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 Disturb'd, the warrior Virgin pass'd along, And much revolving in her troubled mind, Retreads the court.
And now the horn announced The ready banquet; they partook the feast, 67 Then rose and in the cooling water cleans'd Their hands; and seated at the board again Enjoy'd the bowl, or scented high with spice, Or flavour'd with the fragrant summer fruit, Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich. 68 Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp; he sang Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest Knight That ever loved fair Lady; and the youth
Of Cornwall, 69 underneath whose maiden sword The strength of Ireland fell, and he who struck The dolorous stroke, 7° the blameless and the brave, Who died beneath a brother's erring arm. Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel! The
songs of earlier years embalm your fame, And haply yet some Poet shall arise, Like that divinest Tuscan, 7 and enwreathe The immortal garland for himself and you.
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, 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 The hour of merriment; it is not thine To instruct me in my duty.»>
Heedless, the stranger to the minstrel cried, « Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame Amid these walls? Virtue and Genius love That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose lewd tale To pamper and provoke the appetite? Such should procure thee worthy recompense! Or rather sing thou of that mighty one,
Who tore the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom, That was to him even as a daughter! Charles, This holy tale would I tell, prophet-like, And look at thee and cry, 'Thou art the man!'»
He said, and with a quick and troubled step Retired. Astonish'd at his daring phrase, The guests sat heedless of the minstrel's song, Pondering the words mysterious. Soon the harp Beguiled their senses of anxiety.
The court dispersed : retiring from the hall, Charles and the delegated Damsel sought The inner palace. There awaited them
The Queen with her JOAN lov'd 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 deplored A husband's cold half-love. To her she told
Solemnly he replied; «read well my face, That thou mayst know it on that dreadful day, When at the throne of God I shall demand flis justice on thee!» Turning from the King, To Agues as she enter'd, in a tone More low, more awfully severe, he cried,
« Dost thou too know me not?»>
She glanced on him, And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed In the Maid's bosom.
«King of France!» he said, « She loved me! day by day I dwelt with her, 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 :.... Alas! these courtly robes Hide not the hideous stain of infamy. Thou canst not with thy golden belt 72 put on An honourable name, unhappy one! My poor polluted Agnes !-Charles, almost My faith in Heaven is shaken! Thou art here Rioting in joy, while I, though 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 Dark as the form who at Maliommed's door Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearful look, Bath'd with cold damps, every beholder fled.
Even the prophet, almost terrified, Endured but half to view him, for he knew AZRAEL, the dreadful Messenger of Fate, And his death-day was come. Guilt-petrified The Monarch sate, nor could endure to face His bosom-probing frown. The mission'd Maid Meantime had read his features, and she cried, << I know thee, Conrade!» Rising from her seat, She took his hand, for he stood motionless, Gazing on Agnes now with steady eye, Dreadful though calm: him from the court she drew, And to the river's banks, resisting not, Both sad and 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, 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 blamed such happiness, Arraign'd it as a guilty selfish, sloth, Unhappily prevailing, so I fear me, Or why art thou at Chinon?»>
Answering, address'd,-«I do remember well, That night for then the Holy Spirit first, Waked by thy words, possess'd me.»>
« Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst lived 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 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. «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. Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc: Her burthen'd heart was full; such grief she felt, Yet such sweet solacing of self-applause
As cheers the banish'd Patriot's lonely hours When Fancy pictures to him all he loved, Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb, And drowns the soft enchantment.
That spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed The silent Maid; nor would the Maid suppress The thoughts that swell'd within her, or from him Hide her soul's workings. <«'T was on the last day Before I left Domremi; eve had closed,
I sate beside the brook, my soul was full,
As if inebriate with Divinity
Then, Conrade! I beheld a ruffian herd Circle a flaming pile, where at the stake A woman stood; the iron baised her breast, And round her limbs ungarmented, the fire Curl'd its fierce flakes. I saw her countenance, I knew MYSELF. »73 Then, in subdued tones Of Calmness, « There are moments when the soul From her own impulse with strange dread recoils, Suspicious of herself: but with a full And perfect faith I know this vision sent From Heaven, and feel of its unerring truth, As that God liveth, that I live myself, The feeling that deceives not.>>
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, Like me, the worthless Court, and having served, In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou wilt 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 74— 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 complete wretchedness. 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!»
