many a ruin'd dwelling: nor within Less dreary was the scene; at evening hour No more the merry viol's note was heard, 87 No more the aged matron at her door Humm'd cheery to her spinning-wheel, and mark'd Her children dancing to the roundelay.
The chieftains, strengthening still the massy walls, Survey them with the prying eye of fear. The eager youth in dreadful preparation Strive in the mimic war. Silent and stern, With the hurrying restlessness of fear, they urge Their gloomy labours. In the city dwelt An utter silence of all pleasant sounds, But all day long the armourers' beat was heard, And all the night it echoed.
Led to our walls the siege as on they move The clarions clangor, and the cheerful fife, According to the thundering drum's deep sound, Direct their measured march. Before the ranks Stalks the stern form of Salisbury, the scourge Of France; and Talbot tower'd by his side, Talbot, at whose dread name the froward child Clings mute and trembling to his nurse's breast. Suffolk was there, and Hungerford, and Scales, And Fastolffe, victor in the frequent fight. Dark as the autumnal storm they roll'd along, A countless host! From the high tower I mark'd The dreadful scene; I saw the iron blaze Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun, Their banners tossing to the troubled gale, And-fearful music-heard upon the wind The modulated step of multitudes.
<< There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I saw The dreadful stores of death; tremendous roll'd Over rough roads the harsh wheels; the brazen tubes Flash'd in the sun their fearful splendour far, And last the loaded waggons creak'd along.
« Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care procured Human defence, neglectful to implore That heavenly aid, deprived of which the strength Of man is weakness. Bearing through our streets The precious relics of the holy dead,
The monks and nuns pour'd many an earnest prayer, Devoutly join'd by all. Saint Aignan's shrine, Was throng'd by supplicants, the general voice Call'd on Saint Aignan's name 88 again to save His people, as of yore, before he past Into the fulness of eternal rest, When by the Spirit to the lingering camp Of Etius borne, he brought the timely aid,
And Attila with all his multitudes Far off retreated to their field of shame.>>
And now Dunois, for he had seen the camp Well-order'd, enter'd. « One night more in peace England shall rest,» he cried, «ere yet the storm Burst on her guilty head! Then, their proud vaunts Forgotten, or remember'd to their shame, Vainly her chiefs shall curse the hour when first They pitch'd their tents round Orleans.>>
The Maid of Arc replied, «gladly I hear The detail. Isabel proceed! for soon
Destined to rescue this devoted town, The tale of all the ills she hath endur'd, I listen, sorrowing for the past, and feel High satisfaction at the saviour power To me commission'd.>>
Thus the Virgin spake, Nor Isabel delay'd. « And now more near The hostile host advancing pitch their tents. Unnumber'd streamers wave, and clamorous shouts, Anticipating conquest, rend the air
With universal uproar. From their camp A herald comes; his garb emblazon'd o'er With leopards and the lilies of our realm, Foul shame to France! He brought.>>
The summons of the foe
The Bastard interrupting cried, << I was with Gaucour and the assembled chiefs, When by his office privileged and proud That herald spake, as certain of success As he had made a league with Victory: :'Nobles of France rebellious! from the chief Of
yon victorious host, the mighty Earl Of Salisbury, now there in place of him Your Regent John of Bedford : in his name I come, and in our sovereign Lord the King's, Henry. Ye know full well our Master's claim, Incontrovertible, to this good realm,
By right descent, and solemnly confirm'd By your great Monarch and our mighty King Fifth Henry, in the treaty ratified
At Troyes, 89 wherein your Monarch did disclaim All future right and title to this crown, His own exempted, for his son and heirs Down to the end of time. This sign'd and seal'd At the holy altar, and by nuptial knot Of Henry and your princess, yields the realm, Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose My Master's title, in the face of God Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime, Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion 'gainst The Lord's anointed. He at Paris crown'd With loud acclaim from duteous multitudes, Thus speaks by me :-Deliver up your town To Salisbury, and yield yourselves and arms, So shall your lives be safe and such his grace, If of your free accord to him you pay Due homage as your sovereign Lord and King, Your rich estates, your houses shall be safe, And you in favour stand, as is the Duke, Philip of Burgundy. But-mark me well! If obstinately wilful, you persist
To scorn his proffer'd mercy; not one stone Upon another of this wretched town Shall then be left; and when the English host Triumphant in the dust have trod the towers Of Orleans, who survive the dreadful war Shall die like traitors by the hangman's hand. Ye men of France, remember Caen and Roan!'
