Joan of Arc (Southey)/Book 4
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JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
ARGUMENT.
A Messenger arrives from Orleans, representing the distress of that city, and requesting immediate succours. JOAN, in the presence of the King and assembled people, takes the armour of Orlando from his tomb in the church of St. Catharine of Fierbois. Strange conduct of the Messenger. The Maid recognizes him. She meets with Theodore. Returns despondently to the palace, and after expressing her disgust at the licentiousness of the court, announces her intention of marching on the morrow to relieve Orleans.
JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
THE feast was spread—the sparkling bowl went round,
And to the assembled court the minstrel harp'd
The 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 is given of the wearying day
To the public weal."
Obedient to the King
The guard invites the traveller to his fare.
"Nay, I shall see the monarch," he replied,
"And he shall hear my tidings, duty-urg'd; 10
For many a long league have I hasten'd on,
Not now to be repell'd." Then with strong arm
Removing him who barr'd his onward way,
The hall he enters.
"King of France! I come
From Orleans, speedy and effectual aid 15
Demanding for her gallant garrison,
Faithful to thee, tho' thinn'd in many a fight,
And wither'd now by want. Thee it beseems
For ever anxious for thy people's weal,
To succour these brave men whose honest breasts 20
Bulwark thy throne."
He said, and from the hall
With upright step departing, in amaze
At his so bold deportment left the court.
The King exclaim'd, "But little need to send
Quick succour to this gallant garrison, 25
If to the English half so firm a front
They bear in battle!"
"In the field my liege,"
Dunois replied, "That man has serv'd thee well.
"Him have I seen the foremost of the fight,
Wielding so fearfully his blood-red sword, 30
His eye so fury-fired, that the pale 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
When one the bravest of her garrison 35
Is thus commission'd."
Swift the Maid exclaim'd,
"I tell thee Chief, that there the English wolves
Shall never pour their yells of victory.
The will of God defends those fated walls,
And resting in full faith on that high will 40
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 armor gleam, thro' many an age
Kept holy and inviolate by time." 45
She said, and rising from the board, retired.
And to the assembled court the minstrel harp'd
The 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 is given of the wearying day
To the public weal."
Obedient to the King
The guard invites the traveller to his fare.
"Nay, I shall see the monarch," he replied,
"And he shall hear my tidings, duty-urg'd; 10
For many a long league have I hasten'd on,
Not now to be repell'd." Then with strong arm
Removing him who barr'd his onward way,
The hall he enters.
"King of France! I come
From Orleans, speedy and effectual aid 15
Demanding for her gallant garrison,
Faithful to thee, tho' thinn'd in many a fight,
And wither'd now by want. Thee it beseems
For ever anxious for thy people's weal,
To succour these brave men whose honest breasts 20
Bulwark thy throne."
He said, and from the hall
With upright step departing, in amaze
At his so bold deportment left the court.
The King exclaim'd, "But little need to send
Quick succour to this gallant garrison, 25
If to the English half so firm a front
They bear in battle!"
"In the field my liege,"
Dunois replied, "That man has serv'd thee well.
"Him have I seen the foremost of the fight,
Wielding so fearfully his blood-red sword, 30
His eye so fury-fired, that the pale 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
When one the bravest of her garrison 35
Is thus commission'd."
Swift the Maid exclaim'd,
"I tell thee Chief, that there the English wolves
Shall never pour their yells of victory.
The will of God defends those fated walls,
And resting in full faith on that high will 40
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 armor gleam, thro' many an age
Kept holy and inviolate by time." 45
She said, and rising from the board, retired.
Meantime the herald's brazen voice proclaimed
Coming solemnity: and far and wide
Spread the strange tidings. Every labor ceas'd;
The ploughman from the unfinish'd furrow hastes; 50
The armourer's anvil beats no more the din
Of future slaughter. Thro' the thronging streets
The buz of asking wonder hums along.
Coming solemnity: and far and wide
Spread the strange tidings. Every labor ceas'd;
The ploughman from the unfinish'd furrow hastes; 50
The armourer's anvil beats no more the din
Of future slaughter. Thro' the thronging streets
The buz of asking wonder hums along.
On to St. Catherine's sacred fane they go;
The holy fathers with the imag'd cross 55
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;
Her lovely limbs rob'd in a snow-white vest: 60
Wistless that every eye dwelt on her form,
With stately step she paced; her laboring soul
To high thoughts elevate; and gazing round
With the wild eye, that of the circling throng
And of the visible world unseeing, saw 65
The shapes of holy phantasy. By her
The warrior Son of Orleans strode along
Preeminent. He, nerving his young limbs
With manly exercise, had scaled the cliff,
And dashing in the torrent's foaming flood, 70
Stemm'd with broad breast its fury: so his form,
Sinewy and firm, and fit for loftiest deeds,
Tower'd high amid the throng effeminate;
His armour bore of hostile steel the marks,
Many and deep. His pictur'd shield display'd 75
A Lion vainly struggling in the toils,
Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage,
His young mane floating to the desart air,
Rends the fall'n huntsman. Tremouille him behind,
The worthless favourite of the slothful Prince, 80
Stalk'd arrogant, in shining armour clasp'd
With gold and gems of richest hues emboss'd,
Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade
Defaced, and rusted by no hostile blood;
Trimly-accoutred court habiliment, 85
Gay, lady-dazzling armour, fit to adorn,
In dangerless manœuvres some review,
The mockery of murder! follow'd him
The train of courtiers, summer-flies that sport
In the sun-beam of favor, insects sprung 90
From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers,
The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.