Then the Maid Fix'd upon Conrade her commanding eye:
I pass'd the fertile Auxerrois,» she cried;
<< The vines had spread their interwoven shoots Over the unpruned vineyards, and the grape Rotted beneath the leaves, for there was none To tread the vintage, and the birds of heaven Had had their fill. I saw the cattle start As they did hear the loud alarum bell, 75 And with a piteous moaning vainly seek To fly the coming slaughterers. I look'd back Upon the cottage where I had partook The peasant's meal, and saw it wrapt in flames. And then I thank'd my God that I had burst The stubborn ties which fetter down the soul To selfish happiness, and on this earth Was as a pilgrim.76-Conrade! rouse thyself! Cast the weak nature off! 77 a time like this Is not for gentler feelings, for the glow Of love, the overflowings of the heart; There is oppression in thy country, Conrade! There is a cause, a holy cause, that needs The brave man's aid. Live for it, and enjoy Earth's noblest recompense, thine own esteem: Or die in that good cause, and thy reward Shall sure be found in Heaven.»>
He answer'd not, But clasping to his heart the Virgin's hand, Hasten'd across the plain. She with dim eyes, For gushing tears obscured them, follow'd him Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne Awhile she wander'd, then upon the bank
She laid her down, and watch'd the tranquil stream Flow with a quiet murmuring, by the clouds Of evening purpled. The perpetual flow, The ceaseless murmuring, lull'd her to such dreams As Memory in her melancholy mood
Loves best. The wonted scenes of Arc arose; She saw the forest brook, the weed that waved Its long green tresses in the stream, the crag Which overbrow'd the spring, and that old yew Which through the bare and rifted rock had forced Its twisted trunk, the berries, cheerful red Starring its gloomy green. Her pleasant home She saw, and those who made that home so dear, Her loved lost friends. The mingled feelings fill'd Her eyes, when from behind a voice was heard, «O Lady! canst thou tell me where to find The Maid whom Heaven hath sent to rescue France?»> Thrill'd by the well-known tones, she started up, And fell upon the neck of Theodore.
«Have I then found thee !» cried the impassion'd youth; «Henceforth we part no more, but where thou goest, Thither go I. Beloved! in the front
Of battle thou shalt find me at thy side; And in the breach this breast shall be thy shield And rampart. Oh, ungenerous! why from me Conceal the inspiration? why from me Hide thy miraculous purpose? Am I then So all-unworthy that thou shouldst set forth Beneath another's guidance?»
Thus he cried, Mingling reproach with tenderness, yet still Clasping with warm embrace the Maid belov'd. She, of her bidding and futurity
Awhile forgetful, patient of the embrace,
With silent tears of joy bedew'd his neck.
At length, I hope,» she cried, « thou art not come With heavier fault and breach of nearer tie! How did thy mother spare thee,-thou alone The stay and comfort of her widow'd age? Did she upon thy parting steps bestow Her free-will blessing, or hast thou set forth, Which Heaven forbid, unlicensed, and unblest ?>>
«Oh, surely not unblest!» the youth replied: Yet conscious of his unrepented fault, With countenance flush'd, and faltering in reply: «She wept at my departure, she would fain Have turn'd me from my purpose, and my heart Perhaps had fail'd me, if it had not glow'd With ardour like thine own; the sacred fire With which thy bosom burns had kindled me: High in prophetic hope, I bade her place Her trust in Heaven; I bade her look to hear Good tidings soon of glorious victory: I told her I should soon return,-return With thee, and thou wouldst be to her old age What Madelon had been.»>
As thus he spake, Warm with the imaginary bliss, he clasp'd The dear one closer to his yearning heart. But the devoted Virgin in his arms Started and shudder'd, for the flaming pile Flash'd on remembrance now, and on her soul The whole terrific vision rose again.
