Joan of Arc (Southey)/Book 8
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JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE EIGHTH.
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.
JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE EIGHTH.
Now was the noon of night; and all was still
Save where the centinel paced on his rounds
Humming a broken song. Along the camp
High flames the frequent fire. The warrior Franks,
On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs5
Fatigued, their spears lay by them, and the shield
Pillowed the helmed head: secure they slept,
And busy Fancy in her dream renewed
The fight of yesterday.
But not to JOAN,
But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid,10
Soother of sorrows, Sleep! no more her pulse,
Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast,
Allow'd no pause for thought. With clasped hands
And fixed eye she sat, the while around
The Spectres of the Days departed rose,15
A melancholy train! that rock-roof'd cell
She call'd to mind where many a winter's day
With Theodore she mark'd the driving storm:
She call'd to mind the hours of merriment
When mingling in the dance with careless glee20
She join'd the blithesome train: then her wild eye
Beheld him cold, and his blood-clotted face
In death distorted. O'er her shivering frame
The chill dews started, for upon the gale
The crow's hoarse croak was heard. Sudden she rose,25
And passing thro' the camp with hasty step
Strode to the field of blood.
The night was calm;
Fair as was ever on Chaldea's plain
When the pale moon-beams o'er the silvery scene
Shone cloudless, whilst the watchful shepherd's eye30
Survey'd the host of heaven, and mark'd them rise
Successive, and successively decay;
Lost in the stream of light, as lesser springs
Amid Euphrates' current. The high wall
Cast a deep shadow, and her faltering feet35
Stumbled o'er broken arms and carcasses;
And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan
Of 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 there40
Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold face
Gazing with such a look as tho' she fear'd
The thing she sought. Amazement seiz'd the Maid,
For there the victim of his vengeful arm,
Known by the buckler's blazon'd heraldry,45
Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stood
Gazing around the plain, she mark'd a man
Pass slowly on, as burthened. Him to aid
She sped, and soon with unencumber'd speed
O'ertaking, thus bespake: "Stranger! this weight50
Impedes thy progress. Dost thou bear away
Some slaughtered friend? or lives the sufferer
With many a sore wound gash'd? oh if he lives!
I will with earnest prayer petition Heaven
To shed its healing on him!"
So she said, 55
And as she spake stretched forth her careful hands
To ease the burthen. "Warrior," he replied,
"Thanks for thy proffered succour: but this man
Lives not, and I with unassisted arm
Can bear him to the sepulchre. Farewell— 60
The night is far advanced; thou to the camp
Return: it fits not darkling thus to stray."
Save where the centinel paced on his rounds
Humming a broken song. Along the camp
High flames the frequent fire. The warrior Franks,
On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs5
Fatigued, their spears lay by them, and the shield
Pillowed the helmed head: secure they slept,
And busy Fancy in her dream renewed
The fight of yesterday.
But not to JOAN,
But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid,10
Soother of sorrows, Sleep! no more her pulse,
Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast,
Allow'd no pause for thought. With clasped hands
And fixed eye she sat, the while around
The Spectres of the Days departed rose,15
A melancholy train! that rock-roof'd cell
She call'd to mind where many a winter's day
With Theodore she mark'd the driving storm:
She call'd to mind the hours of merriment
When mingling in the dance with careless glee20
She join'd the blithesome train: then her wild eye
Beheld him cold, and his blood-clotted face
In death distorted. O'er her shivering frame
The chill dews started, for upon the gale
The crow's hoarse croak was heard. Sudden she rose,25
And passing thro' the camp with hasty step
Strode to the field of blood.
The night was calm;
Fair as was ever on Chaldea's plain
When the pale moon-beams o'er the silvery scene
Shone cloudless, whilst the watchful shepherd's eye30
Survey'd the host of heaven, and mark'd them rise
Successive, and successively decay;
Lost in the stream of light, as lesser springs
Amid Euphrates' current. The high wall
Cast a deep shadow, and her faltering feet35
Stumbled o'er broken arms and carcasses;
And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan
Of 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 there40
Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold face
Gazing with such a look as tho' she fear'd
The thing she sought. Amazement seiz'd the Maid,
For there the victim of his vengeful arm,
Known by the buckler's blazon'd heraldry,45
Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stood
Gazing around the plain, she mark'd a man
Pass slowly on, as burthened. Him to aid
She sped, and soon with unencumber'd speed
O'ertaking, thus bespake: "Stranger! this weight50
Impedes thy progress. Dost thou bear away
Some slaughtered friend? or lives the sufferer
With many a sore wound gash'd? oh if he lives!
I will with earnest prayer petition Heaven
To shed its healing on him!"
So she said, 55
And as she spake stretched forth her careful hands
To ease the burthen. "Warrior," he replied,
"Thanks for thy proffered succour: but this man
Lives not, and I with unassisted arm
Can bear him to the sepulchre. Farewell— 60
The night is far advanced; thou to the camp
Return: it fits not darkling thus to stray."
"Conrade!" the Maid exclaim'd, for well she knew
His voice:—with that she fell upon his neck
And cried, "My Theodore! but wherefore thus 65
Thro' the dead midnight dost thou bear his corse?"
His voice:—with that she fell upon his neck
And cried, "My Theodore! but wherefore thus 65
Thro' 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, 70
He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear.
Lo Conrade where she moves—beloved Maid!
Devoted for the realm of France she goes
Abandoning 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 go
Her unknown guardian. Conrade, if I fall,
(And trust me I have little love of life,) 80
Bear me in secret from the gory field,
Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye
A mangled corse. She must not know my fate.
Do this last aft of friendship—in the flood
Whelm me: so shall she think of Theodore 85
Unanguish'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. 90
With fixed eye the wretched Maiden gazed
The life-left tenement. The dews of night
Were on his arms, and o'er the ghastly wound
Hung his brown hair gore-clotted. "Gallant youth!"
She cried, "I would to God the hour were come 95
When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss!
No, Theodore! the sport of winds and waves,
Thy body shall not roll adown the stream
The sea-wolf's banquet. Conrade, bear with me
The corse to Orleans, there in hallowed ground 100
To rest; the Priest shall say the sacred prayer,
And hymn the requiem to his parted soul.
