The clang of arms For the war
Reaches the walls of Orleans. Prepared, and confident of victory, Forth speed the troops. Not when afar exhaled The hungry raven snuffs the steam of blood That from some carcass-cover'd field of fame Taints the pure air, wings he more eagerly To riot on the gore, than rush'd the ranks; Impatient now for many an ill endured
In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray; The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun 196 Now quench'd in blood their radiance.
Howl'd the deep wind that, ominous of storms, Roll'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night Frown'd, and the thunder from the troubled sky Roard hollow. Javelins clash'd and bucklers rang; Shield prest on shield; loud on the helmet jare'd The ponderous battle-axe; the frequent groan Of death commingling with the storm was heard, And the shrill shriek of fear.
Even such a storm Before the walls of Chartres quell'd the pride Of the third Edward, when the heavy hail Smote down his soldiers, and the conqueror heard GoD in the tempest, and remember'd him
Of the widows he had made, and in the name Of blessed Mary vow'd the vow of peace, 107
Lo! where the holy banner waved aloft, The lambent lightnings play. Irradiate round, As with a blaze of glory, o'er the field
It stream'd miraculous splendour. Then their hearts Sunk, and the English trembled; with such fear Possess'd, as when the combined host beheld The sun stand still on Gibeon, at the voice Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote The country of the hills, and of the south, From Baal-gad to Halak, and their chiefs, Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fled From that portentous banner, and the sword Of France; though Talbot with vain valiancy Yet urged the war, and stemm'd alone the tide Of conquest. Even their leaders felt dismay; Fastolffe fled fast, and Salisbury in the rout Mingles, and, all impatient of defeat, Borne backward Talbot turns. Then echoed lond The cry of conquest, deeper grew the storm, And darkness, hovering o'er on raven wing, Brooded the field of death.
Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives. On to the forts they haste. Bewilder'd there Amid the moats by fear, and the dead gloom Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops, Crush'd by fast following numbers who partake The death they give. As rushing from the snows Of winter liquefied, the torrent tide Resistless down the mountain rolls along, Till at the brink of giddy precipice
Arrived, with deafening clamour down it falls : Thus borne along, tumultuously the troops, Driven by the force behind them, plunge amid The liquid death. Then rose the dreadful cries More dreadful, and the dash of breaking waves That to the passing lightning as they broke Gleam'd horrible.
Nor of the host, so late Triumphing in the pride of victory, And swolu with confidence, had now escaped One wretched remnant, had not Talbot's mind, Slow as he moved unwilling from the war, What most might profit the defeated ranks Ponder'd. Hle, reaching safe the massy fort Named from St John, there kindled up on high The guiding fire. Not unobserved it blazed; The watchful guards on Tournelles, and the pile Of that proud city in remembrance fond Call'd London, light the beacon. Soon the fires Flame on the summit of the circling forts Which girt around with walls and deep-delved moats, Included Orleans. O'er the shadowy plain They cast a lurid splendour; to the troops Grateful as to the way-worn traveller, Wandering with parch'd feet o'er Arabian sands, The far-seen cistern; he for many a league Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved With tempest swell the desert billows round, Pauses, and shudders at his perils past, Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave So long bewail'd.
Swift as the affrighted herd Scud o'er the plain, when frequent through the sky Flash the fierce lightnings, speed the routed host Of England. To the sheltering forts they haste, Though safe, of safety doubtful, still appall'd And trembling, as the pilgrim who by night, On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl Hears the wood echo, when from the fell beast Escaped, of some small tree the topmast branch lle grasps close clinging, still of that keen fang Fearful, his teeth jar, and the big drops stand On his cold quivering limbs.
Nor now the Maid Greedy of vengeance urges the pursuit. She bids the trumpet of retreat resound; A pleasant music to the routed ranks Blows the loud blast. Obedient to its voice The French, though eager on the invaders' heads To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword.
Loud is the cry of conquest as they turn To Orleans. There what few to guard the town Unwilling had remain'd, haste forth to meet The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held, Which, raised aloft amid the midnight storm, Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced;
Deep through the sky the hollow thunders roll'd; 108 Innocuous lightnings round the hallow'd banner Wreath'd their red radiance.