The holy fathers with the imag'd cross 55
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;
Her lovely limbs rob'd in a snow-white vest: 60
Wistless that every eye dwelt on her form,
With stately step she paced; her laboring soul
To high thoughts elevate; and gazing round
With the wild eye, that of the circling throng
And of the visible world unseeing, saw 65
The shapes of holy phantasy. By her
The warrior Son of Orleans strode along
Preeminent. He, nerving his young limbs
With manly exercise, had scaled the cliff,
And dashing in the torrent's foaming flood, 70
Stemm'd with broad breast its fury: so his form,
Sinewy and firm, and fit for loftiest deeds,
Tower'd high amid the throng effeminate;
His armour bore of hostile steel the marks,
Many and deep. His pictur'd shield display'd 75
A Lion vainly struggling in the toils,
Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage,
His young mane floating to the desart air,
Rends the fall'n huntsman. Tremouille him behind,
The worthless favourite of the slothful Prince, 80
Stalk'd arrogant, in shining armour clasp'd
With gold and gems of richest hues emboss'd,
Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade
Defaced, and rusted by no hostile blood;
Trimly-accoutred court habiliment, 85
Gay, lady-dazzling armour, fit to adorn,
In dangerless manœuvres some review,
The mockery of murder! follow'd him
The train of courtiers, summer-flies that sport
In the sun-beam of favor, insects sprung 90
From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers,
The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.
As o'er some flowery field the busy bees
Pour their deep music, pleasant melody
To the tired traveller, under some old oak 95
Stretch'd in the checquer'd shade; or as the sound
Of far-off waters down the craggy steep
Dash'd with loud uproar, rose the murmer round
Of admiration. Every gazing eye
Dwelt on the mission'd Maid. Of all besides, 100
The long procession and the gorgeous train,
Tho' glittering they with gold and sparkling gems,
And their rich plumes high waving to the air,
Heedless.
The consecrated dome they reach,
Rear'd to St. Catharine's holy memory. 105
Her death the altar told, what time expos'd
A virgin victim to the despot's rage,
The agonizing rack outstretch'd her limbs,
Till the strain'd muscles crack'd, and from their sockets
Started the blood-red eyes. Before her stood 110
Glutting his iron sight, the giant form
Of Maximin, on whose rais'd lip Revenge
Kindled a savage smile; whilst even the face
Of the hard executioner relax'd,
And sternly soften'd to a maiden tear. 115
Pour their deep music, pleasant melody
To the tired traveller, under some old oak 95
Stretch'd in the checquer'd shade; or as the sound
Of far-off waters down the craggy steep
Dash'd with loud uproar, rose the murmer round
Of admiration. Every gazing eye
Dwelt on the mission'd Maid. Of all besides, 100
The long procession and the gorgeous train,
Tho' glittering they with gold and sparkling gems,
And their rich plumes high waving to the air,
Heedless.
The consecrated dome they reach,
Rear'd to St. Catharine's holy memory. 105
Her death the altar told, what time expos'd
A virgin victim to the despot's rage,
The agonizing rack outstretch'd her limbs,
Till the strain'd muscles crack'd, and from their sockets
Started the blood-red eyes. Before her stood 110
Glutting his iron sight, the giant form
Of Maximin, on whose rais'd lip Revenge
Kindled a savage smile; whilst even the face
Of the hard executioner relax'd,
And sternly soften'd to a maiden tear. 115
Her eye averting from the storied woe,
The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd
To Heaven the prayer of praise.
A trophied tomb
Close to the altar rear'd its antique bulk.
Two pointless javelins and a broken sword, 120
Time-mouldering now, proclaim'd some warrior slept
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone
And rude-ensculptur'd effigy o'erlaid
The sepulchre. Above stood Victory,
With lifted arm and trump as she would blow 125
The blast of Fame, but on her out-stretch'd arm
Death laid his ebon rod.
The Maid approach'd—
Death dropt his ebon rod—the lifted trump
Pour'd forth a blast whose sound miraculous
Burst the rude tomb. Within the arms appear'd 130
The crested helm, the massy bauldrick's strength,
The oval shield, the magic-temper'd blade.
A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment
Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid
O'er her white robes the hallowed breast-plate threw, 135
Self-fitted to her form. On her helm'd head
The white plumes nod, majestically slow.
She lifts the buckler and the magic sword,
Gleaming portentous light.
The amazed crowd
Raise the loud shout of transport. "God of Heaven," 140
The Maid exclaim'd, "Father all merciful!
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield
The sword of Vengeance, go before our hosts!
All-just avenger of the innocent,
Be thou our Champion! God of Love, preserve 145
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms."
The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd
To Heaven the prayer of praise.
A trophied tomb
Close to the altar rear'd its antique bulk.
Two pointless javelins and a broken sword, 120
Time-mouldering now, proclaim'd some warrior slept
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone
And rude-ensculptur'd effigy o'erlaid
The sepulchre. Above stood Victory,
With lifted arm and trump as she would blow 125
The blast of Fame, but on her out-stretch'd arm
Death laid his ebon rod.