So shall not Elinor in bitterness
Lament that no dear friend to her dead child
Paid the last office."
From the earth they lift 105
The mournful burden, and along the plain
Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate.
The obedient centinel at Conrade's voice
Admits the midnight travellers; on they pass,
Till in the neighbouring Abbey's porch arrived 110
They rest the lifeless load.
Loud rings the bell;
The awakened porter turns the heavy door.
To him the Virgin: "Father, from the slain
On yonder reeking field a dear-loved friend
I bring to holy sepulture: chaunt ye 115
The requiem to his soul: to-morrow eve
Will I return, and in the narrow house
Behold him laid to rest." The father knew
The mission'd Maid, and humbly bow'd assent.
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, 70
He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear.
Lo Conrade where she moves—beloved Maid!
Devoted for the realm of France she goes
Abandoning 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 go
Her unknown guardian. Conrade, if I fall,
(And trust me I have little love of life,) 80
Bear me in secret from the gory field,
Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye
A mangled corse. She must not know my fate.
Do this last aft of friendship—in the flood
Whelm me: so shall she think of Theodore 85
Unanguish'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. 90
With fixed eye the wretched Maiden gazed
The life-left tenement. The dews of night
Were on his arms, and o'er the ghastly wound
Hung his brown hair gore-clotted. "Gallant youth!"
She cried, "I would to God the hour were come 95
When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss!
No, Theodore! the sport of winds and waves,
Thy body shall not roll adown the stream
The sea-wolf's banquet. Conrade, bear with me
The corse to Orleans, there in hallowed ground 100
To rest; the Priest shall say the sacred prayer,
And hymn the requiem to his parted soul.
So shall not Elinor in bitterness
Lament that no dear friend to her dead child
Paid the last office."
From the earth they lift 105
The mournful burden, and along the plain
Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate.
The obedient centinel at Conrade's voice
Admits the midnight travellers; on they pass,
Till in the neighbouring Abbey's porch arrived 110
They rest the lifeless load.
Loud rings the bell;
The awakened porter turns the heavy door.
To him the Virgin: "Father, from the slain
On yonder reeking field a dear-loved friend
I bring to holy sepulture: chaunt ye 115
The requiem to his soul: to-morrow eve
Will I return, and in the narrow house
Behold him laid to rest." The father knew
The mission'd Maid, and humbly bow'd assent.
Now from the city, o'er the shadowy plain, 120
Backward they bend their way. From silent thoughts
The 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, 125
When my emancipated soul shall burst
The cumberous fetters of mortality,
Wishful I contemplate. Conrade! my friend,
My wounded heart would feel another pang
Should'st thou forsake me!"
"JOAN!" the Chief replied, 130
"Along the weary pilgrimage of life
Together will we journey, and beguile
The dreary road, telling with what gay hopes,
We in the morning eyed the pleasant fields
Vision'd before; then wish that we had reach'd 135
The bower of rest!"
Thus communing they gain'd
The camp, yet hush'd in sleep; there separating,
Each in the post allotted, restless waits
The day-break.
Morning came: dim thro' the shade
The first rays glimmer; soon the brightening clouds 140
Drink the rich beam, and o'er the landscape spread
The dewy light. The soldiers from the earth
Leap up invigorate, and each his food
Receives, impatient to renew the war.
Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points. 145
"Soldiers of France! your English foes are there!"
Backward they bend their way. From silent thoughts
The 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, 125
When my emancipated soul shall burst
The cumberous fetters of mortality,
Wishful I contemplate. Conrade! my friend,
My wounded heart would feel another pang
Should'st thou forsake me!"
"JOAN!" the Chief replied, 130
"Along the weary pilgrimage of life
Together will we journey, and beguile
The dreary road, telling with what gay hopes,
We in the morning eyed the pleasant fields
Vision'd before; then wish that we had reach'd 135
The bower of rest!"
Thus communing they gain'd
The camp, yet hush'd in sleep; there separating,
Each in the post allotted, restless waits
The day-break.
Morning came: dim thro' the shade
The first rays glimmer; soon the brightening clouds 140
Drink the rich beam, and o'er the landscape spread
The dewy light. The soldiers from the earth
Leap up invigorate, and each his food
Receives, 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 150
Shall 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 155
The 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 bows
Bent forceful, and their death-fraught enginery 160
Discharged; nor did the Gallic archers cease
With well-directed shafts their loftier foes
To assail: behind the guardian pavais[2] fenced,
They at the battlements their arrows aim'd,
Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the bayle 165
Pass'd the bold troops with all their mangonels;
Or tortoises, beneath whose roofing safe,
They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers
Make fit foundation, or their petraries,
War-wolfs, and Beugles, and that murderous sling 170
The Matafunda, whence the ponderous stone
Fled 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 175
Did 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, 180
Threatening 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 185
Pronounced that man accurs'd whose impious hand
Should point the murderous weapon. Such decrees
Befits the men of God to promulgate:
Them it befits to wash their hands of blood,
And with a warning voice, tho' haply vain, 190
To cry aloud and spare not! "Woe to them
Whose 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 195
First broke, and heavenly retribution doom'd
His fall by the keen quarrel; since that day
Frequent in fields of battle, and from far
To many a good Knight, bearing his death wound
From hands unknown. With such an instrument, 200
Arm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye
Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance
Darts not the hawk when from the feather'd tribe
He marks his victim.
On a Frank he fix'd
His gaze, who kneeling by the trebuchet,[5] 205
Charged 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 clasps
Defend the neck; a weak protection now,
For thro' the tube that the pure air inhales
Pierced the keen shaft; blood down the unwonted way 215
Gush'd to the lungs: prone fell the dying man
Grasping, convuls'd, the earth: a hollow groan
In his throat struggled, and the dews of death
Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth
He had pass'd peaceful, and had known what joys 220
Domestic love bestows, the father once
Of two fair infants; in the city hem'd
During the hard siege; he had seen their cheeks
Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries
For bread! his wife—a broken-hearted one— 225
Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babes
With hunger pined, and followed: he survived,
A miserable man! and heard the shouts
Of joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd,
As o'er the corse of his last little one 230
He 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 loose
The string; the quarrel, driven by that strong blow, 235
True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struck
Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd
Deep in his liver; blood and mingled gall
Flow'd from the wound; and writhing with keen pangs,
Headlong he fell: he for the wintry hour 240
Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale,
A man in his small circle well-beloved.