Circling the pile, a bulwark vast, as what Round their dishearten'd camp and stranded ships The Greeks uprear'd a common sepulchre
Through the open'd gate Of thousands slaughter'd, and the doom'd death-place Slow past the laden convoy. Then was heard Of many a chief, when Priam's patriot son The shout of exultation, and such joy Rush'd in his wrath and scatter'd their pale tribes. The men of Orleans at that welcome sight Possess'd, as when, from Bactria late subdued, The mighty Macedonian led his troops Amid the Sogitian desert, where no stream Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves. Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed;
Scorch'd by the sun that b'er their morning march Steam'd his hot vapours, heart-subdued and faint; Such joy as them they felt, when from the heights Burst the soul-gladdening sound! for thence was seen The evening sun silvering the vale below, Where Oxus roll'd along.
Clamours of joy Echo along the streets of Orleans, wont Long time to hear the infant's feeble cry, The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sound, When from the cannon burst its stores of death. Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles, And high heap'd carcasses, whence scared away From his abhorred meal, on clattering wing Rose the night-raven slow.
In the English forts Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night Steals in the straggling fugitive; as when Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky Serenely shines the sun, with every breeze The waving branches drop their gather'd rain, Renewing the remembrance of the storm.
STRONG were the English forts, 109 by daily toil Of thousands rear'd on high, when arrogant With hoped-for conquest Salisbury bade rise The mighty pile, from succour to include Besieged Orleans. Round the city walls Stretch'd the wide circle, massy as the fence Erst by the fearful Roman on the bounds Of Caledonia raised, when soul-enslaved Her hireling plunderers fear'd the car-borne chiefs Who rush'd from Morven down.
Crested the ample bulwark, on whose top Secure the charioteer might wheel along. The frequent buttress at just distance rose Declining from its base, and sixty forts Lifted aloft their turret-crested heads, All firm and massy. But of these most firm, As though of some large castle each the keep, Stood six square fortresses with turrents flank'd, Piles of unequall'd strength, though now deem'd weak Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely hence The skilful archer, entering with his eye The city, might, himself the while unseen, Through the long opening shower his winged deaths. Loire's waves diverted fill'd the deep-dug moat
But cowering now amid their sheltering forts Tremble the invading host. Their leader's care In anxious vigilance prepares to ward Assault expected. Nor the Maid's intent Did he not rightly areed; though vain his hope To kindle in their breasts the wonted flame Of valour; for by prodigies unmann'd They wait the morn. The soldiers' pride was gone, The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay Unburnish'd and defiled; they sharpen'd not Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand Relax'd not his bent bow. To them, confused With fears of unknown danger, the long night Was dreadful, but more dreadful dawn'd the day.
The morning came. The martial Maid arose. Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gate Eager again for conquest throng the troops. High tower'd the Son of Orleans, in his strength Poising the ponderous spear. His batter'd shield, Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight, Hung on his sinewy arm.
Maiden of Arc,»> So as he spake approaching, cried the Chief, Well hast thou proved thy mission, as by words And miracles attested when dismay'd The stern theologists forgot their doubts, So in the field of slaughter now confirm'd. Yon well-fenced forts protect the fugitives, And seem as in their strength they mock'd our force. Yet must they fall.»>
« And fall they shall!» replied The Maid of Orleans. « Ere the sun be set, The lily on that shatter'd wall shall wave Triumphant.-Men of France! ye have fought well On yon blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foes Lurk trembling now amid their massy walls. Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock! The Shepherd-the Great Shepherd is arisen! Ye fly! yet shall not ye by flight escape His vengeance. Men of Orleans! it were vain By words to waken wrath within your breasts. Look round! Your holy buildings and your homes,— Ruins that choke the way! Your populous town, One open sepulchre! Who is there here
That does not mourn a friend, a brother slain, A parent famish'd-or his dear loved wife
Torn from his bosom-outcast-broken-hearted- Cast on the mercy of mankind?»>
The cry of indignation from the host Burst forth, and all impatient for the war Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays Xaintrailles, tried in war, Commands the first; Xaintrailles, who oft subdued By adverse fortune to the captive chain, Still more tremendous to the enemy,
Lifted his death-fraught lance, as erst from carth
Antæus vaunting in his giant bulk, When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell Vanquish'd, anon uprose more fierce for war.
Gaucour o'er one presides, the steady friend To long-imprison'd Orleans; of his town Beloved guardian, he the dreadful siege Firmly abiding, prudent still to plan Irruption, and with youthful vigour swift To lead the battle, from his soldiers' love Prompter obedience gained, than ever fear Forced from the heart reluctant.
Alençon leads: he on the fatal field Verneuil, when Buchan and the Douglas died, Fell senseless. Guiltless he of that day's loss, Wore undisgraced awhile the captive chain. The Monarch him mindful of his high rank Had ransom'd, once again to meet the foe With better fortune.