« He ceased: nor Gaucour for a moment paus'd To form reply.
'Herald! to all thy vaunts << Of that siege,» Of English sovereignty let this suffice For answer: France will only own as king Him whom the people chuse. On Charles's brow,
Transmitted through a long and good descent, The crown remains. We know no homage due To English robbers, and disclaim the peace Inglorious made at Troyes by factious men Hostile to France. Thy Master's proffer'd grace Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, yes, We shall remember Meaux, and Caen, and Roan! Go tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury,
That, as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power; Like Blanchard, he can mock his cruelty, And triumph by enduring. Speak I well, Ye men of Orleans?'
Never did I hear
A shout so universal as ensued
Of approbation. The assembled host
As with one voice pour'd forth their loyalty,
And struck their sounding shields; and walls and towers Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went. The work of war began.»>
« A fearful scene,» Cried Isabel. << The iron storm of death Clash'd in the sky; from the strong engines hurl'd Huge rocks with tempest force convulsed the air; Then was there heard at once the clang of arms, The bellowing cannons, and the soldier's shout, The female's shriek, the affrighted infant's cry, The groan of death discord of dreadful sounds That jarr'd the soul!
Nor while the encircling foe Leaguer'd the walls of Orleans, idly slept Our friends for winning down the Loire its way The frequent vessel with provision fraught, And men, and all the artillery of death, Cheer'd us with welcome succour. At the bridge These safely stranded mock'd the foeman's force. This to prevent, Salisbury their watchful chief 99 A mighty work prepares. Around our walls Encircling walls he builds, surrounding thus The city. Firm'd with massiest buttresses, At equal distance, sixty forts protect
The pile. But chief where in the sieged town The six great avenues meet in the midst, 91 Six castles there he rear'd impregnable, With deep-dug moats and bridges drawn aloft, Where over the strong gate suspended hung The dread portcullis. Thence the gunner's eye From his safe shelter could with ease survey Intended sally, or approaching aid, And point destruction.
It were long to tell And tedious, how with many a bold assault The men of Orleans rush'd upon their foes; How after difficult fight the enemy
Possess'd the Tournelles, 92 and the embattled tower That shadows from the bridge the subject Loire; Though numbering now three thousand daring men, Frequent and fierce the garrison repell'd Their far out-numbering foes. From every aid Included, they in Orleans groan'd beneath All ills accumulate. The shatter'd roofs Gave to the dews of night free passage there, And ever and anon the ponderous stone, Ruining where'er it fell, with hideous crashi Came like an earthquake, startling from his sleep The affrighted soldier. From the brazen slings
And often their huge engines cast among us The dead and loathsome cattle of their camp, As though our enemies, to their deadly league Forcing the common air, would make us breathe Poisonous pollution. 94 Through the streets were seen The frequent fire, and heaps of dead, in haste Piled up and steaming to infected heaven. For ever the incessant storm of death
Pours down, and shrouded in unwholesome vaults 95 The wretched females hide, not idle there Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ'd, Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal, Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds- A sad equality of wretchedness!