None better knew with prudent hand to guide
The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time
To press the full-swoln clusters: he, heart-glad, 245
Taught his young boys the little all he knew,
Enough for happiness. The English host
Laid waste his fertile fields; he, to the war,
By want compell'd, adventur'd,—in his gore
Now weltering.
Nor the Gallic host remit 250
Their eager efforts; some, the watry fence,
Beneath the tortoise roof'd, with engines apt
Drain painful; part, laden with wood, throw there
Their buoyant burdens, labouring so to gain
Firm footing: some the mangonels supply, 255
Or charging with huge stones the murdering sling,
Or petrary, or in the espringal
Fix the brass-winged arrows. Hoarse around
Rose the confused din of multitudes.
Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate
In hope of conquest and the future feast;
(When on the hospitable board their spoil 150
Shall 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 155
The 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 bows
Bent forceful, and their death-fraught enginery 160
Discharged; nor did the Gallic archers cease
With well-directed shafts their loftier foes
To assail: behind the guardian pavais[2] fenced,
They at the battlements their arrows aim'd,
Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the bayle 165
Pass'd the bold troops with all their mangonels;
Or tortoises, beneath whose roofing safe,
They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers
Make fit foundation, or their petraries,
War-wolfs, and Beugles, and that murderous sling 170
The Matafunda, whence the ponderous stone
Fled 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 175
Did 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, 180
Threatening 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 185
Pronounced that man accurs'd whose impious hand
Should point the murderous weapon. Such decrees
Befits the men of God to promulgate:
Them it befits to wash their hands of blood,
And with a warning voice, tho' haply vain, 190
To cry aloud and spare not! "Woe to them
Whose 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 195
First broke, and heavenly retribution doom'd
His fall by the keen quarrel; since that day
Frequent in fields of battle, and from far
To many a good Knight, bearing his death wound
From hands unknown. With such an instrument, 200
Arm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye
Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance
Darts not the hawk when from the feather'd tribe
He marks his victim.
On a Frank he fix'd
His gaze, who kneeling by the trebuchet,[5] 205
Charged 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 clasps
Defend the neck; a weak protection now,
For thro' the tube that the pure air inhales
Pierced the keen shaft; blood down the unwonted way 215
Gush'd to the lungs: prone fell the dying man
Grasping, convuls'd, the earth: a hollow groan
In his throat struggled, and the dews of death
Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth
He had pass'd peaceful, and had known what joys 220
Domestic love bestows, the father once
Of two fair infants; in the city hem'd
During the hard siege; he had seen their cheeks
Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries
For bread! his wife—a broken-hearted one— 225
Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babes
With hunger pined, and followed: he survived,
A miserable man! and heard the shouts
Of joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd,
As o'er the corse of his last little one 230
He 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 loose
The string; the quarrel, driven by that strong blow, 235
True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struck
Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd
Deep in his liver; blood and mingled gall
Flow'd from the wound; and writhing with keen pangs,
Headlong he fell: he for the wintry hour 240
Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale,
A man in his small circle well-beloved.
None better knew with prudent hand to guide
The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time
To press the full-swoln clusters: he, heart-glad, 245
Taught his young boys the little all he knew,
Enough for happiness. The English host
Laid waste his fertile fields; he, to the war,
By want compell'd, adventur'd,—in his gore
Now weltering.
Nor the Gallic host remit 250
Their eager efforts; some, the watry fence,
Beneath the tortoise roof'd, with engines apt
Drain painful; part, laden with wood, throw there
Their buoyant burdens, labouring so to gain
Firm footing: some the mangonels supply, 255
Or charging with huge stones the murdering sling,
Or petrary, or in the espringal
Fix the brass-winged arrows. Hoarse around
Rose the confused din of multitudes.
Fearless along the ramparts Gargrave moved, 260
Cheering 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, 265
From some huge engine driven, a ponderous stone
Crush'd: on his breast-plate falling, the vast force,
Shattered the bone, and with his mangled lungs
The fragments mingled. On the sunny brow
Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home, 270
A pleasant dwelling, whence the ample ken
Gaz'd o'er subjected distance, and surveyed
Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety!
The traveller knew its hospitable towers,
For open were the gates, and blazed for all 275
The friendly fire. By glory lur'd, the youth
Went forth; and he had bathed his falchion's edge
In many a Frenchman's gore; now crush'd beneath
The ponderous fragments force, his mangled limbs
Lie quiv'ring.
Lo! towards the levelled moat, 280
A moving tower the men of Orleans wheel
Four stages elevate. Above was hung,
Equalling the walls, a bridge; in the lower stage
The ponderous battering-ram: a troop within
Of archers, thro' the opening, shot their shafts. 285
In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepar'd
To mount the rampart, for he loath'd the chase,
And loved to see the dappled foresters
Browze fearless on their lair, with friendly eye,
And happy in beholding happiness, 290
Not meditating death: the bowman's art
Therefore he little knew, nor was he wont
To aim the arrow at the distant foe,
But uprear in close conflict, front to front,
His death-red battle-axe, and break the shield, 295
First in the war of men. There too the Maid
Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield
Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower,
Slow o'er the moat and steady, tho' the foe
Showered there their javelins, aim'd their engines there, 300
And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart
Shot 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'd
The wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven, 305
The 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 arm
Drive full and fierce; so rolls the swelling sea 310
Its curly billows to the unmoved foot
Of some huge promontory, whose broad base
Breaks the rough wave; the shiver'd surge rolls back,
Till, by the coming billow borne, it bursts
Again, and foams with ceaseless violence. 315
The Wanderer, on the sunny clift outstretch'd,
Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock
His weary senses to forgetfulness.
