THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. Joan of Arc, AN EPIC POEM. Εις οιωνός άριστος αμύνεσθαι περι πάρτης. ΟΜΗΡΟΣ. Ut homines, ita libros, in dies seipsis meliores fieri oportet. ERASMUS. TO EDITH SOUTHEY. EDITH! I brought thee late a humble gift, Now to look back upon my youth's green prime, The wing, and strengthening it for steadier flight. PREFACE. 1797. the puppet of a party, could have performed these This mysteriousness renders the story of JOAN OF ARC peculiarly fit for poetry. The aid of angels and devils is not necessary to raise her above mankind; she has no gods to lackey her, and inspire her with courage, and heal her wounds: the Maid of Orleans acts wholly from the workings of her own mind, from the deep feeling of inspiration. The palpable agency of superior powers would destroy the obscurity of her character, and sink her to the mere heroine of a fairy tale. the notes. THE history of JOAN OF ARC is as mysterious as it is remarkable. That she believed herself inspired, few The alterations which I have made in the history are will deny; that she was inspired, no one will venture few and trifling. The death of Salisbury is placed later, As the to assert; and it is difficult to believe that she was and of the Talbots earlier than they occurred. herself imposed upon by Charles and Dunois. That battle of Patay is the concluding action of the Poem, I she discovered the King when he disguised himself have given it all the previous solemnity of a settled among the courtiers to deceive her, and that, as a proof engagement. Whatever appears miraculous, is asof her mission, she demanded a sword from a tomb inserted in history, and my authorities will be found in the church of St Catharine, are facts in which all historians agree. If this had been done by collusion, the Maid must have known herself an impostor, and with that knowledge could not have performed the enterprise she undertook. Enthusiasm, and that of no common kind, was necessary, to enable a young maiden at once to assume the profession of arms, to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the foremost, and to subdue with an inferior force an enemy then believed invincible. It is not; possible that one who felt herself It is the common fault of Epic Poems, that we feel little interest for the heroes they celebrate. The national vanity of a Greek or a Roman might have been gratified by the renown of Achilles or Eneas; but to engage the unprejudiced, there must be more of human feelings than is generally to be found in the character of a warrior. From this objection, the Odyssey alone may be excepted. Ulysses appears as the father and the husband, and the affections are enlisted on his side. The judgment must applaud the well-digested plan and splendid execution of the Iliad, but the heart always bears testimony to the merit of the Odyssey: it is the poem of nature, and its personages inspire love rather than command admiration. The good herdsman Eumæus is worth a thousand heroes! Homer is, indeed, the best of poets, for he is at once dignified and simple; but Pope has disguised him in fop-finery, and Cowper has stripped hin naked. There are few readers who do not prefer Turnus to Æneas; a fugitive, suspected of treason, who negligently left his wife, seduced Dido, deserted her, and then forcibly took Lavinia from her betrothed husband. What avails a man's piety to the gods, if in all his dealings with men he prove himself a villain? If we represent Deity as commanding a bad action, this is not exculpating the man, but criminating the God. The ill chosen subjects of Lucan and Statius have prevented them from acquiring the popularity they would otherwise have merited; yet in detached parts, the former of these is perhaps unequalled, certainly unexcelled. I do not scruple to prefer Statius to Virgil; with inferior taste, he appears to me to possess a richer and more powerful imagination; his images are strongly conceived, and clearly painted, and the force of his language, while it makes the reader feel, proves that the author felt himself. The power of story is strikingly exemplified in the Italian heroic poets. They please universally, even in translations, when little but the story remains. proportioning his characters, Tasso has erred; Godfrey is the hero of the poem, Rinaldo of the poet, and Tancred of the reader. Secondary characters should not be introduced, like Gyas and Cloanthus, merely to fill a procession; neither should they be so prominent as to throw the principal into shade. The multitude of obscure Epic writers copy with the most gross servility their ancient models. If a tempest occurs, some envious spirit procures it from the god of the winds or the god of the sea is there a town besieged? the eyes of the hero are opened, and he beholds the powers of Heaven assisting in the attack : an angel is at hand to heal his wounds, and the leader of the enemy in his last combat is seized with the sudden cowardice of Hector. Even Tasso is too often an imitator. But notwithstanding the censure of a satirist, the name of Tasso will still be ranked among the best heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau only condemned him for the sake of an antithesis; it is with such writers, as with those who affect point in their conversation, they will always sacrifice truth to the gratification of their vanity. I have avoided what seems useless and wearying in other poems, and my readers will find no description of armour, no muster-rolls, no geographical catalogues, lion, tiger, bull, bear and boar similes, Phœbuses or Aurofas. And where in battle I have particularised the death of an individual, it is not I hope like the common lists of killed and wounded. In Millin's National Antiquities of France, I find that M. Laverdy was in 1791 occupied in collecting whatever has been written concerning the Maid of Orleans. I have anxiously expected his work, but it is probable, considering the tumults of the intervening period, that it has not been accomplished. Of the various proInductions to the memory of JOAN OF ARC, I have only collected a few titles, and, if report may be trusted, need not fear a heavier condemnation than to be deemed equally bad. A regular canon of St Euverte has written une très mauvaise poème, entitled the Modern Amazon. There is a prose tragedy called La Pucelle d'Orléans, variously attributed to Benserade, to Boyer, and to Menardière. The abbé Daubignac published a prose tragedy with the same title in 1642. There is one under the name of Jean Baruel of 1581, and another printed anonymously at Rouen 1606. Among the manuscripts of the queen of Sweden in the Vatican, is a dramatic piece in verse called Le Mystère du Siège d'Orléans. In these modern times, says Millin, all Paris has run to the theatre of Nicolet to see a pantomime