O'er the last presides Dunois the bastard, mighty in the war. His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame Confess'd, since when before his stripling arm Fled Warwick; Warwick, he whose fair renown Greece knew and Antioch and the holy soil Of Palestine, since there in arms he pass'd On gallant pilgrimage; yet by Dunois Baffled, and yielding him the conqueror's praise. And by his side the martial Maiden pass'd, Lovely in arms as that Arcadian boy Parthenopaus, when, the war of beasts 112 Disdaining, he to murder man rush'd forth, Bearing the bow, and those Dictæan shafts Diana gave, when she the youth's fair form Saw soften'd, and forgave the mother's fault.
St Loup's strong fort stood first. Here Gladdisdale 113 Commands the fearful troops.
As lowering clouds Swept by the hoarse wind o'er the blacken'd plain, Moved on the host of France: they from the fort, Through secret opening, shower their pointed shafts, Or from the battlements the death-tipt spear Hurl fierce. Nor from the strong arm only launch'd The javelin fled, but driven by the strain'd force Of the balista, 114 in one carcass spent Stay'd not; through arms and men it makes its way, And leaving death behind, still holds its course By many a death unclogg'd. With rapid march Right onward they advanced, and soon the shafts, Impell'd by that strong stroke beyond the host, Wasting their force, fell harmless. Now they reach'd Where by the bayle's embattled wall 115 in arms The knights of England stood. There Poynings shook His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace For the death-blow prepared. Alençon here, And here the Bastard strode, and by the Maid That daring man who to the English host, "Then insolent of many a conquest gain'd, Bore her bold bidding. A rude coat of mail 16 Unhosed, unbooded, as of lowly line,
Arm'd him, though here amid the high-born chiefs Pre-eminent for prowess. On his head
A black plume shadow'd the rude-featured helm. "17 Then was the war of men, when front to front
They rear'd the hostile hand, for low the wall Where the bold Frenchman's upward-driven spear Might pierce the foemen. As Alençon moved, On his crown-crested helm 118 with ponderous blow Fell Gladdisdale's huge mace. Back he recoil'd Astounded; soon recovering, his keen lance Thrust on the warrior's shield: there fast-infix'd, Nor could Alençon the deep-driven spear Recover, nor the foeman from his grasp Wrench the contended weapon. Fierce again He lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt Fell full; it shiver'd, and the Frenchman held A pointless truncheon. Where the Bastard fought The spear of Poynings through his plated mail Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath 119 Blunted its point. Again he speeds the spear; At once Dunois on his broad buckler bears The unharming stroke, and aims with better fate Ilis javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce, Maugre the mail. Hot from the streaming wound Again the weapon fell, and in his breast Even through the hauberk drove.
But there the war Raged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved, The minister of wrath; for thither throng'd The bravest champions of the adverse host: And on her either side two warriors stood Of unmatch'd prowess, still with eager eye Shielding her form, and aiming at her foes Their deadly weapons, of themselves the while Little regarding. One was that bold man Who bade defiance to the English chiefs. Firmly he stood, untired and undismay'd, Though on his burgonet the frequent spear Drove fierce, and on his arm the buckler hung Heavy, thick-bristled with the hostile shafts, Even like the porcupine when in his rage, Roused, he collects within him all his force, Himself a quiver. And of loftier port On the other hand tower'd Conrade. Firmly fenced, A jazerent of double mail he wore, Beneath whose weight one but of common strength Had sunk. Untired the conflict he endured, Wielding a battle-axe ponderous and keen, Which gave no second stroke; for where it fell, Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail Might save, nor crested casque. On Molyn's head, As at the Maid he aim'd his javelin, Forceful it fell, and shiver'd with the blow The iron helm, and to his brain-pan drove The fragments. At their comrade's death amazed, And for a moment fearful, shrunk the foes. That instant Conrade, with an active bound, 120 Sprung on the battlements; there firm he stood, Guarding ascent. The herald and the Maid Follow'd, and soon the exulting cry of France Along the lists was heard, as waved aloft The holy banner. Gladdisdale beheld, And hasting from his well-defended post Sped to the fiercer conflict. To the Maid He strode, on her resolved to wreak his rage, With her to end the war. Nor did not JOAN Areed his purpose: lifting up her shield Prepared she stood, and poised her sparkling spear. The English Chief came on; he raised his mace;
With circling force, the iron weight swung high, As Gladdisdale with his collected might Drove the full blow. The man of lowly line That instant rush'd between, and rear'd his shield And met the broken blow, and thrust his lance Fierce through the gorget of the English knight. A gallant man, of no ignoble line,
Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace, 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; For them the venerable fathers pour'd
A requiem when they slept, and o'er them raised The sculptured monument. Now far away Their offspring falls, the last of all his race, Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share The common grave.