Cheering 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, 265
From some huge engine driven, a ponderous stone
Crush'd: on his breast-plate falling, the vast force,
Shattered the bone, and with his mangled lungs
The fragments mingled. On the sunny brow
Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home, 270
A pleasant dwelling, whence the ample ken
Gaz'd o'er subjected distance, and surveyed
Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety!
The traveller knew its hospitable towers,
For open were the gates, and blazed for all 275
The friendly fire. By glory lur'd, the youth
Went forth; and he had bathed his falchion's edge
In many a Frenchman's gore; now crush'd beneath
The ponderous fragments force, his mangled limbs
Lie quiv'ring.
Lo! towards the levelled moat, 280
A moving tower the men of Orleans wheel
Four stages elevate. Above was hung,
Equalling the walls, a bridge; in the lower stage
The ponderous battering-ram: a troop within
Of archers, thro' the opening, shot their shafts. 285
In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepar'd
To mount the rampart, for he loath'd the chase,
And loved to see the dappled foresters
Browze fearless on their lair, with friendly eye,
And happy in beholding happiness, 290
Not meditating death: the bowman's art
Therefore he little knew, nor was he wont
To aim the arrow at the distant foe,
But uprear in close conflict, front to front,
His death-red battle-axe, and break the shield, 295
First in the war of men. There too the Maid
Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield
Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower,
Slow o'er the moat and steady, tho' the foe
Showered there their javelins, aim'd their engines there, 300
And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart
Shot 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'd
The wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven, 305
The 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 arm
Drive full and fierce; so rolls the swelling sea 310
Its curly billows to the unmoved foot
Of some huge promontory, whose broad base
Breaks the rough wave; the shiver'd surge rolls back,
Till, by the coming billow borne, it bursts
Again, and foams with ceaseless violence. 315
The Wanderer, on the sunny clift outstretch'd,
Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock
His weary senses to forgetfulness.
But nearer danger threats the invaders now,
For on the ramparts, lowered from above 320
The 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 325
Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din
The mountain torrent flings precipitate
Its bulk of waters, tho' amid the fall
Shattered, and dashing silvery from the rock.
For on the ramparts, lowered from above 320
The 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 325
Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din
The mountain torrent flings precipitate
Its bulk of waters, tho' amid the fall
Shattered, and dashing silvery from the rock.
Lo! on the bridge he stands, the undaunted man 330
Conrade! the gathered foes along the wall
Throng 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 335
Pierced thro' the destined victim, where his arm
Join'd the broad breast: a wound that skilful care
Haply had heal'd; but, him disabled now
For farther service, the unpitying throng
Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall 340
Thrust headlong.
Nor did Conrade cease to hurl
His deadly javelins fast, for well within
The tower was stor'd with weapons, to the Chief
Quickly supplied: nor did the mission'd Maid
Rest idle from the combat; she, secure 345
Aim'd the keen quarrel, taught the cross-bow's use
By the willing mind that what it well desires
Gains aptly: nor amid the numerous throng,
Tho' haply erring from their destin'd mark,
Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower 350
Ceaseless the bow-strings twang: the Knights below,
Each by his pavais bulwark'd, thither aim'd
Their darts, and not a dart fell woundless there,
So thickly throng'd they stood, and fell as fast
As when the Monarch of the East goes forth 355
From Gemna's banks and the proud palaces
Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood
Die in the blameless warfare: closed within
The still-contracting circle, their brute force
Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there, 360
Or by each other's fury lacerate,
The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance
Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain,
Rajah or Omrah, for the war of beasts
Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood. 365
The shout of terror rings along the wall,
For now the French their scaling ladders place,
And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault
Mount fearless: from above the furious troops
Hurl down such weapons as inventive care, 370
Or frantic rage supplies: huge stones and beams
Crush the bold foe; some, thrust adown the height,
Fall living to their death; some in keen pangs
And wildly-writhing, as the liquid lead
Gnaws thro' their members, leap down desperate, 375
Eager to cease from suffering. Still they mount,
And by their fellows' fate unterrified,
Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerless
To the English was the fight, tho' from above
Easy to crush the assailants: them amidst 380
Fast 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'd
Beneath the ponderous fragment that descends 385
The heavier from its height: some, the long lance
Impetuous rushing on its viewless way,
Transfix'd. The death-fraught cannon's thundering roar
Convulsing air; the soldier's eager shout;
And Terror's wild shriek echo o'er the plain 390
In 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 advanced
In wary valor o'er his slaughtered foes, 395
On the blood-reeking wall. Him drawing near,
Two youths, the boldest of the English host
Prest on to thrust him from that perilous height;
At once they rush'd upon him: he, his axe
Dropping, the dagger drew: one thro' the throat 400
He 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, 405
And headlong hurl'd, all shatter'd to the sea,
Down from the rock's high summit, since that day
Him, hugest of the giant's, chronicling,
Hight Langoemagog.
The Maid of Arc
Bounds o'er the bridge, and to the wind unfurls 410
Her hallowed banner. At that welcome sight
A general shout of acclamation rose,
And loud, as when the tempest-tossing forest
Roars to the roaring wind; then terror seiz'd
The garrison; and fired anew with hope, 415
The fierce assailants to their prize rush on
Resistless. Vainly do their English foes
Hurl 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 sight
With indignation, Glacidas beheld
His troops fly scattered; fast on every side
The foes up-rushing eager to their spoil;
The holy standard waving; and the Maid 425
Fierce 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 Maid
Levelling, let loose: her arm was rais'd on high 430
To smite a fugitive: he glanced aside,
Shunning her deadly stroke, and thus receiv'd
The 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 435
Meanders.
"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 sped
Guiltless of blood, for lightly o'er the court 440
Bounded the warrior Virgin. Glacidas
Levelled his bow again; the fated shaft
Fled true, and difficultly thro' the mail
Pierced 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 arts
Can charm my arrows from their destined course."
Ill-fated Man! in vain with murderous hand
Placing thy feathered quarrel in its groove,
Dream'st thou of JOAN subdued! She from her neck 450
Plucking the shaft unterrified, exclaim'd,
"This is a favour! Frenchmen, let us on!
Escape they cannot from the hand of God!"