A death-like paleness at the dreadful thought Wither'd her cheek; the sweat suffused her brow, And, falling on the neck of Theodore, Feeble and faint she hung. His eager eye Concentring all the anguish of the soul, And strain'd in anxious love, gazed fearfully With wondering anguish; till the ennobling thought Of her high mission roused her, and her soul Collected, and she spake.
Thou hast done ill to quit thy mother's home! Alone and aged she will weep for thee, Wasting the little that is left of life In anguish. Now go back again to Arc, And cheer her wintry hours of widowhood, And love my memory there. >>
Swift he exclaimed,— Nay, Maid! the pang of parting is o'erpast, And Elinor looks on to the glad hour When we shall both return. Amid the war How many an arm will seek thy single life, How many a sword and spear-I will go with thee And spread the guardian shield !»>
Nay,» she replied, « I shall not need thy succour in the war. Me Heaven, if so seem good to its high will, 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. «Oh! the court Is pleasant, and thy soul would fain forget A humble villager, who only boasts
The treasure of the heart!>>
She look'd at him With the reproaching eye of tenderness:
<< Injurious man! Devoted for this realm,
I go a willing victim. The dark veil
Hath been for me withdrawn, these eyes 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, And with a faltering voice, « Return to Are! I do not tell thee there are other maids As fair; for thou wilt love my memory, Hallowing to me the temple of thy heart. Worthy a happier, 78 not a better love, 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 every fibre. Sad and sick at heart, Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude The Maiden had retired; but her the King Met on the threshold. He of the late scene Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem'd As though there had not been a God in Heaven! «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 ?>>
Ere the Maid replied, The Son of Orleans came with joyful speed, Poising his massy javelin.
<< Thou hast roused The sleeping virtue of the sons of France; They crowd around the standard,» cried the Chief. My lance is ponderous, and my sword is sharp'd 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 Of expectation.>>
Then the King exclaim'd,— «O chosen by Heaven! defer one day thy march, That, humbled at the altar, we may join The general prayer. Be these our holy rites To-morrow's task;-to-night for merriment !>>
The Maid replied,« The wretched ones in Orleans, In fear and hunger and expiring hope,
Await my succour, and my prayers would plead In Heaven against me, did they waste one hour When active duty calls. For this night's mirth Hold me excused; in truth I am not fit For merriment; a heavy charge is on me, And I must put away all mortal thoughts.» 79 Her heart was full; and pausing, she repress'd The unbidden anguish. «Lo! they crowd around The standard! Thou, Dunois, the chosen troops Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn We march to rescue Orleans from the foe.>>
SCARCE had the early dawn from Chinon's towers Made visible the mist that curl'd along The river's winding way, when from her couch The martial Maid arose. She mail'd her limbs;
The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head; She girt the sacred falchion by her side, And, like a youth who from his mother's arms, For his first field impatient, breaks away, Poising the lance went forth.
Twelve hundred men, Rearing in order'd ranks their glittering spears, Await her coming. Terrible in arms Before them tower'd Dunois, his manly face O'ershadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks.
The assembled court gazed on the marshall'd train, And at the gate the aged prelate stood Το pour his blessing on the chosen host. And now a soft and solemn symphony
Was heard, and, chaunting high the hallow'd hymn, From the near convent came the vestal maids.
A holy banner, woven by virgin hands, Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment Of awe, and eager ardour for the fight, Thrill'd through the army, as the reverend man Took the white standard, and with heaven-ward eye Call'd on the God of Justice, blessing it. The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd, Her dark hair floating on the morning gale, Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand Received the mystic ensign. From the host A loud and universal shout burst forth, As rising from the ground, on her white brow She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high The banner'd lilies. On their way they march, And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon Fade from the eye reverted.