Then terror seized the host,
Their Chieftain dead. And lo! where on the wall, Bulwark'd of late by Gladdisdale so well, The Son of Orleans stood, and sway'd around His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe, Till on the battlements his comrade sprang, And raised the shout of conquest. Then appall'd The English fled : nor fled they unpursued, For mingling with the foremost fugitives, The gallant Conrade rush'd; and with the throng The knights of France together o'er the bridge Rush'd forward. Nor the garrison within Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall, For in the entrance of the fort the fight Raged fiercely, and together through the gate The vanquish'd English and their eager foes Pass'd in the flying conflict.
And wisely did that daring Spaniard act At Vera-Cruz. when he, his yet sound ships Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous fear Might still with wild and wistful eye look back. For knowing no retreat, his desperate troops In conquest sought their safety; victors hence At Tlascala, and o'er the Cholulans, And by Otompan, on that bloody field When Mexico her patriot thousands pour'd, Fierce in vain valour on their dreadful foes. There was a portal to the English fort Which open'd on the wall; 122 a speedier path In the hour of safety, whence the charmed eye Might linger down the river's pleasant course. Fierce in the gate-way raged the deadly war; For there the Maiden strove, and Conrade there, And he of lowly line, bravelier than whom Fought not in that day's battle. Of success Desperate, for from above the garrison Could wield no arms, so certain to bestow Equal destruction, of the portal's aid The foe bethought them: then with lesser force Their weapons fell; abandon'd was the gate; And soon from Orleans the glad citizens Beheld the hallow'd banner on the tower Triumphant. Swift along the lofty wall
The English haste to St John's neighbouring fort, Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuit The victors ceased, but with the fugitives Mingled and waged the war: the combatants, Lock'd in the hostile grasp, together fall
But foremost of the French,
Dealing destruction, Conrade rush'd along; Heedless of danger, he to the near fort
Pass'd in the fight; nor did not then the Chief What most might serve bethink him: firm he stood In the portal, and one moment looking back Lifted his loud voice: thrice the warrior cried, Then to the war address'd him, now assail'd By numerous foes, who arrogant of power Threaten'd his single valour. He the while Stood firm, not vainly confident, or rash, But of his own strength conscious, and the post Friendly; for narrow was the portal way, To one alone fit passage, from above O'erbrow'd by no out-jutting parapet, 123 Whence death might crush him. He in double mail Was arm'd; a massy burgonet, well tried
In many a hard-fought field, helming his head; A buckler broad, and fenced with iron plates, Bulwark'd his breast. Nor to dislodge the Chief Could the English pour their numbers, for the way By upward steps presented from the fort Narrow ascent, where one alone could meet The war.
Yet were they of their numbers proud, Though useless numbers were in that strait path, Save by assault unceasing to out-last A single warrior, who at length must sink Fatigued with conquering, by long victory Vanquish'd.
There was amid the garrison
A fearless knight who at Verneuil had fought, And high renown for his bold chivalry Acquired in that day's conquest. To his fame The thronging English yield the foremost place. He his long javelin to transpierce the Frank Thrust forceful: harmless in his shield it fix'd, Advantaging the foe; for Conrade lifts The battle-axe, and smote upon the lance, And hurl'd its severed point124 with mighty arm Fierce on the foe. With wary bend the foe Shrunk from the flying death; yet not in vain From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon fled : Full on the corselet 25 of a meaner man
It fell, and pierced, there where the heaving lungs, In vital play distended, to the heart
Roll back their brighten'd tide: from the deep wound The red blood gush'd : prone on the steps he fell, And in the strong convulsive grasp of death Grasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name The soldier died; yet did he leave behind One who did never say her daily prayers Of him forgetful; who to every tale
Of the distant war, lending an eager ear, Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage-door The wretched one shall sit, and with dim eye Gaze o'er the plain, where on his parting steps Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know Her husband dead, but tortured with vain hope Gaze on... then heart-sick turn to her poor babe, And weep it fatherless!
The exasperate knight Drew his keen falchion, and with dauntless step Moved to the closer conflict. Then the Frank Held forth his buckler, and his battle-axe Uplifted. Where the buckler was below
Rounded, the falchion struck, but impotent To pierce its plated folds; more forceful driven, Fierce on his crested helm the Frenchman's stroke Fell; the helm shiver'd; from his eyes the blood Started; with blood the chambers of the brain Were fill'd; his breast-plate with convulsive throes Heaved as he fell. Victorious, he the prize At many a tournament had borne away In mimic war: happy, if so content With bloodless glory, he had never left The mansion of his sires.