The Maid approach'd—
Death dropt his ebon rod—the lifted trump
Pour'd forth a blast whose sound miraculous
Burst the rude tomb. Within the arms appear'd 130
The crested helm, the massy bauldrick's strength,
The oval shield, the magic-temper'd blade.
A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment
Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid
O'er her white robes the hallowed breast-plate threw, 135
Self-fitted to her form. On her helm'd head
The white plumes nod, majestically slow.
She lifts the buckler and the magic sword,
Gleaming portentous light.
The amazed crowd
Raise the loud shout of transport. "God of Heaven," 140
The Maid exclaim'd, "Father all merciful!
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield
The sword of Vengeance, go before our hosts!
All-just avenger of the innocent,
Be thou our Champion! God of Love, preserve 145
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms."
She spake, and lo again the magic trump
Breath'd forth the notes of conquest. The white plumes
Responsive o'er the martial Maiden's head,
Triumphant waved. They rais'd the chaunted mass 150
"Thee Lord we praise, our God." The assembled throng
Join'd the loud hymn in choral harmony.
Breath'd forth the notes of conquest. The white plumes
Responsive o'er the martial Maiden's head,
Triumphant waved. They rais'd the chaunted mass 150
"Thee Lord we praise, our God." The assembled throng
Join'd the loud hymn in choral harmony.
As thro' the parting crowd the virgin pass'd,
He who from Orleans on the yesternight
Demanded succour, clasp'd with warmth her hand, 155
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd,
"Ill-omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth,
Devoted for the King-curst realm of France!
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee." So saying,
He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words 160
Disturb'd, the warrior virgin pass'd along,
And much revolving in her troubled mind,
Retreads the palace: there the feast was spread,
And sparkling with the red dew of the vine-yard,
The bowl went round. Meantime the minstrel struck 165
His harp: the Palladins of France he sung;
The warrior who from Arden's fated fount
Drank of the bitter waters of aversion,
And loathing beauty, spurn'd the lovely Maid,
Suppliant for Love; soon doom'd to rue the charm 170
Revers'd: and that invulnerable Chief
Orlando, he who from the magic horn
Breath'd such heart-withering sounds, that every foe
Fled from the fearful blast, and all-appall'd,
Spell-stricken Valour hid his recreant head. 175
He who from Orleans on the yesternight
Demanded succour, clasp'd with warmth her hand, 155
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd,
"Ill-omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth,
Devoted for the King-curst realm of France!
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee." So saying,
He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words 160
Disturb'd, the warrior virgin pass'd along,
And much revolving in her troubled mind,
Retreads the palace: there the feast was spread,
And sparkling with the red dew of the vine-yard,
The bowl went round. Meantime the minstrel struck 165
His harp: the Palladins of France he sung;
The warrior who from Arden's fated fount
Drank of the bitter waters of aversion,
And loathing beauty, spurn'd the lovely Maid,
Suppliant for Love; soon doom'd to rue the charm 170
Revers'd: and that invulnerable Chief
Orlando, he who from the magic horn
Breath'd such heart-withering sounds, that every foe
Fled from the fearful blast, and all-appall'd,
Spell-stricken Valour hid his recreant head. 175
The full sound echoed o'er the arched roof,
And listening eager to the favourite lay,
The guests sat silent. When into the hall
The Messenger from that besieged town,
Stalk'd stately. "It is pleasant, King of France, 180
To feast at ease and hear the harper's song;
Far other music hear the men of Orleans!
Death is among them; there the voice of Woe
Moans ceaseless."
"Rude unmannerly intruder!"
Exclaim'd the Monarch, "Cease to interrupt 185
The hour of merriment; it is not thine
To instruct me in my duty."
Of reproof
Heedless, the stranger to the minstrel cried,
"Why harpest thou of Good Rinaldo's fame
Amid these walls? Virtue and Genius love 190
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 mighty one,
Who tore the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom, 195
That was to him even as a daughter! Charles,
This holy tale would I tell, prophet-like,
And gazing on thee cry, "Thou art the man!"
And listening eager to the favourite lay,
The guests sat silent. When into the hall
The Messenger from that besieged town,
Stalk'd stately. "It is pleasant, King of France, 180
To feast at ease and hear the harper's song;
Far other music hear the men of Orleans!
Death is among them; there the voice of Woe
Moans ceaseless."
"Rude unmannerly intruder!"
Exclaim'd the Monarch, "Cease to interrupt 185
The hour of merriment; it is not thine
To instruct me in my duty."
Of reproof
Heedless, the stranger to the minstrel cried,
"Why harpest thou of Good Rinaldo's fame
Amid these walls? Virtue and Genius love 190
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 mighty one,
Who tore the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom, 195
That was to him even as a daughter! Charles,
This holy tale would I tell, prophet-like,
And gazing on thee cry, "Thou art the man!"
He said, and with a quick and troubled step
Retired. Astonish'd at his daring phrase, 200
The guests sat heedless of the minstrel's song,
Pondering the words mysterious. Soon the harp
Beguil'd their senses of anxiety.
Retired. Astonish'd at his daring phrase, 200
The guests sat heedless of the minstrel's song,
Pondering the words mysterious. Soon the harp
Beguil'd their senses of anxiety.