Conrade! the gathered foes along the wall
Throng 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 335
Pierced thro' the destined victim, where his arm
Join'd the broad breast: a wound that skilful care
Haply had heal'd; but, him disabled now
For farther service, the unpitying throng
Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall 340
Thrust headlong.
Nor did Conrade cease to hurl
His deadly javelins fast, for well within
The tower was stor'd with weapons, to the Chief
Quickly supplied: nor did the mission'd Maid
Rest idle from the combat; she, secure 345
Aim'd the keen quarrel, taught the cross-bow's use
By the willing mind that what it well desires
Gains aptly: nor amid the numerous throng,
Tho' haply erring from their destin'd mark,
Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower 350
Ceaseless the bow-strings twang: the Knights below,
Each by his pavais bulwark'd, thither aim'd
Their darts, and not a dart fell woundless there,
So thickly throng'd they stood, and fell as fast
As when the Monarch of the East goes forth 355
From Gemna's banks and the proud palaces
Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood
Die in the blameless warfare: closed within
The still-contracting circle, their brute force
Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there, 360
Or by each other's fury lacerate,
The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance
Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain,
Rajah or Omrah, for the war of beasts
Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood. 365
The shout of terror rings along the wall,
For now the French their scaling ladders place,
And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault
Mount fearless: from above the furious troops
Hurl down such weapons as inventive care, 370
Or frantic rage supplies: huge stones and beams
Crush the bold foe; some, thrust adown the height,
Fall living to their death; some in keen pangs
And wildly-writhing, as the liquid lead
Gnaws thro' their members, leap down desperate, 375
Eager to cease from suffering. Still they mount,
And by their fellows' fate unterrified,
Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerless
To the English was the fight, tho' from above
Easy to crush the assailants: them amidst 380
Fast 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'd
Beneath the ponderous fragment that descends 385
The heavier from its height: some, the long lance
Impetuous rushing on its viewless way,
Transfix'd. The death-fraught cannon's thundering roar
Convulsing air; the soldier's eager shout;
And Terror's wild shriek echo o'er the plain 390
In 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 advanced
In wary valor o'er his slaughtered foes, 395
On the blood-reeking wall. Him drawing near,
Two youths, the boldest of the English host
Prest on to thrust him from that perilous height;
At once they rush'd upon him: he, his axe
Dropping, the dagger drew: one thro' the throat 400
He 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, 405
And headlong hurl'd, all shatter'd to the sea,
Down from the rock's high summit, since that day
Him, hugest of the giant's, chronicling,
Hight Langoemagog.
The Maid of Arc
Bounds o'er the bridge, and to the wind unfurls 410
Her hallowed banner. At that welcome sight
A general shout of acclamation rose,
And loud, as when the tempest-tossing forest
Roars to the roaring wind; then terror seiz'd
The garrison; and fired anew with hope, 415
The fierce assailants to their prize rush on
Resistless. Vainly do their English foes
Hurl 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 sight
With indignation, Glacidas beheld
His troops fly scattered; fast on every side
The foes up-rushing eager to their spoil;
The holy standard waving; and the Maid 425
Fierce 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 Maid
Levelling, let loose: her arm was rais'd on high 430
To smite a fugitive: he glanced aside,
Shunning her deadly stroke, and thus receiv'd
The 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 435
Meanders.
"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 sped
Guiltless of blood, for lightly o'er the court 440
Bounded the warrior Virgin. Glacidas
Levelled his bow again; the fated shaft
Fled true, and difficultly thro' the mail
Pierced 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 arts
Can charm my arrows from their destined course."
Ill-fated Man! in vain with murderous hand
Placing thy feathered quarrel in its groove,
Dream'st thou of JOAN subdued! She from her neck 450
Plucking 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 455
Again the bow; with rapid step he strode;
Nor did not Glacidas the Frank perceive;
At him he drew the string: the powerless dart
Fell blunted from his buckler. Fierce he came
And lifting high his ponderous battle-axe, 460
Full on his shoulder drove the furious stroke
Deep-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; 465
Wisely secluded from the jarring world
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;
Exhausted Nature sinking slow to rest. 470
For them the venerable fathers pour'd
A requiem when they slept, and o'er them rais'd
The sculptur'd monument. Now far away
Their offspring falls, the last of all his race!
Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share 475
The common grave.
And now their leader slain,
The vanquish'd English fly towards the gate,
Seeking the inner court,[8] as hoping there
Again to dare the siege, and with their friends
Find present refuge. Ah! mistaken men! 480
The vanquish'd have no friends! defeated thus,
Prest by pursuit, in vain with eager voice
They call their comrades in the suppliant tones
Of pity now, now in the indignant phrase
Of fruitless anger: they indeed within 485
Fast from the ramparts on the victor troops
Hurl 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 490
The 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 secure
These many prisoners such a force demands, 500
As should we spare might shortly make us need
The 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 505
Implanted of self-safety, all demand
Their deaths."
"Foul fall such evil policy!"
The indignant Maid exclaim'd. "I tell thee, Chief,
God is with us! but God shall hide his face
From him who sheds one drop of human blood 510
In calm cold-hearted wisdom—him who weighs
The 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 515
Us 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 sword
Rescued one man, and that his heart-pour'd prayers,
Already with celestial eloquence, 520
Plead 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, 525
The 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, 530
Their captain. From the war we may not spare
Thy valor long."
She said: when Conrade cast
His eyes around, and mark'd amid the court
From 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 forth
To guard the captives: thou shalt be the man;
For thou wilt guard them with due diligence,
Yet not forgetting they are men, bereft
Of all they love, and who may largely claim 540
Thy pity."
Nor meantime the garrison
Ceas'd from the war; they, in the hour of need,
Abandoning their comrades to the sword,
A daring band, resolved to bide the siege
In desperate valor. Fast against the walls 545
The batteting-ram drove fierce: the enginery
Ply'd at the ramparts fast; the catapults
Drove there their dreadful darts; the war-wolfs there
Hurl'd their huge stones; and, by the pavais fenced,
The Knights of France sped there their well-aim'd shafts. 550
Beheld the English Chieftain as he aim'd 455
Again the bow; with rapid step he strode;
Nor did not Glacidas the Frank perceive;
At him he drew the string: the powerless dart
Fell blunted from his buckler. Fierce he came
And lifting high his ponderous battle-axe, 460
Full on his shoulder drove the furious stroke
Deep-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; 465
Wisely secluded from the jarring world
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;
Exhausted Nature sinking slow to rest. 470
For them the venerable fathers pour'd
A requiem when they slept, and o'er them rais'd
The sculptur'd monument. Now far away
Their offspring falls, the last of all his race!
Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share 475
The common grave.
And now their leader slain,
The vanquish'd English fly towards the gate,
Seeking the inner court,[8] as hoping there
Again to dare the siege, and with their friends
Find present refuge. Ah! mistaken men! 480
The vanquish'd have no friends! defeated thus,
Prest by pursuit, in vain with eager voice
They call their comrades in the suppliant tones
Of pity now, now in the indignant phrase
Of fruitless anger: they indeed within 485
Fast from the ramparts on the victor troops
Hurl 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 490
The 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 secure
These many prisoners such a force demands, 500
As should we spare might shortly make us need
The 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 505
Implanted of self-safety, all demand
Their deaths."
"Foul fall such evil policy!"
The indignant Maid exclaim'd. "I tell thee, Chief,
God is with us! but God shall hide his face
From him who sheds one drop of human blood 510
In calm cold-hearted wisdom—him who weighs
The 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 515
Us 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 sword
Rescued one man, and that his heart-pour'd prayers,
Already with celestial eloquence, 520
Plead 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, 525
The 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, 530
Their captain. From the war we may not spare
Thy valor long."
She said: when Conrade cast
His eyes around, and mark'd amid the court
From 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 forth
To guard the captives: thou shalt be the man;
For thou wilt guard them with due diligence,
Yet not forgetting they are men, bereft
Of all they love, and who may largely claim 540
Thy pity."
Nor meantime the garrison
Ceas'd from the war; they, in the hour of need,
Abandoning their comrades to the sword,
A daring band, resolved to bide the siege
In desperate valor. Fast against the walls 545
The batteting-ram drove fierce: the enginery
Ply'd at the ramparts fast; the catapults
Drove there their dreadful darts; the war-wolfs there
Hurl'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 dismissed
A powerful escort, weakening thus themselves, 555
And 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 boast
Undaunted courage and the powerful arm, 560
If thus pent up; like some wild beast he falls,
Mark'd for the hunter's arrows: let us rush
And meet them in the battle, man to man,
Either to conquer, or, at least, to die
A soldier's death."
"Nay nay—not so," replied 565
One of less daring valor. "Tho' they point
Their engines here, our archers not in vain
Speed their death-doing shafts. Let the strong walls
First by the foe be won; 'twill then be time
To meet them in the battle man to man, 570
When these shall fail us."
Scarcely had he spoke,
When full upon his breast a ponderous stone
Fell fierce impell'd, and drove him to the earth,
All shattered. Horror the spectators seiz'd!
For as the dreadful weapon shivered him, 575
His blood besprinkled round, and they beheld
His mangled lungs lie quivering!
"Such the fate
Of those who trust them to their walls defence."
Again exclaim'd the soldier: "thus they fall,
Betrayed by their own fears. Courage alone 580
Can save us.”
Nor to draw them from the fort
Now needed eloquence; with one accord
They bade him lead to battle. Forth they rush'd
Impetuous. With such fury o'er the plain,
Swoln by the autumnal tempest, Vega rolls 585
His rapid waters, when the gathered storm,
On the black hills of Cambria bursting, swells
The tide of desolation.
Then the Maid
Spake to the son of Orleans, "Let our troops
Fall back, so shall the English in pursuit 590
Leave 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, 595
Rush 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 600
Again that they might hide them in their walls
Rashly abandoned, for now wheeling round
The son of Orleans fought. All captainless,
Ill-marshall'd, ill-directed, in vain rage,
They waste their furious efforts, falling fast 605
Before the Maid's good falchion and the sword
Of Conrade: loud was heard the mingled sound
Of arms and men; the earth, that trampled late
By multitudes, gave to the passing wind
Its dusty clouds, now reek'd with their hot gore. 610
Beneath the ponderous ram's unceasing stroke?"
Cried one, a venturous Englishman. "Our foes,
In woman-like compassion, have dismissed
A powerful escort, weakening thus themselves, 555
And 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 boast
Undaunted courage and the powerful arm, 560
If thus pent up; like some wild beast he falls,
Mark'd for the hunter's arrows: let us rush
And meet them in the battle, man to man,
Either to conquer, or, at least, to die
A soldier's death."
"Nay nay—not so," replied 565
One of less daring valor. "Tho' they point
Their engines here, our archers not in vain
Speed their death-doing shafts. Let the strong walls
First by the foe be won; 'twill then be time
To meet them in the battle man to man, 570
When these shall fail us."
Scarcely had he spoke,
When full upon his breast a ponderous stone
Fell fierce impell'd, and drove him to the earth,
All shattered. Horror the spectators seiz'd!
For as the dreadful weapon shivered him, 575
His blood besprinkled round, and they beheld
His mangled lungs lie quivering!
"Such the fate
Of those who trust them to their walls defence."
Again exclaim'd the soldier: "thus they fall,
Betrayed by their own fears. Courage alone 580
Can save us.”
Nor to draw them from the fort
Now needed eloquence; with one accord
They bade him lead to battle. Forth they rush'd
Impetuous. With such fury o'er the plain,
Swoln by the autumnal tempest, Vega rolls 585
His rapid waters, when the gathered storm,
On the black hills of Cambria bursting, swells
The tide of desolation.
Then the Maid
Spake to the son of Orleans, "Let our troops
Fall back, so shall the English in pursuit 590
Leave 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, 595
Rush 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 600
Again that they might hide them in their walls
Rashly abandoned, for now wheeling round
The son of Orleans fought. All captainless,
Ill-marshall'd, ill-directed, in vain rage,
They waste their furious efforts, falling fast 605
Before the Maid's good falchion and the sword
Of Conrade: loud was heard the mingled sound
Of arms and men; the earth, that trampled late
By multitudes, gave to the passing wind
Its 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 615
A 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 assault
Ere she, the Delegate of Heaven, came forth
And made them fear who never fear'd before.