«Now came the worst of ills, for Famine came : The provident hand deals out its scanty dole, Yielding so little its supply to life
As but protracted death. The loathliest food Hunted with eager eye, and dainty deem'd; The dog is slain that at his master's feet Howling with hunger lay; with jealous fear, Hating a rival's look, the husband hides His miserable meal; the famish'd babe Clings closely to his dying mother's breast; And...horrible to tell!...where thrown aside There lay unburied in the open streets Huge heaps of carcasses, the soldier stands Eager to mark the carrion crow for food, 96
«O peaceful scenes of childhood! pleasant fields! Haunts of mine infancy, where I have stray'd Tracing the brook along its winding way, Or pluck'd the primrose, or with giddy speed Chased the gay butterfly from flower to flower! O days in vain remember'd! how my soul, Sick with calamity, and the sore ills
Of hunger, dwelt upon you!... quiet home! Thinking of you amid the waste of war,
I could in bitterness have cursed the great Who made me what I was! a helpless one, Orphan'd, and wanting bread!»>
<< And be they curst!»> Conrade exclaim'd, his dark eye flashing rage; «And be they curst! O groves and woodland shades, How blest indeed were you, if the iron rod Should one day from Oppression's hand be wrench'd By everlasting Justice! Come that hour, When in the Sun the Angel of the Lord 97 Shall stand and cry to all the fowls of heaven, 'Gather
ye to the supper of your God,
That ye may eat the flesh of mighty men, Of captains, and of kings! Then shall be peace.»>
<< And now, lest all should perish,» she pursued, <<< The women and the infirm must from the town Go forth and seek their fate.
I will not now Recal the moment when on my poor Francis With a long look I hung! At dead of night Made mute by fear, we mount the secret bark, And glide adown the stream with silent oars: Thus thrown upon the mercy of mankind, I wander'd reckless where, till wearied out, And cold at heart, I laid me down to die:
The wild-fire balls shower'd through the midnight sky; 93 So by this warrior found. Him I had known
And loved, for all loved Conrade who had known him; «There is no food in Orleans,» he replied,
Nor did I feel so pressing the hard hand Of want in Orleans, ere he parted thence On perilous envoy. For of his small fare»-
<< Of this enough,» said Conrade; « Holy Maid! One duty yet awaits me to perform. Orleans her envoy sent me, to demand Aid from her idle Sovereign. Willingly Did I achieve the hazardous enterprise, For rumour had already made me fear
The ill that hath fallen on me. It remains, Ere I do banish me from human kind, That I re-enter Orleans, and announce
«Scarce a meal more! the assembled chiefs resolved, If thou shouldst bring no tidings of near aid,
To cut their way to safety, or by death Prevent the pangs of famine. 98 One they sought Who venturous in the English camp should spy Where safest they might rush upon the foe. The perilous task I chose, then desperate Of happiness.»
So saying, they approach'd
The gate. The sentinel, soon as he heard Thitherward footsteps, with uplifted lance Challenged the darkling travellers. He draws the strong bolts back, and painful turns
Thy march. "T is night...and hark! how dead a silence! The massy entrance. To the careful chiefs Fit hour to tread so perilous a path!»> They pass. At midnight of their extreme state Counselling they sat, serious and stern. Conrade:-
So saying, Conrade from the tent went forth.
THE night was calm, and many a moving cloud Shadow'd the moon. Along the forest glade With swift foot Conrade past, and now had reach'd The plain, where whilome by the pleasant Loire, Cheer'd with the song, the rustics had beheld The day go down upon their merriment: No song of Peace now echoed on its banks, There tents were pitch'd, and there the sentinel, Slow pacing on his sullen rounds, beheld The frequent corse roll down the tainted stream. Conrade with wider sweep pursued his way, Shunning the camp, now bush'd in sleep and still. And now no sound was heard save of the Loire, Murmuring along. The noise of coming feet Alarm'd him; nearer drew the fearful sound
As of pursuit; anon...the clash of arms!
That instant rising o'er a broken cloud
Seized the assembled chiefs, and joy by doubt Little repress'd. «Open the granaries!» Xaintrailles exclaim'd; « give we to all the host With hand unsparing now the plenteous meal; To-morrow we are safe! for Heaven all just Hath seen our sufferings and decreed their end. Let the glad tidings echo through the town! God is with us!»