The court dispers'd: retiring from the hall,
Charles and the delegated damsel sought 205
The inner palace. There awaited them
The Queen: with her JOAN loved to pass the hours,
By various converse cheer'd; for she had won
The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy,
The calm and duteous patience that deplor'd 210
A husband's cold half-love. To her she told
With what strange words the messenger from Orleans
Had rous'd uneasy wonder in her mind;
For on her ear yet vibrated the voice,
"Ill-omen'd Maid I pity thee!" when lo! 215
Again that man stalk'd to the door, and stood
Scowling around.
"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!" 220
Solemnly he replied; "read well my face,
That thou mayest 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 225
More low, more awfully severe, he cried,
"Dost thou too know me not?"
She glanced on him,
And pale and breathless hid her head convuls'd
In the Maid's bosom.
"King of France!" he said,
"She lov'd me! day by day I dwelt with her, 230
Her voice was music—very sweet her smiles!
I left her! left her Charles, in evil hour,
To fight thy battles. Thou meantime didst come,
Staining most foul her spotless purity;
For she was pure—my Agnes! even as snow 235
Fall'n in some cleft where never the fierce Sun
Pours his hot ray—most foul, for once most fair:
My poor polluted Agnes!—Thou bad man!
Thou hast almost shaken my faith in Heaven.
I see thee rioting in sloth and guilt, 240
And yet thou restest pillowing thy head
Even on her bosom! I, tho' innocent
Of ill, the victim of another's vice,
Drag on the loathsome burthen of existence,
And doubt Heaven's justice!"
So he said, and frown'd 245
Dark as that, man who at Mohammed's door
Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearful look
Bath'd with cold damps, every beholder fled.
Even he the prophet almost terrifiéd,
Endur'd but half to view him, for he knew 250
Azarael, stern-brow'd Messenger of Fate,
And his death-day was come. Guilt-petrified
The Monarch sat, nor could endure to face
His bosom-probing frown. The mission'd Maid
Read anxious his stern features and exclaim'd 255
"I know thee Conrade!" Rising from her seat,
She took his hand, for he stood motionless,
Gazing on Agnes now with full-fix'd eye,
Dreadful though calm: him from the Court she drew,
And to the river's banks resisting not, 260
Both sadly silent led; till at the last
As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd
Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck,
He wept.
"I know thee, Damsel!" he exclaim'd,
"Dost thou remember that tempestuous night, 265
When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought
Your hospitable doors? ah me! I then
Was happy! you too sojourn'd then in peace.
Fool that I was I blam'd such happiness,
Arraign'd it as a guilty selfish sloth, 270
Unhappily prevailing, so I fear me,
Or why art thou at Chinon?"
Him the Maid
Answering, address'd. "I do remember well
That night: for then the holy Spirit first,
Wak'd by thy words, possessed me."
Conrade cried, 275
"Then I have one more sin to answer for!
Oh Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst liv'd
Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd
Needlessly rigid from my peaceful path.
And thou hast left thine home then, and obey'd 280
The feverish fancies of thine ardent brain!
And hast thou left him too, the youth whose eye
For ever glancing on thee, spake so well
Affection's eloquent tale?
So as he said,
Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek. 285
"I am alone" she answer'd, "for this realm
Devoted." Nor to answer more the maid
Endur'd; for many a melancholy thought
Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind's eye
Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc: 290
She gaz'd amid the air with such sad look,
Yet such sweet solacing of self-applause,
As he the virtuous exile feels, who, driven[1]
By "that dark Vizier" from his native land,[2]
Roams on the sea beach, while the roaring waves 295
Rocking his senses, break upon the shore.
Lost in sad dreams his distant home he sees,
His friends, and haply too an aged Mother
That weeps for him in bitterness of heart.
All, all he loved fond fancy sees again, 300
Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb,
And drowns the soft enchantment.
By the hand
Her Conrade held and cried, "Ill-fated Maid,
That I have torn thee from Affection's breast,
My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve 305
Like me, the worthless Court, and having serv'd,
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou shalt curse
The duty that deluded. Of the world
Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow men
I shall be seen no more. There is a path—310
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf
Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod
That path, and mark'd a melancholy den,
Where one whose jaundiced soul abhors itself,
May pamper him in compleat wretchedness. 315
There sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,
Conrade shall dwell, and in the languid hour,
When the jarr'd senses sink to a sick calm,
Shall mourn the waste of frenzy!"
So he spake,
And clasping to his heart the Virgin's hand, 320
Sped rapid o'er the plain. She with dim eyes,
For gushing tears obscur'd them, follow'd him
Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought
Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne
Then wander'd, till o'erwearied on the banks 235
She laid her down, and watch'd its slowest stream
Dim purpling to the clouds, that still were pierc'd
By the sunk day-star's ray. The murmuring tide
Lull'd her, and many a pensive pleasing dream
Rose in sad shadowy trains at Memory's call. 330
She thought of Arc, and of the dingled brook,
Whose waves oft leaping on their craggy course
Made dance the low-hung willow's dripping twigs;
And where it spread into a glassy lake,
Of that old oak, which on the smooth expanse 335
Imaged its hoary mossy-mantled boughs.