The English stood, nor durst adventure now
Near that death-doing man. Amid their host Was one who well could from the stubborn bow Shower his sharp shafts: well skill'd in wood-craft he, Even as the merry outlaws who their haunts
In Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouse The sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven grass The dew-drops sparkled to the rising sun. He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd The feather'd dart; with force he drew the bow; Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string; And swift and strong the well-wing'd arrow flew. Deep in his shield it hung; then Conrade raised Again his echoing voice, and call'd for aid, Nor was the call unheard; the troops of France, From St Loup's captured fort along the wall Haste to the portal; cheering was the sound Of their near footsteps to the Chief; he drew His falchion forth, and down the steps he rush'd. Then terror seized the English, for their foes Swarm'd through the open portal, and the sword Of Conrade was among them. Not more fierce The injured Turnus sway'd his angry arm, Slaughtering the robber fugitives of Troy; Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris Rush'd the fierce king of Sarza, Rodomont, Clad in his dragon mail.
Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves Waste their wild fury, stood the unshaken man; Though round him prest his foemen, by despair Hearten'd. He, mowing through the throng his path, Call'd on the troops of France, and bade them haste Where he should lead the way. A daring band Follow'd the adventurous chieftain; he moved on Unterrified, amid the arrowy shower,
Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling trec The autumnal whirlwind shakes.
Nor Conrade paused; Still through the fierce fight urging on his way, Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand Seized on the massy bolts. These as he drew, Full on his helm the weighty English sword Descended; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath, When lo! the assailant gasping on the ground, Cleft by the Maiden's falchion: she herself To the foe opposing with that lowly man, For they alone following the adventurous steps Of Conrade, still had equall'd his bold course, Shielded him as with eager hand he drew
The bolts: the gate turn'd slow: forth leapt the Chief, And shiver'd with his battle-axe the chains
That hung on high the bridge. The impetuous troops, By Gaucour led, rush'd o'er to victory.
The banner'd lilies on the captured wall Toss'd to the wind. « On to the neighbouring fort!»> Cried Conrade; «Xaintrailles! ere the night draws on, Once more to conquest lead the troops of France! Force ye the lists, and fill the deep-dug moat, And with the ram shake down their batter'd walls; Anon I shall be with you.» Thus he said; Then to the Damsel : « Maid of Arc! awhile Cease we from battle, and by short repose Renew our strength.» So saying he his helm Unlaced, and in the Loire's near flowing stream Cool'd his hot face. The Maid her head unhelm'd, And stooping to the stream, reflected there Saw her white plumage stain'd with human blood! Shuddering she saw, but soon her steady soul Collected on the banks she laid her down, Freely awhile respiring, for her breath Quick panted from the fight: silent they lay, For gratefully the cooling breezes bath'd Their throbbing temples.
It was now the noon: The sun-beams on the gently-waving stream Danced sparkling. Lost in thought the warrior lay, Then as his countenance relax'd he cried,- « Maiden of Arc! at such an hour as this, Beneath the o'er-arching forest's chequer'd shade, With that lost woman have I wander'd on, Talking of years of happiness to come! Oh, hours for ever fled! delightful dreams Of the unsuspecting heart! I do believe If Agnes on a worthier one had fix'd
Her love, that though my heart had nurst till death Its sorrows, I had never on her choice Pour'd one upbraiding... but to stoop to him! A harlot !... an adulteress ! » 126 In his eye
Red anger flash'd; anon of what she was Ere yet the foul pollution of the court Stain'd her fair fame, he thought. «Oh, happy age!» He cried, when all the family of man
Freely enjoy'd their goodly heritage, And only bow'd the knee in prayer to God! Calm flow'd the unruffled stream of years along, Till o'er the peaceful rustic's head the hair Grew grey in full of time. Then he would sit Beneath the coetaneous oak, while round, Sons, grandsons, and their offspring join'd to form The blameless merriment; and learnt of him What time to yoke the oxen to the plough, What hollow moanings of the western wind Foretel the storm, and in what lurid clouds The embryo lightning lies. Well pleased, he taught, The heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek, Mild as the summer sun's decaying light. Thus quietly the stream of life flow'd on, Till in the shoreless ocean lost at length. Around the bed of death his numerous race Listen'd, in no unprofitable grief, His last advice, and caught his latest sigh: And when he died, as he had fallen asleep, Beneath the aged tree that grew with him They delved the narrow house: there oft at eve
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