entitled Le fameux Siège de la Pucelle d'Orléans. I may add, that, after the publication of this Poem, a pantomime upon the same subject was brought forward at CoventGarden Theatre, in which the heroine, like Don Juan, was carried off by devils and precipitated alive into hell. I mention it, because the feelings of the audience revolted at such a catastrophe, and after a few nights an angel was introduced to rescue her. The lawless magic of Ariosto, and the singular theme as well as the singular excellence of Milton, render it impossible to deduce any rules of epic poetry from these authors. So likewise with Spenser, the favourite of my childhood, from whose frequent perusal I have always found increased delight. Against the machinery of Camoens, a heavier charge must be brought than that of profaneness or incongruity. His floating island is but a floating brothel, and no beauty can make atonement for licentiousness. From this accusation, none but a translator would attempt to justify him; but Camoens had the most able of translators. The Lusiad, though excellent in parts, is uninteresting as a whole: it is read with little emotion, and remembered with little pleasure. But it was composed in the anguish of disappointed hopes, in the fatigues of war, and in a country far from all he loved; and we should not forget, that as the Poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate of men, so he should be ranked among the most respectable. Neither his own country or Spain has yet produced his equal: his heart was broken by calamity, but the spirit of integrity and independence never forsook Camoens. I have endeavoured to avoid what appears to me the common fault of Epic poems, and to render the Maid of Orleans interesting. With this intent I have given her, not the passion of love, but the remembrance of subdued affection, a lingering of human feelings not inconsistent with the enthusiasm and holiness of her character. But among the number of worthless poems upon this subject, there are two which are unfortunately notorious,-the Pucelles of Chapelain and Voltaire. I have had patience to peruse the first, and never have been guilty of looking into the second; it is well said by Herbert the poet, Make not thy sport abuses, for the fly On the eighth of May, the anniversary of its deliverance, an annual fête is held at Orléans; and monuments have been erected there and at Rouen to the memory of the Maid. Her family was ennobled by Charles; but it should not be forgotten in the history of this monarch, that, in the hour of misfortune, he abandoned to her fate the woman who had saved his kingdom. November, 1795. BOOK I. THERE was high feasting held at Vaucouleur, In the castle hall. He knew the old man well, « Good my Lord, I come, An old man's weakness. But, in truth, this Maid It should please God,.. but hear the Maid yourselves, While he spake "I have heard Of this your niece's malady,» replied The Lord of Vaucouleur, « that she frequents To place her with some pious sisterhood, So as Sir Robert ceased, the Maiden cried, I speak not, think not, feel not of myself. At the first With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard <«< Doubt!» the Maid exclaim'd, « It were as easy when I gaze around On all this fair variety of things, Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth I breathe the mingled odours of the spring, Felt in the midnight silence of The call of GOD.>> my soul They listen'd to the Maid, And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois, Wilt thou go with me, Maiden, to the King, And there announce thy mission?» Thus he said, For thoughts of politic craftiness arose Within him, and his unconfirmed faith Determined to prompt action. She replied, << Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur, That with such credence as prevents delay, Hle to the King might send me. Now beseech you, Speed our departure.»> Then Dunois address'd Sir Robert: «Fare thee well, my friend and host! It were ill done to linger here when Heaven Hath sent such strange assistance. Let what force Lorraine can yield to Chinou follow us; And with the tidings of this holy Maid, Rais'd up by Gop, fill thou the country; soon The country shall awake as from the sleep Of death. Now, Maid! depart we at thy will.» « GOD's blessing go with thee!» exclaim'd old Claude; As sure I think I shall not, yet sometimes Nor was the Maid, And cried,«< Pray for me!.. I shall need thy prayers! So on they went, Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain The Maiden gazed Taught wisdom to mankind!6 Unhappy France! I ask the detail. In the hour of age, If haply I survive to see this realm By thee deliver'd, dear will be the thought And heard from her the wonderous ways of Heaven.»> << A simple tale,» the mission'd Maid replied, «Yet may it well employ the journeying hour, And pleasant is the memory of the past. « Seest thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts A parent's love; for harsh my mother was, Amid these wilds Often to summer pasture have I driven Is dear to memory. I have laid me down Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight Here in solitude and peace My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes To lie me down, and watch the floating clouds, A happier pair than Arnaud and his wife. heart Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her youth Of anguish, and the deeper agony That spake not. Never will my heart forget More frequent now By the flush'd cheek what thoughts were in her heart, And weeks and months pass'd on, and when the leaves She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day That never would return, as though she found << DEATH! to the happy thou art terrible, But how the wretched love to think of thee! O thou true comforter, the friend of all Who have no friend beside! 9 By the sick bed Of Madelon I sate, when sure she felt The hour of her deliverance drawing near; I saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope, I had her latest look of earthly love, I felt her hand's last pressure-Son of Orleans! I would not wish to live to know that hour, When I could think upon a dear friend dead, And weep not. For it had slumber'd long in happiness, And much my cares avail'd, and much her son's, On whom, the only comfort of her age, By her death-bed together, and no bond It chanced as once The night was comfortless, the loud blast howl'd, And as we drew around the social hearth, We heard the rain beat hard: driven by the storm, A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light; I too were well content to dwell in peace, Resting my head upon the lap of Love, But that my country calls. When the winds roar, Theodore replied, Success go with thee! Something we have known Of war, and tasted its calamity; And I am well content to dwell in peace, |