Wak'd by the thought, a tear ran down her cheek
Unconscious, when a voice behind address'd her,
"Forgive the intrusion, Lady! I would ask
Where I might meet that Heaven-commission'd Maid, 340
Call'd to deliver France.'
The well-known tones
Thrill'd her: her heart throbb'd fast—she started up,
And fell upon the neck of Theodore.
Charles and the delegated damsel sought 205
The inner palace. There awaited them
The Queen: with her JOAN loved to pass the hours,
By various converse cheer'd; for she had won
The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy,
The calm and duteous patience that deplor'd 210
A husband's cold half-love. To her she told
With what strange words the messenger from Orleans
Had rous'd uneasy wonder in her mind;
For on her ear yet vibrated the voice,
"Ill-omen'd Maid I pity thee!" when lo! 215
Again that man stalk'd to the door, and stood
Scowling around.
"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!" 220
Solemnly he replied; "read well my face,
That thou mayest 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 225
More low, more awfully severe, he cried,
"Dost thou too know me not?"
She glanced on him,
And pale and breathless hid her head convuls'd
In the Maid's bosom.
"King of France!" he said,
"She lov'd me! day by day I dwelt with her, 230
Her voice was music—very sweet her smiles!
I left her! left her Charles, in evil hour,
To fight thy battles. Thou meantime didst come,
Staining most foul her spotless purity;
For she was pure—my Agnes! even as snow 235
Fall'n in some cleft where never the fierce Sun
Pours his hot ray—most foul, for once most fair:
My poor polluted Agnes!—Thou bad man!
Thou hast almost shaken my faith in Heaven.
I see thee rioting in sloth and guilt, 240
And yet thou restest pillowing thy head
Even on her bosom! I, tho' innocent
Of ill, the victim of another's vice,
Drag on the loathsome burthen of existence,
And doubt Heaven's justice!"
So he said, and frown'd 245
Dark as that, man who at Mohammed's door
Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearful look
Bath'd with cold damps, every beholder fled.
Even he the prophet almost terrifiéd,
Endur'd but half to view him, for he knew 250
Azarael, stern-brow'd Messenger of Fate,
And his death-day was come. Guilt-petrified
The Monarch sat, nor could endure to face
His bosom-probing frown. The mission'd Maid
Read anxious his stern features and exclaim'd 255
"I know thee Conrade!" Rising from her seat,
She took his hand, for he stood motionless,
Gazing on Agnes now with full-fix'd eye,
Dreadful though calm: him from the Court she drew,
And to the river's banks resisting not, 260
Both sadly silent led; till at the last
As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd
Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck,
He wept.
"I know thee, Damsel!" he exclaim'd,
"Dost thou remember that tempestuous night, 265
When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought
Your hospitable doors? ah me! I then
Was happy! you too sojourn'd then in peace.
Fool that I was I blam'd such happiness,
Arraign'd it as a guilty selfish sloth, 270
Unhappily prevailing, so I fear me,
Or why art thou at Chinon?"
Him the Maid
Answering, address'd. "I do remember well
That night: for then the holy Spirit first,
Wak'd by thy words, possessed me."
Conrade cried, 275
"Then I have one more sin to answer for!
Oh Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst liv'd
Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd
Needlessly rigid from my peaceful path.
And thou hast left thine home then, and obey'd 280
The feverish fancies of thine ardent brain!
And hast thou left him too, the youth whose eye
For ever glancing on thee, spake so well
Affection's eloquent tale?
So as he said,
Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek. 285
"I am alone" she answer'd, "for this realm
Devoted." Nor to answer more the maid
Endur'd; for many a melancholy thought
Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind's eye
Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc: 290
She gaz'd amid the air with such sad look,
Yet such sweet solacing of self-applause,
As he the virtuous exile feels, who, driven[1]
By "that dark Vizier" from his native land,[2]
Roams on the sea beach, while the roaring waves 295
Rocking his senses, break upon the shore.
Lost in sad dreams his distant home he sees,
His friends, and haply too an aged Mother
That weeps for him in bitterness of heart.
All, all he loved fond fancy sees again, 300
Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb,
And drowns the soft enchantment.
By the hand
Her Conrade held and cried, "Ill-fated Maid,
That I have torn thee from Affection's breast,
My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve 305
Like me, the worthless Court, and having serv'd,
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou shalt curse
The duty that deluded. Of the world
Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow men
I shall be seen no more. There is a path—310
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf
Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod
That path, and mark'd a melancholy den,
Where one whose jaundiced soul abhors itself,
May pamper him in compleat wretchedness. 315
There sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,
Conrade shall dwell, and in the languid hour,
When the jarr'd senses sink to a sick calm,
Shall mourn the waste of frenzy!"
So he spake,
And clasping to his heart the Virgin's hand, 320
Sped rapid o'er the plain. She with dim eyes,
For gushing tears obscur'd them, follow'd him
Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought
Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne
Then wander'd, till o'erwearied on the banks 235
She laid her down, and watch'd its slowest stream
Dim purpling to the clouds, that still were pierc'd
By the sunk day-star's ray. The murmuring tide
Lull'd her, and many a pensive pleasing dream
Rose in sad shadowy trains at Memory's call. 330
She thought of Arc, and of the dingled brook,
Whose waves oft leaping on their craggy course
Made dance the low-hung willow's dripping twigs;
And where it spread into a glassy lake,
Of that old oak, which on the smooth expanse 335
Imaged its hoary mossy-mantled boughs.