The sixth sun, Purpling the sky with his dilated light, Sunk westering; when embosom'd in the depth Of that old forest, which for many a league Shadows the bills and vales of Orleannois, They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale The streamers wanton; and, ascending slow Beneath the foliage of the forest-trecs,
With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke Melts in the impurpled air. Leaving her tent, The martial Maiden wander'd through the wood; There, by a streainlet, on the mossy bank Reclined, she saw a damsel; her long locks With willow wreathed; upon her lap there lay A dark-hair'd man listening as she did sing Sad ditties, and enwreathe to bind his brow The melancholy garland. At the sound Of one in arms approaching, she had fled; But Conrade, looking upward, recognized The Maid of Arc. Nay, fear not, Isabel,» Said he, « for this is one of gentle kind, Whom even the wretched need not fear to love.>>
Wailing his wilder'd senses.
The warrior cried, « be happy! for thy power Can make this sufferer so. From Orleans driven, Orphan'd by war, and of her only friend Bereft, I found her wandering in the wilds, Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, JOAN, Wilt his beloved to the youth restore; And, trust me, Maid! the miserable feel When they en others bestow happiness, Their happiest consolation.>> She replied,
Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone Of equal friendship, solacing her cares :
<< Soon shall we enter Orleans,» said the Maid; « A few hours in her dream of victory England shall triumph; then to be awaked By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath! Irksome meantime the busy camp to me, A solitary woman. Isabel,
Wert thou the while companion of my tent, Lightlier the time would pass. Return with me,
I may not long be absent.»>
The wanderer in half-utter'd words express'd Grateful assent. <«< Art thou astonish'd, Maid, << That one though powerful is benevolent?
In truth thou well mayest wonder!» Conrade cried, <<< But little cause to love the mighty ones Hath the low cottager! for with its shade Doth Power, a barren death-dew-dropping tree, Blast ev'ry herb beneath its baleful boughs! Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel! Relate How warr'd the chieftains, and the people died. The mission'd Virgin hath not heard thy woes; And pleasant to mine ear the twice-told tale Of sorrow."
Gazing on the martial Maid, She read her wish, and spake. « A wanderer now, Friendless and hopeless, still I love to think Upon my native home, and call to mind Each haunt of careless youth; the woodbined wall, The jessamine that round the straw-roofd cot Its fragrant branches wreath'd, beneath whose shade I wont to sit and watch the setting sun, And hear the redbreast's lay. Nor far remote, As o'er the subject landscape round I gazed, The towers of Yenville rose upon the view. A foreign master holds my father's home! I, far away, remember the past years, And weep.
Two brethren form'd our family; Humble we were, and happy. Honest toil Procured our homely sustenance; our herds Duly at morn and evening to my hand
Gave their full stores; the vineyard we had rear'd Purpled its clusters in the southern sun, And, plenteous produce of my father's toil, The yellow harvest billow'd o'er the plain. How cheerful, seated round the blazing hearth When all the labour of the day was done, We past the evening hours! for they would sing Or cheerful roundelay, or ditty sad
Of maid forsaken and the willow weed,
Or of the doughty Paladins of France,
Some warlike fit, the while my spinning wheel
Humm'd not unpleasing round!
Thus long we lived, And happy. To a neighbouring youth my hand, In holy wedlock soon to be consign'd, Was plighted! my poor Francis !» Here she paused, And here she wept awhile.
« We did not dream The desolating sword of War would stoop To us; but soon, as with the whirlwind's speed, Ruin rush'd round us. 80 Mehun, Clery, fell, The banner'd Leopard waved on Gergeau's wall! Baugenci yielded; soon the foe approach'd The towers of Yenville.
