheek As wan as tho' untenanted by life.
Then in the Priest arose the earnest hope, 810That weary of the world and sick with woe, The Maid might dwell with them a vestal vowed."Ah Damsel!" slow he spake and crost his breast, "Ah Damsel! favoured as thou art of Heaven, Let not thy soul beneath its sorrow sink 815Despondent; Heaven by sorrow disciplines The froward heart, and chastens whom it loves; Therefore, companion of thy way of life, Affliction thee shall wean from this vain world, Where happiness provokes the traveller's chase, 820And like the midnight meteor of the marsh, Allures his long and perilous pursuit, Then leaves him dark and comfortless. O Maid! Fix thou thine eyes upon that heavenly dawn Beyond the night of life! thy race is run, 825Thou hast delivered Orleans: now perfect ​Thyself; accomplish all, and be the child Of God. Amid these sacred haunts the groanOf Woe is never heard; these hallowed roofsRe-echo only to the pealing quire, 830The chaunted mass, and Virgin's holy hymn;Celestial sounds! secluded here, the soulReceives a foretaste of her joys to come!This is the abode of Piety and Peace:Oh! be their inmate Maiden! come to rest, 835Die to the world, and live espous'd to Heaven!"
Then Conrade answered, "Father! Heaven has doom'd This Maid to active virtue.""Active! Warrior!" cried The astonish'd Priest; "thou dost not know the toils This holy warfare asks; thou dost not know 840How powerful the attacks that Satan makes By sinful Nature aided! dost thou deem It is an easy task from the fond breast To root affection out? to burst the cords ​That grapple to society the heart 845Of social man? to rouse the unwilling spirit,That, rebel to Devotion, faintly poursThe cold lip-worship of the wearying prayer?To fear and tremble at him, yet to loveA God of Terrors? Maid, beloved of Heaven! 850Come to this sacred trial! share with usThe day of penance and the night of prayer!Humble thyself! feel thine own worthlessness,A reptile worm! before thy birth condemn'dTo all the horrors of thy Maker's wrath, 855The lot of fallen mankind! oh hither come!Humble thyself in ashes, so thy nameShall live amid the blessed host of saints,And unborn pilgrims at thy hallowed shrinePour forth their pious offerings.""Hear me Priest!" 860Exclaim'd the awakened Maid; "amid these tombs, Cold as their clayey tenants, know, my heart Must never grow to stone! chill thou thyself, ​And break thy midnight rest, and tell thy beads,And labor thro' thy still repeated prayer; 865Fear thou thy God of Terrors; spurn the giftsHe gave, and sepulchre thyself alive!But far more valued is the vine that bendsBeneath its swelling clusters, than the darkAnd joyless ivy, round the cloister's wall 870Wreathing its barren arms. For me I know Mine own worth, Priest! that I have well perform'd My duty, and untrembling shall appear Before the just tribunal of that God, Whom grateful Love has taught me to adore!" 875
She said, and they departed from the dome.
  1. ↑ Line 158. Next the bayle was the ditch, foss, graff, or mote: generally where it could be a wet one, and pretty deep. The passage over it was by a draw-bridge, covered by an advance work called a barbican. Grose.
  2. ↑ Line 163. The pavais, or pavache, was a large shield, or rather a portable mantlet, capable of covering a man from head to foot, and probably of sufficient thickness to resist the missive weapons then in use. These were in sieges carried by servants, whose business it was to cover their masters with them, whilst they, with their bows and arrows, shot at the enemy on the ramparts. As this must have been a service of danger, it was that perhaps which made the office of Scutifer honourable. The pavais was rectangular at the bottom, but rounded off above: it was sometimes supported by props. Grose.
  3. ↑ Line 185. The cross-bow was for some time laid aside in obedience to a decree of the second Lateran Council held in 1139. "Artem illam mortiferam et Deo odibilem ballistariorum adversus Christianos & Catholicos exercere de cætero sub anathemate prohibemus." This weapon was again introduced into our armies by Richard I. who being slain with a Quarrel shot from one of them, at the siege of the Castle of Chaluz in Normandy, it was considered as a judgment from Heaven inflicted upon him for his impiety. Guilliaume le Bretons relating the death of this King, puts the following into the mouth of Atropos:
    Hac volo, non aliâ Richardum morte perire Ut qui Francigenis ballistæ primitus usumTradidit, ipse sui rem primitus experiatur, Quemque alios docuit in se vim sentiat artis.

    Grose.

  4. ↑ Line 193. The fifty-eighth chapter of Isaiah was the appointed lesson for our general fast in 1793. The tenor of the chapter is such as almost to prove an ironical intention in whoever selected it. "Behold, ye fast for strife and debate, and to smite with the fist of wickedness: ye shall not fast as ye do this day, to make your voice to be heard on high. Is it such a fast that I have chosen? a day for a man to afflict his soul? is it to bow down his head as a bulrush, and to spread sackcloth and ashes under him? wilt thou call this a fast and an acceptable day to the Lord? Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke." Verses 4, 5, 6.
  5. ↑ Line 205. From the trebuchet they discharged many stones at once by a sling. It acted by means of a great weight fastened to the short arm of a lever, which being let fall, raised the end of the long arm with a great velocity. A man is represented kneeling to load one of these in an ivory carving, supposed to be of the age of Edward II. Grose.
  6. ↑ Line 209. Quarrels, or carreaux, were so called from their heads, which were square pyramids of iron.
  7. ↑ Line 381. The espringal threw large darts called Muchettæ, sometimes winged with brass instead of feathers. These darts were also called Viretons, from their whirling abroad in the air.
  8. ↑ Line 478. On entering the outer gate, the next part that presented itself was the outer ballium, or bailey, separated from the inner ballium by a strong embattled wall and towered gate.
  9. ↑ Line 696. The Parliament, when Henry V. demanded supply, entreated him to seize all the ecclesiastical revenues, and convert them to the use of the crown. The Clergy were alarmed, and Chichely, Archbishop of Canterbury, endeavoured to divert the blow, by giving occupation to the King, and by persuading him to undertake a war against France.Hume.
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