Wak'd by the thought, a tear ran down her cheek
Unconscious, when a voice behind address'd her,
"Forgive the intrusion, Lady! I would ask
Where I might meet that Heaven-commission'd Maid, 340
Call'd to deliver France.'
The well-known tones
Thrill'd her: her heart throbb'd fast—she started up,
And fell upon the neck of Theodore.
"Oh! I have found thee!" cried th' enraptur'd youth,
"And I shall dare the battle by thy side, 345
And shield thee from the war! but tell me, JOAN,
Why didst thou brood in such strange mystery,
O'er this thy Heaven-doom'd purpose? trust me, Maiden
I have shed many tears for that wild gloom
That so estranged thee from thy Theodore! 350
If thou couldst know the anguish I endur'd
When thou wert gone! how thro' the live-long night
I vainly travers'd o'er thy wonted paths,
Making the forest echo to thy name!
Our mother too! in sooth it was unkind 355
To leave us thus!"
Mindless of her high call,
Again the lowly shepherdess of Arc,
In half-articulated words the Maid
Express'd her joy. Of Elinor she ask'd,
How from a doting mother he had come 360
In arms array'd.
"Thou wakest in my mind
A thought that makes me sad," the youth replied,
"For Elinor wept much at my resolve,
And eloquent with all a mother's fears,
Urg'd me to leave her not. My wayward heart 365
Smote me as I look'd back and saw her wave
Adieu! but high in hope I soon beguil'd
These melancholy feelings by the thought
That we should both return to cheer her age,
Thy mission well fulfill'd, and quit no more 370
The copse-embosom'd cottage."
But the Maid
Soon started from her dream of happiness,
For on her memory flash'd the flaming pile.
A death-like paleness at the dreadful thoughts
Wither'd her cheek; the dews on her cold brow. 375
Started, and on the arm of Theodore
Feeble and faint she hung. His eager eye
Concentring all the anguish of the soul,
And strain'd in anxious love, on her wan cheek
Fearfully silent gazed. But by the thought 380
Of her high mission rous'd, the Maiden's soul
Collected, and she spake.
"My Theodore,
Thou hast done wrong to quit thy mother's home!
Alone and aged she will weep for thee,
Wasting the little that is left of life 385
In anguish. Go thee back again to Arc,
And cheering so her wintry hour of age,
Cherish my memory there."
Swift he exclaim'd,
"Nay Maid! the pang of parting is o'erpast,
And Elinor looks on to the glad hour 390
When we shall both return. Amid the war
How many an arm will seek thy single life,
How many a sword pierce thro' thy brittle mail,
Wound thy fair face, or, driven with impious rage,
Gore thy white bosom! JOAN, I will go with thee, 395
And spread the guardian shield!"
Again the Maid
Grew pale; for of her last and terrible hour
The vision'd scene she saw. "Nay," she replied,
"I shall not need thy succour in the war.
Me Heaven, if so seem good to it's high will, 400
Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore,
Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home,
And make thy mother happy."
The youth's cheek
A rapid blush disorder'd. "O! the Court
Is pleasant, and thy soul would fain forget 405
An obscure Villager, who only boasts
The treasure of the heart!"
She look'd at him
With the reproaching eye of tenderness:
"Devoted for the realm of France, I go
A willing victim. The unpierced Veil 410
Was raised, and my gifted eye beheld
The fearful features of futurity.
Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country,
Abandoning for this the joys of life,
Yea, life itself!" then on his neck she fell, 415
And with a faultering voice, "return to Arc;
I do not tell thee there are other maids
As fair: for thou wilt love my memory,
Hallowing to it the temple of thy heart.
Worthy a happier, not a better love, 420
My Theodore!"—Then, pressing his pale lips,
A last and holy kiss the Virgin fix'd,
And rush'd across the plain.
She reach'd the court
Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind
Shook ev'ry fibre. Sad and sick at heart, 425
Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude
The Maiden had retir'd; but her the King
Met on the threshold. He of the late scene
Forgetful and his crime, as chearful seem'd
As tho' there had not been a God in Heav'n! 430
"Enter the hall," he cried, "the masquers there
Join in the dance. Why Maiden art thou sad?
Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame
With his strange frenzies?"
The disgusted Maid,
As sternly sorrowful she frown'd upon him, 435
Replied. "Yes, Charles! that Madman has indeed
Made me most sad. Much had I heard of courts,
Much of the vice and folly that enthrall'd
The masters of mankind. Incredulous
I heard, incredulous that man should bow 440
In homage to the slaves of appetite.
Thron'd in Infinity, the Eternal Justice
Gives or witholds success; by his high will
Withering the uplifted Warrior's sinewy arm.
Victory is his; on whom he delegates 445
His minister of wrath, the Genius waits
Stern-brow'd attendant. In the human heart
Dwells Virtue; milder form! and templed there
Loves her meet altar; and, tho' oft dislodg'd,
Reluctantly she quits her lov'd abode, 450
And oft returns, and oft importunate
Reclaims her empire. Wilt thou Charles, reject
The suppliant angel? wilt thou thrust her from thee,
Turning thine ear from her unheeded cries,
To Riot's deaf'ning clamors? King of France! 455
To thee elated, thus above mankind
Subjected thousands gaze: they wait thy will,
They wait thy will to quit their peaceful homes,
To quit the comforts of domestic life,
For the camp's dissonance, the clang of arms, 460
The banquet of destruction. King of France,
Glows not thy crimson cheek—sinks not thine heart
At the dread thought of thousands in thy cause,
Mow'd by the giant scythe of Victory?