To wretched Isabel : for from the wall The rusty sword was taken, and the shield Which long had moulder'd on the mouldering nail, To meet the war repair'd. No more was heard The ballad, or the merry roundelay; The clattering hammer's clank, the grating file Harsh sounded through the day a dismal din. I never shall forget their mournful sound!
« My father stood encircling his old limbs In long-forgotten arms. 'Come, boys,' he cried, I did not think that this grey head again Should bear the helmet's weight! but in the field Better to boldly die a soldier's death, Than here be tamely butcher'd. Isabel, Go to the abbey: if we should survive We soon shall meet again: if not, my child, There is a better world!'
In broken words, Lifting his looks to Heaven, my father breath'd His blessing on me. As they strode away, My brethren gazed on me and wrung my hand In silence, for they loved their Isabel. From the near cottage Francis join'd the troop. Then did I look on our forsaken home, And almost sob my very soul away! For all my hopes of happiness were fled, Like a vain dream!»>
« Perish these mighty ones,» Cried Conrade, « these prime ministers of death, Who stalk elated o'er their fields of fame, And count the thousands they have massacred, And with the bodies of the innocent, rear Their pyramid of glory! perish these, The epitome of all the pestilent plagues That Egypt knew! who pour their locust swarms O'er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood. FEAR and DESTRUCTION go before their path, And FAMINE dogs their footseps. God of Justice, Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain!»
Thus while he spake, the murmur of the camp Rose on their ear: first like the distant sound When the full-foliaged forest to the storm Shakes its hoarse head; anon with louder din; And through the opening glade gleam'd many a fire. The Virgin's tent they enter'd; there the board Was spread, the wanderer of the fare partook, Then thus her tale renew'd.
« Slow o'er the hill Whose rising head conceal'd our cot I past,
Yet on my journey paused awhile, and gazed And wept; for often had I crost the hill With cheerful step, and seen the rising smoke Of hospitable fire; alas! no smoke Curl'd o'er its melancholy chimneys now! Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood The abbey; and ere long I learnt the fall Of Yenville.
On a day, a soldier ask'd For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet Support me-It was Francis, and alone- The sole survivor of the fatal fight!
<< And soon the foes approach'd: impending war Soon sadden'd Orleans. 8 There the bravest chiefs Assemble: Thouars, Coarase, Chabannes,
And the Sire Chappelle 82 in successful war Since wounded to the death, and that good Knight Giresme of Rhodes, who in a better cause
Can never wield the crucifix that hilts
His hallow'd sword, 83 and Xaintrailles ransom'd now, And Fayette late released, and that young Duke 84 Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest man 85 That ever yet did win his soldiers' love, And over all for hardihood renown'd The Bastard Orleans.
These within the town Expect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen men Well tried in war, uprear the guardian shield Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight Of preparation. The wide suburbs stretch'd Along the pleasant borders of the Loire, Late throng'd with multitudes, now feel the hand Of ruin, 86 These preventive care destroys, Lest England, shelter'd by the friendly walls, Securely should approach. The monasteries Fell in the general waste. The holy monks Unwillingly their long-accustom'd haunts Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook Call'd to awaken'd memory some trace Of vision seen, or sound miraculous. Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells For the rude uproar of a world unknown The nuns desert: their abbess, more composed, Collects her maids around, and tells her beads, And pours the timid prayer of piety.
The citizens with long and ceaseless stroke Dig up the violated earth, to impede The foe the hollow chambers of the dead Echoed beneath. The brazen-trophied tomb, Thrown in the furnace, now prepares to give The death it late recorded. It was sad To see so wide a waste; the aged ones Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went O'er the fall'n dwellings of their happier years; The stern and sullen silence of the men Musing on vengeance: and, but ill represt, The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay One ample ruin; the huge stones removed, Wait in the town to rain the storm of death.
« And now without the walls the desolate plain Stretch'd wide, a rough and melancholy waste, With uptorn pavements and foundations deep
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