Hither the English troops with hasty steps
Retir'd, yet not forgetful of defence,
But waging still the war: the garrison 625
Them thus retreating saw, and open threw
Their 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 630
Thy womanish pity has dismissed, with us
Conjoin'd might press upon the vanquish'd foes,
Tho' aided thus, and plant the lillied flag
Victorious on yon tower."
"Dark-minded man!
The Maid of Orleans answered, "to act well 635
Brings 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 God
Sends me the minister of mercy forth, 640
Sends 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."
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 615
A 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 assault
Ere she, the Delegate of Heaven, came forth
And made them fear who never fear'd before.
Hither the English troops with hasty steps
Retir'd, yet not forgetful of defence,
But waging still the war: the garrison 625
Them thus retreating saw, and open threw
Their 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 630
Thy womanish pity has dismissed, with us
Conjoin'd might press upon the vanquish'd foes,
Tho' aided thus, and plant the lillied flag
Victorious on yon tower."
"Dark-minded man!
The Maid of Orleans answered, "to act well 635
Brings 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 God
Sends me the minister of mercy forth, 640
Sends 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; 645
Her breast heaved high—her cheek grew red—her
Flash'd forth a wilder lustre. "Thou dost deem
That 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! 650
Our Champion manifest!"
Even as she spake,
The tower, the bridge, and all its multitudes,
Sunk with a mighty crash.
Astonishment
Seized on the French—an universal cry
Of 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, 660
Amid the foaming current. From the fort
Talbot beheld, and gnash'd his teeth, and curs'd
The more than mortal Virgin; whilst the towers
Of Orleans echoed to the loud uproar,
And all who heard, trembled, and cross'd their breasts, 665
And 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 670
The 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, 675
Saved from our swords awhile, in heart subdued,
Will yield an easy conquest; rest we now
Our wearied soldiers, for the night draws on."
Her breast heaved high—her cheek grew red—her
Flash'd forth a wilder lustre. "Thou dost deem
That 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! 650
Our Champion manifest!"
Even as she spake,
The tower, the bridge, and all its multitudes,
Sunk with a mighty crash.
Astonishment
Seized on the French—an universal cry
Of 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, 660
Amid the foaming current. From the fort
Talbot beheld, and gnash'd his teeth, and curs'd
The more than mortal Virgin; whilst the towers
Of Orleans echoed to the loud uproar,
And all who heard, trembled, and cross'd their breasts, 665
And 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 670
The 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, 675
Saved from our swords awhile, in heart subdued,
Will yield an easy conquest; rest we now
Our 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, 680
And 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, 685
Deeming 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 High
Hath hid his face from England! Wherefore thus 690
Quitting 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 695
On 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 drawn
The desolating sword, and sent him forth
To slaughter! think that in this fatal war 700
Thousands and tens of thousands, by the sword
Cut 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, 705
Is heard in Heaven against us! o'er this land
That 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— 710
Our brethren, vainly valiant, fall beneath them,
Clogging with gore their weapons, or in the flood
Whelm'd like the Egyptian tyrant's impious host,
Mangled and swoln, their blackened carcases
Toss on the tossing billows! We remain, 715
For 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 720
The life his goodness gave us, on the chance
Of 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, 725
Famish'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, 730
Since 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 735
Man 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 740
Struggling with pride that heav'd his gloomy breast,
Talbot replied—"Our council little boots;
The soldiers will not fight, they will not heed
Our vain resolves, heart-withered by the spells
Of this accursed Sorceress: soon will come 745
The expected host from England: even now
Perchance the tall bark scuds across the deep
That bears my son—young Talbot comes—he comes
To find his sire disgraced! but soon mine arm,
By vengeance nerved, and shame of such defeat, 750
Shall, from the crest-fallen courage of yon witch,
Regain its antient glory. Near the coast
Best is it to retreat, and there expect
The coming succour."
Thus the warrior spake.
Joy ran thro' all the troops, as tho' retreat 755
Were safety. Silently in ordered ranks
They issue forth, favoured by the deep clouds
That mantled o'er the moon. With throbbing hearts
Fearful they speeded on: some, thinking sad
Of distant England, and, now wise too late, 760
Cursing in bitterness that evil hour
That led them from her shores: some in faint hope
Calling to mind the comforts of their home:
Talbot went musing on his blasted fame
Sullen and stern, and feeding on dark thoughts, 765
And meditating vengeance.
In the walls
Of Orleans, tho' her habitants with joy
Humbly acknowledged the high aid of Heaven,
Of many a heavy ill and bitter loss
Mindful; such mingled sentiments they felt 770
As one from shipwreck saved, the first warm glow
Of transport past, who contemplates himself,
Preserved alone, a solitary wretch,
Possessed of life indeed, but reft of all
That makes man love to live. The Chieftains shared 775
The 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 780
Foodless 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'd
To give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome: 785
The glaring torches o'er the house of death
Stream'd a sad splendour. Flowers and funeral herbs
Bedeck'd the bier of Theodore: the rue,
The dark green rosemary, and the violet,
That pluck'd like him withered in its first bloom. 790
Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief
Pour'd copious; Conrade wept: the Maid alone
Was tearless, for she stood, unheedingly,
Gazing the vision'd scene of her last hour,
Absorb'd in contemplation; from her eye 795
Intelligence was absent; nor she seem'd
To hear, tho' listening to the dirge of death.
Laid in his last home now was Theodore,
And now upon the coffin thrown, the earth
Fell heavy: the Maid started—for the sound 800
Smote on her heart; her eye one lightning glance
Shot wild, and shuddering, upon Isabel
She hung, her pale lips trembling, and her cheek
As wan as tho' untenanted by life.