Of widows weeping for their slaughter'd husbands? 465
Of orphans groaning for their daily food?
Oh that my voice in thunder might awake
The monitor within thee! that thy soul
Might, like Manoah's iron-sinewed son,
Burst its base fetters!"
The astonish'd King, 470
Trembled like Felix, when the Apostle spake
Of righteousness to come.
And now Dunois,
Poising a javelin, came with hasty step:
His eye beam'd exultation.
"Thou hast rous'd
The sleeping virtue of the sons of France; 475
They croud around the standard," cried the chief.
"My lance is ponderous; I have sharp'd my sword
To meet the mortal combat. Mission'd Maid,
Our brethren sieged in Orleans, every moment
Gaze from the watch-tower with the sick'ning eye 480
Of expectation."
Rous'd from his amaze,
And trusting by religion's forms observ'd,
With scrupulous care, to atone for the foul breach
Of her first duties, thus the King exclaim'd:
"O chosen by Heav'n, defer awhile thy march, 485
"That o'er the land my Heralds may proclaim
A general fast."
Severe the Maid replied:
"Monarch of France! and canst thou think that God
Beholds well-pleas'd the mock'ry of a fast?[3]
Luxuriant lordly riot is content 490
And willingly obedient to command,
Feasts on some sainted dainty. The poor man,
From the hard labor of the day debarr'd,
Loses his hard meal too. It were to waste
The hour in impious folly, so to bribe 496
The all-creating Parent to destroy
The works he made. Proud tyranny to Man,
To God foul insult! Mortify your pride;
Be clad in sackcloth when the conqueror's car
Rolls o'er the field of blood.—Believe me, King, 500
If thou didst know the untold misery
When from the bosom of domestic Love
But one—one victim goes! if that thine heart
Be human, it would bleed!"
Her heart was full,
And, pausing for a moment, she repress'd 505
The unbidden anguish. "Lo! they croud around
The standard! Thou Dunois the chosen troops
Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn
We march to rescue Orleans from the foe."
"And I shall dare the battle by thy side, 345
And shield thee from the war! but tell me, JOAN,
Why didst thou brood in such strange mystery,
O'er this thy Heaven-doom'd purpose? trust me, Maiden
I have shed many tears for that wild gloom
That so estranged thee from thy Theodore! 350
If thou couldst know the anguish I endur'd
When thou wert gone! how thro' the live-long night
I vainly travers'd o'er thy wonted paths,
Making the forest echo to thy name!
Our mother too! in sooth it was unkind 355
To leave us thus!"
Mindless of her high call,
Again the lowly shepherdess of Arc,
In half-articulated words the Maid
Express'd her joy. Of Elinor she ask'd,
How from a doting mother he had come 360
In arms array'd.
"Thou wakest in my mind
A thought that makes me sad," the youth replied,
"For Elinor wept much at my resolve,
And eloquent with all a mother's fears,
Urg'd me to leave her not. My wayward heart 365
Smote me as I look'd back and saw her wave
Adieu! but high in hope I soon beguil'd
These melancholy feelings by the thought
That we should both return to cheer her age,
Thy mission well fulfill'd, and quit no more 370
The copse-embosom'd cottage."
But the Maid
Soon started from her dream of happiness,
For on her memory flash'd the flaming pile.
A death-like paleness at the dreadful thoughts
Wither'd her cheek; the dews on her cold brow. 375
Started, and on the arm of Theodore
Feeble and faint she hung. His eager eye
Concentring all the anguish of the soul,
And strain'd in anxious love, on her wan cheek
Fearfully silent gazed. But by the thought 380
Of her high mission rous'd, the Maiden's soul
Collected, and she spake.
"My Theodore,
Thou hast done wrong to quit thy mother's home!
Alone and aged she will weep for thee,
Wasting the little that is left of life 385
In anguish. Go thee back again to Arc,
And cheering so her wintry hour of age,
Cherish my memory there."
Swift he exclaim'd,
"Nay Maid! the pang of parting is o'erpast,
And Elinor looks on to the glad hour 390
When we shall both return. Amid the war
How many an arm will seek thy single life,
How many a sword pierce thro' thy brittle mail,
Wound thy fair face, or, driven with impious rage,
Gore thy white bosom! JOAN, I will go with thee, 395
And spread the guardian shield!"
Again the Maid
Grew pale; for of her last and terrible hour
The vision'd scene she saw. "Nay," she replied,
"I shall not need thy succour in the war.
Me Heaven, if so seem good to it's high will, 400
Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore,
Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home,
And make thy mother happy."
The youth's cheek
A rapid blush disorder'd. "O! the Court
Is pleasant, and thy soul would fain forget 405
An obscure Villager, who only boasts
The treasure of the heart!"
She look'd at him
With the reproaching eye of tenderness:
"Devoted for the realm of France, I go
A willing victim. The unpierced Veil 410
Was raised, and my gifted eye beheld
The fearful features of futurity.
Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country,
Abandoning for this the joys of life,
Yea, life itself!" then on his neck she fell, 415
And with a faultering voice, "return to Arc;
I do not tell thee there are other maids
As fair: for thou wilt love my memory,
Hallowing to it the temple of thy heart.
Worthy a happier, not a better love, 420
My Theodore!"—Then, pressing his pale lips,
A last and holy kiss the Virgin fix'd,
And rush'd across the plain.
She reach'd the court
Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind
Shook ev'ry fibre. Sad and sick at heart, 425
Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude
The Maiden had retir'd; but her the King
Met on the threshold. He of the late scene
Forgetful and his crime, as chearful seem'd
As tho' there had not been a God in Heav'n! 430
"Enter the hall," he cried, "the masquers there
Join in the dance. Why Maiden art thou sad?
Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame
With his strange frenzies?"
The disgusted Maid,
As sternly sorrowful she frown'd upon him, 435
Replied. "Yes, Charles! that Madman has indeed
Made me most sad. Much had I heard of courts,
Much of the vice and folly that enthrall'd
The masters of mankind. Incredulous
I heard, incredulous that man should bow 440
In homage to the slaves of appetite.
Thron'd in Infinity, the Eternal Justice
Gives or witholds success; by his high will
Withering the uplifted Warrior's sinewy arm.
Victory is his; on whom he delegates 445
His minister of wrath, the Genius waits
Stern-brow'd attendant. In the human heart
Dwells Virtue; milder form! and templed there
Loves her meet altar; and, tho' oft dislodg'd,
Reluctantly she quits her lov'd abode, 450
And oft returns, and oft importunate
Reclaims her empire. Wilt thou Charles, reject
The suppliant angel? wilt thou thrust her from thee,
Turning thine ear from her unheeded cries,
To Riot's deaf'ning clamors? King of France! 455
To thee elated, thus above mankind
Subjected thousands gaze: they wait thy will,
They wait thy will to quit their peaceful homes,
To quit the comforts of domestic life,
For the camp's dissonance, the clang of arms, 460
The banquet of destruction. King of France,
Glows not thy crimson cheek—sinks not thine heart
At the dread thought of thousands in thy cause,
Mow'd by the giant scythe of Victory?
Of widows weeping for their slaughter'd husbands? 465
Of orphans groaning for their daily food?
Oh that my voice in thunder might awake
The monitor within thee! that thy soul
Might, like Manoah's iron-sinewed son,
Burst its base fetters!"
The astonish'd King, 470
Trembled like Felix, when the Apostle spake
Of righteousness to come.
And now Dunois,
Poising a javelin, came with hasty step:
His eye beam'd exultation.
"Thou hast rous'd
The sleeping virtue of the sons of France; 475
They croud around the standard," cried the chief.
"My lance is ponderous; I have sharp'd my sword
To meet the mortal combat. Mission'd Maid,
Our brethren sieged in Orleans, every moment
Gaze from the watch-tower with the sick'ning eye 480
Of expectation."
Rous'd from his amaze,
And trusting by religion's forms observ'd,
With scrupulous care, to atone for the foul breach
Of her first duties, thus the King exclaim'd:
"O chosen by Heav'n, defer awhile thy march, 485
"That o'er the land my Heralds may proclaim
A general fast."
Severe the Maid replied:
"Monarch of France! and canst thou think that God
Beholds well-pleas'd the mock'ry of a fast?[3]
Luxuriant lordly riot is content 490
And willingly obedient to command,
Feasts on some sainted dainty. The poor man,
From the hard labor of the day debarr'd,
Loses his hard meal too. It were to waste
The hour in impious folly, so to bribe 496
The all-creating Parent to destroy
The works he made. Proud tyranny to Man,
To God foul insult! Mortify your pride;
Be clad in sackcloth when the conqueror's car
Rolls o'er the field of blood.—Believe me, King, 500
If thou didst know the untold misery
When from the bosom of domestic Love
But one—one victim goes! if that thine heart
Be human, it would bleed!"
Her heart was full,
And, pausing for a moment, she repress'd 505
The unbidden anguish. "Lo! they croud around
The standard! Thou Dunois the chosen troops
Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn
We march to rescue Orleans from the foe."
- ↑ Line 293 Thomas Muir.
- ↑ Line 294 Though roused by that dark Vizier, Riot rude, &c. Coleridge's Poems.
- ↑ Line 489 "If they who mingled the Cup of Bitterness, drank its contents, we might look with compassion on the wickedness of great men: But alas! the storm which they raise, "beats heaviest on the exposed innocent," and the cottage of the poor man is stripped of every comfort, before the Oppressors, who send forth the mandate of death, are amerced of one Luxury, or one Vice. If calamities succeed each other in a long series, they deprecate the anger of Heaven by a Fast; which word (being interpreted) seems to signify—Prayers of Hate to the God of Love, and then a turbot feast to the rich, and their usual scanty meal to the poor, if indeed, debarred from their usual labor, they can procure even this! But if the cause be crowned by victory,———"They o'er the ravaged earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
Sing their mad Hymns of Triumph—Hymns to God,
O'er the destruction of his gracious works,
Hymns to the father o'er his slaughter'd son."See Conciones ad Populum, or, Addresses to the People, by S. T. Coleridge