<<< Rest not in too full faith,»> Graville replied, « on this miraculous aid... Some frenzied female whose wild fantasy, Shaping vain dreams, infects the credulous With her own madness! That Dunois is there, Leading in arms twelve hundred chosen men, May give good hope, yet let not we our food
The moon-beams shone, where two with force combined Be lavish'd, lest the warrior in the fight
Prest on a single foe; he, warding still Their swords, retreated in the unequal fight, As he would make the city. Conrade shook
His long lance for the war, and strode along. Full in the breast of one with forceful arm Plunged be the spear of death; and, as dismay'd The other fled, « Now haste we to the gates, Frenchman!» he cried. On to the stream they speed, And plunging stemm'd with sincwy stroke the tide, Soon on the opposite shore arrived and safe.
Should haply fail, and Orleans be the prey Of England!»
« Chief! I tell thee,» Conrade cried, << I did myself behold the sepulchre, Fulfilling what she spake, give up those arms Which surely for no common end the grave Through many an age hath held inviolate. She is the delegate of the Most High, And shall deliver Orleans!»>
Gaucour then :«Be it as thou hast said. High hope I feel, For surely to no vulgar tale these chiefs Would yield a light belief. Our scanty stores Must yield us, ere another week elapse, To death or England. Tell through all our troops There is a holy virgin sent from God; They in that faith invincible shall war With more than mortal fury.»>
Thus the Chief, And what he said seem'd good. The men of Orleans, Long by their foeman bay'd, a victim band To war, and woe, and want, such transport felt, As when the Mexicans, 99 with eager eye Gazing to Huixachtla's distant top, On that last night, doubtful if ever morn
Again shall cheer them, mark the mystic fire Flame on the breast of some brave prisoner, A dreadful altar. As they see the blaze Beaming on Iztapalapan's near towers, Or on Tezcuco's calmy lake flash'd far, Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy Wake the loud echo; the glad husband tears The mantling aloe from the female's face, And children, now deliver'd from the dread Of everlasting darkness, look abroad, Hail the good omen, and expect the sun Uninjured still to run his flaming race.
Thus while in that besieged town the night Wan'd sleepless, silent slept the hallow'd host. And now the morning came. From his hard couch, Lightly upstarting and bedight in arms,
The Bastard moved along, with provident eye Marshalling the troops. All high in hope they march; And now the sun shot from the southern sky His noon-tide radiance, when afar they hear The hum of men, and mark the distant towers Of Orleans, and the bulwarks of the foe, And many a streamer wantoning in air. These as they saw and thought of all the ills Their brethren had endured, beleaguer'd there For many a month; such ardour for the fight Burnt in each bosom, as young Ali felt, Then when Mohammed of the assembled tribe Ask'd who would be his vizir. Fierce in faith, Forth from the race of Hashem stept the youth, << Prophet of God! lo...I will be the man!»> And well did Ali merit that high post, Victorious upon Beder's fertile vale, And on mount Ohud, and before the walls Of Chaibar, when down-cleaving to the chest His giant foe, he grasp'd the massy gate, Shook with strong arm and tore it from the fort, And lifted it in air, portentous shield!
«Behold the tower of Orleans!» cried Dunois. «<Lo! this the vale where on the banks of Loire, Of yore, at close of day the rustic band Danced to the roundelay. In younger years As oft I glided down the silver stream, Frequent upon the lifted oar I paused, Listening the sound of far-off merriment. There wave the hostile banners! martial Maid, Give thou the signal!... let me rush upon These ministers of murder, who have sack'd The fruitful fields, and made the hamlet haunts Silent, or hearing but the widow's groan. Give thou the signal, Maiden!»