The host retire. Hush'd is the field of fight, 680
And 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, 685
Deeming 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 High
Hath hid his face from England! Wherefore thus 690
Quitting 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 695
On 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 drawn
The desolating sword, and sent him forth
To slaughter! think that in this fatal war 700
Thousands and tens of thousands, by the sword
Cut 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, 705
Is heard in Heaven against us! o'er this land
That 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— 710
Our brethren, vainly valiant, fall beneath them,
Clogging with gore their weapons, or in the flood
Whelm'd like the Egyptian tyrant's impious host,
Mangled and swoln, their blackened carcases
Toss on the tossing billows! We remain, 715
For 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 720
The life his goodness gave us, on the chance
Of 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, 725
Famish'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, 730
Since 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 735
Man 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 740
Struggling with pride that heav'd his gloomy breast,
Talbot replied—"Our council little boots;
The soldiers will not fight, they will not heed
Our vain resolves, heart-withered by the spells
Of this accursed Sorceress: soon will come 745
The expected host from England: even now
Perchance the tall bark scuds across the deep
That bears my son—young Talbot comes—he comes
To find his sire disgraced! but soon mine arm,
By vengeance nerved, and shame of such defeat, 750
Shall, from the crest-fallen courage of yon witch,
Regain its antient glory. Near the coast
Best is it to retreat, and there expect
The coming succour."
Thus the warrior spake.
Joy ran thro' all the troops, as tho' retreat 755
Were safety. Silently in ordered ranks
They issue forth, favoured by the deep clouds
That mantled o'er the moon. With throbbing hearts
Fearful they speeded on: some, thinking sad
Of distant England, and, now wise too late, 760
Cursing in bitterness that evil hour
That led them from her shores: some in faint hope
Calling to mind the comforts of their home:
Talbot went musing on his blasted fame
Sullen and stern, and feeding on dark thoughts, 765
And meditating vengeance.
In the walls
Of Orleans, tho' her habitants with joy
Humbly acknowledged the high aid of Heaven,
Of many a heavy ill and bitter loss
Mindful; such mingled sentiments they felt 770
As one from shipwreck saved, the first warm glow
Of transport past, who contemplates himself,
Preserved alone, a solitary wretch,
Possessed of life indeed, but reft of all
That makes man love to live. The Chieftains shared 775
The 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 780
Foodless 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'd
To give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome: 785
The glaring torches o'er the house of death
Stream'd a sad splendour. Flowers and funeral herbs
Bedeck'd the bier of Theodore: the rue,
The dark green rosemary, and the violet,
That pluck'd like him withered in its first bloom. 790
Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief
Pour'd copious; Conrade wept: the Maid alone
Was tearless, for she stood, unheedingly,
Gazing the vision'd scene of her last hour,
Absorb'd in contemplation; from her eye 795
Intelligence was absent; nor she seem'd
To hear, tho' listening to the dirge of death.
Laid in his last home now was Theodore,
And now upon the coffin thrown, the earth
Fell heavy: the Maid started—for the sound 800
Smote on her heart; her eye one lightning glance
Shot 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, 810
That 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 815
Despondent; 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, 820
And 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, 825
Thou hast delivered Orleans: now perfect
Thyself; accomplish all, and be the child
Of God. Amid these sacred haunts the groan
Of Woe is never heard; these hallowed roofs
Re-echo only to the pealing quire, 830
The chaunted mass, and Virgin's holy hymn;
Celestial sounds! secluded here, the soul
Receives a foretaste of her joys to come!
This is the abode of Piety and Peace:
Oh! be their inmate Maiden! come to rest, 835
Die to the world, and live espous'd to Heaven!"
That 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 815
Despondent; 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, 820
And 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, 825
Thou hast delivered Orleans: now perfect
Thyself; accomplish all, and be the child
Of God. Amid these sacred haunts the groan
Of Woe is never heard; these hallowed roofs
Re-echo only to the pealing quire, 830
The chaunted mass, and Virgin's holy hymn;
Celestial sounds! secluded here, the soul
Receives a foretaste of her joys to come!
This is the abode of Piety and Peace:
Oh! be their inmate Maiden! come to rest, 835
Die 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 840
How 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 845
Of social man? to rouse the unwilling spirit,
That, rebel to Devotion, faintly pours
The cold lip-worship of the wearying prayer?
To fear and tremble at him, yet to love
A God of Terrors? Maid, beloved of Heaven! 850
Come to this sacred trial! share with us
The day of penance and the night of prayer!
Humble thyself! feel thine own worthlessness,
A reptile worm! before thy birth condemn'd
To all the horrors of thy Maker's wrath, 855
The lot of fallen mankind! oh hither come!
Humble thyself in ashes, so thy name
Shall live amid the blessed host of saints,
And unborn pilgrims at thy hallowed shrine
Pour forth their pious offerings."
"Hear me Priest!" 860
Exclaim'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; 865
Fear thou thy God of Terrors; spurn the gifts
He gave, and sepulchre thyself alive!
But far more valued is the vine that bends
Beneath its swelling clusters, than the dark
And joyless ivy, round the cloister's wall 870
Wreathing 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
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 840
How 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 845
Of social man? to rouse the unwilling spirit,
That, rebel to Devotion, faintly pours
The cold lip-worship of the wearying prayer?
To fear and tremble at him, yet to love
A God of Terrors? Maid, beloved of Heaven! 850
Come to this sacred trial! share with us
The day of penance and the night of prayer!
Humble thyself! feel thine own worthlessness,
A reptile worm! before thy birth condemn'd
To all the horrors of thy Maker's wrath, 855
The lot of fallen mankind! oh hither come!
Humble thyself in ashes, so thy name
Shall live amid the blessed host of saints,
And unborn pilgrims at thy hallowed shrine
Pour forth their pious offerings."
"Hear me Priest!" 860
Exclaim'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; 865
Fear thou thy God of Terrors; spurn the gifts
He gave, and sepulchre thyself alive!
But far more valued is the vine that bends
Beneath its swelling clusters, than the dark
And joyless ivy, round the cloister's wall 870
Wreathing 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.
- ↑ 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.
- ↑ 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.
- ↑ 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 usum
Tradidit, ipse sui rem primitus experiatur,
Quemque alios docuit in se vim sentiat artis.Grose. - ↑ 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.
- ↑ 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.
- ↑ Line 209. Quarrels, or carreaux, were so called from their heads, which were square pyramids of iron.
- ↑ 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.
- ↑ 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.
- ↑ 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.