Fix'd sadly on the foc, the holy Maid Answer'd him. «Ere the bloody sword be drawn, And slaughter be let loose, befits us send Some peaceful messenger, who shall make known The will of Heaven. So timely warn'd, our foes Haply may yet repent, and quit in peace Besieged Orleans, for I fain would spare The bloody price of victory.»
So she said: And as she spake, a soldier from the ranks Came forward: «I will be thy messenger, Maiden of God! and to the English camp
Go,» the Virgin cried: «Say to the Lord of Salisbury, and the chiefs Of England, Suffolk, Fastolffe, Talbot, Scales, Invaders of the country, say, thus says THE MAID OF ORLEANS. With your troops retire In peace. Of every captured town the keys Restore to Charles; so bloodless you may seek
Your native island; for the God of Hosts Thus hath decreed. To Charles the rightful heir, By long descent and by the willing choice Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd His conquest. In his name the Virgin comes Arm'd with his sword; yet not of mercy void. Depart in peace: for ere the morrow dawns, Victorious upon yonder wall shall wave The holy banner.'» To the English camp
Fearless the warrior strode.
At mid-day meal With all the dissonance of boisterous mirth, The British chiefs caroused and quaff'd the bowl To future conquest. By the sentinel Conducted came the Frank.
« Chiefs,» he exclaim'd, Salisbury, and ye the representatives Of the English king, usurper of this realm, To ye the leaders of the invading host
I come, no welcome messenger. Thus saith THE MAID OF ORLEANS. With your troops retire In peace. Of every captured town the keys Restore to Charles; so bloodless you may seek Your native island; for the God of Hosts Thus hath decreed. To Charles the rightful heir, By long descent and by the willing choice Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd His conquest. In his name the Virgin comes Arm'd with his sword; yet not of mercy void. Depart in peace for ere the morrow dawns, Victorious upon yonder wall shall wave The holy banner.' »>
To this the laugh succeeds. « What!» Fastolffe cried, <«< A woman warrior hath your monarch sent To save devoted Orleans? By the rood,
I thank His Grace. If she be young and fair, No worthless prize, my lords! Go, tell your Maid, Joyful we wait her coming.»>
Among the English chiefs who had grown old In arms, yet had not age unnerved his limbs, But from the flexile nimbleness of youth Braced to unyielding stiffness. One who saw The warrior at the feast, might well have deem'd That Talbot with his whole collected might Wielded the sword in war, for on his neck The veins were full,100 and every muscle bore The character of strength. He his stern eye Fix'd on the herald, and before he spake, His silence threaten'd.101
"Get thee gone!» exclaim'd The indignant chief; «away! nor think to scare With girlish fantasies the English host That scorns your bravest warriors. Insolent herald! tell this frantic girl, This courtly minion, to avoid my wrath, For if she dares the war, I will not stain
My good blood-rusted sword-but she shall meet The mockery of the camp!»>
«Nay, scare her not,>> Replied their chief; « go, tell this Maid of Orleans, That Salisbury longs to meet her in the fight. Nor let her fear that rude and iron chains Shall gall her tender limbs; for I myself Will be her prison, and-->>
Contemptuous man! No more!» the Frank exclaim'd, as to his check Rush'd the red anger. «Bearing words of peace And timely warning came I to your camp; Here with rude mockery and with insolence Receiv'd. Bear witness, chieftains! that the French, Free from blood-guiltiness, shall meet the war.>>
<< And who art thou?» cried Suffolk, and his eye Grew fierce and wrath-inflam'd: « What fool art thou, Who at this woman's bidding comest to brave The host of England? thou shalt have thy meed !» Then turning to the sentinel he cried,
Prepare a stake! and let the men of Orleans,
And let this woman who believes her name May privilege her apostle, see the fire Consume him, 102 Build the stake! for by my God He shall be kalender'd of this new faith First martyr.»> As he spake, a sudden flush Came o'er the herald's cheek, and his heart beat With quicker action; but the sudden flush, Alarmed Nature's impulse, faded soon To such a steady hue as spake the soul
Roused up with all its powers, and unsubdued, And glorying in endurance. Through the camp, Soon as the tidings spread, a shout arose,
A hideous shout, more savage than the how! Of midnight wolves; and round the Frank they throng'd, To gaze upon their victim. He pass'd on; And as they led him to the appointed place Look'd round, as though forgetful of himself, And cried aloud,-« Oh! woe it is to think So many men shall never see the sun Go down! ye English mothers, mourn ye now! Daughters of England, weep! for hard of heart Still your mad leaders urge the impious war, And for their folly and their wickedness, Your sons, your husbands, by the sword must fall. Long-suffering is the Lord, and slow to wrath, But heavy are his judgments !»
He who spake Was young and comely; had his cheek been pale With dread, and had his eye look'd fearfully Sure he had won compassion; but the blood Gave now a livelier meaning to his cheek, As with a prophet's look and prophet's voice He raised his ominous warning: they who heard Wonder'd, and they who rear'd the stake urged on With half-unwilling hands their slacken'd toil, And doubted what might follow.
Not unseen Rear'd they the stake, and piled around the wood; In sight of Orleans and the Maiden's host, 103 Had Suffolk's arrogant fierceness bade the work Of death be done. The Maiden's host beheld; At once in eager wrath they raised the loud And general clamour,-« Lead us to the foe!»
<< Not upon us, O God!» the Maid exclaim'd, «Not upon us cry out the innocent blood!»> And bade the signal sound. In the English camp The clarion and the trumpet's blare was heard, In haste they seize their arms, in haste they form, Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear Even from themselves, some silently in prayer, For much their hearts misgave them. But the rage
Of Suffolk swell'd within him. « Speed your work!» Exclaim'd the savage earl; « kindle the pile That France may see the fire, and in defeat Feel aggravated shame!»
And now they bound The herald to the stake: he cried aloud, And fix'd his eye on Suffolk, -« Let not him Who girdeth on his harness boast himself As he that puts it off !104 they come! they come ! God and the Maid!»
The host of France approach'd, And Suffolk, eagerly beheld the fire Draw near the pile; sudden a fearful shout Toward Orleans turn'd his eye, and thence he saw A mailed man upon a mailed steed Come thundering on.
As when Chederles comes 105 To aid the Moslem on his deathless steed, Swaying his sword with such resistless arm, Such mightiest force, as he had newly quaff'd The hidden waters of eternal youth,
Till with the copious draught of life and strength Inebriate; such, so fierce, so terrible, Came Conrade through the camp. Aright, aleft, The affrighted foemen scatter from his spear; Onward he drives, and now the circling throng Fly from the stake, and now he checks his course, And cuts the herald's bonds, and bids him live, And arm, and fight, and conquer.
«Haste thee hence To Orleans,» cried the warrior. «Tell the chief's There is confusion in the English camp. Bid them come forth.» On Conrade's steed the youth Leapt up, and hasten'd onward. He the while Turn'd to the war.
Like two conflicting clouds, Pregnant with thunder, rush'd the hostile hosts. Then man met man, then on the batter'd shield Rung the loud lance, and through the darken'd sky Fast fell the arrowy storm. Amid his foes The Bastard's arm sway'd irresistible
The strokes of death; and by his side the Maid Led the fierce fight,-the Maid, though all unused To such rude conflict, now inspired by Heaven, Flashing her flamy falchion through the troops, That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell, Scatter'd the trembling ranks. The Saracen, Though arm'd from Cashbin or Damascus, wields A weaker sword; nor might that magic blade Compare with this, which Oriana saw Flame in the ruffian Ardan's robber hand, When, sick and cold as death, she turn'd away Her dizzy eyes, lest they should see the fall Of her own Amadis. Nor plated shield, Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque, Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved, Like as the Angel of the Lord went forth
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