Cried Conrade, form thy heart for happiness, When Desolation royally careers
Over thy wretched country? did that God Form thee for Peace when Slaughter is abroad,
When her brooks run with blood, and Rape, and Murder, Stalk through her flaming towns ? live thou in Young man! my heart is human: I do feel For what my brethren suffer.' While he spake Such mingled passions character'd his face Of fierce and terrible benevolence, That I did tremble as I listen'd to him: And in my heart tumultuous thoughts arose Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild, And vast, yet such they were as made me pant As though by some divinity possess d.
<< But is there not some duty due to those 'We love?' said Theodore; Is there an employ More righteous than to cheer declining age, And thus with filial tenderness repay Parental care?'
'Hard is it,' Conrade cried,
«Aye, hard indeed, to part from those we love; And I have suffer'd that severest pang.
I have left an aged mother; I have left One, upon whom my heart has center'd all Its dearest, best, affections. Should I live Till France shall see the blessed hour of Peace, I shall return: my heart will be content, My highest duties will be well discharged And I may then be happy. There are those Who deem these thoughts the fancies of a mind Strict beyond measure, and were well content, If I should soften down my rigid nature Even to inglorious ease, to honour me. But pure of heart and high of self-esteem I must be honour'd by myself: all else, The breath of Fame, is as the unsteady wind Worthless.'
So saying from his belt he took
The encumbering sword. I held it, listening to him, And wistless what I did, half from the sheath Drew forth its glittering blade. I gazed upon it And shuddering, as I touch'd its edge, exclaim'd, How horrible it is with the keen sword To gore the finely-fibred human frame! I could not strike a lamb.
He answer'd me, 'Maiden, thou hast said well. I could not strike A lamb,.. But when the invader's savage fury Spares not grey age, and mocks the infant's shriek As it doth writhe upon his cursed lance, And forces to his foul embrace, the wife Even on her murder'd husband's gasping corse! Almighty God! I should not be a man If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down. Think well of this, young Man!10 he cried, and seized The hand of Theodore; think well of this, As you are human, as you hope to live
amid the dearest joys of home;
Think well of this! you have a tender mother, As do wish that she may die in peace,
you would even to madness agonize
To hear this maiden call on you in vain For aid, and see her dragg'd, and hear her scream In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful arms, Think that there are such horrors; that even now, Some city flames, and haply as in Roan, Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breast Yet hangs and pulls for food!12.. woe be to those By whom the evil comes! and woe to him,.. For little less his guilt,. who dwells in peace, When every arm is needed for the strife!'
«When we had all betaken us to rest, Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolved The high-soul'd warrior's speech. Then Madelon Rose in remembrance; over her the grave Had closed; her sorrows were not register'd
In the rolls of Fame: but when the tears run down The widow's cheek, shall not her cry be heard In Heaven against the oppressor? will not God In sunder smite the unmerciful, and break The sceptre of the wicked?13.. thoughts like these Possess'd my soul, till at the break of day
I slept; nor did my heated brain repose Even then, for visions, sent, as I believe, From the Most High, arose. A high-tower'd town Hemm'd in and girt with enemies, I saw, Where Famine on a heap of carcasses, Half envious of the unutterable feast,
Mark'd the gorged raven clog his beak with gore.
I turn'd me then to the besieger's camp. And there was revelry: the loud lewd laugh Burst on mine ear, and I beheld the chiefs Sit at their feast, and plan the work of death. My soul grew sick within me; I look'd up, Reproaching Heaven,... lo! from the clouds an arm As of the avenging Angel was put forth, And from his hand a sword, like lightning, fell.
« From that night I could feel my burthen'd soul Heaving beneath incumbent Deity.
I sate in silence, musing on the days
To come, unheeding and unseeing all Around me, in that dreaminess of thought When every bodily sense is as it slept,
And the mind alone is wakeful. I have heard Strange voices in the evening wind; strange forms Dimly discover'd throng'd the twilight air. The neighbours wonder'd at the sudden change, And call'd me crazed; and my dear Uncle, too, Would sit and gaze upon me wistfully, A heaviness upon his aged brow,
And in his eye such trouble, that my heart Sometimes misgave me. I had told him all, The mighty future labouring in my breast, But that the hour methought not yet was come.
«At length I heard of Orleans, by the foe Wall'd in from human succour; there all thoughts, All hopes were turn'd; that bulwark once beat down, All was the invaders'. Now my troubled soul Grew more disturb'd, and, shunning every eye,
I loved to wander where the forest shade
Frown'd deepest; there on mightiest deeds to brood Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart Throb loud anon I paused, and in a state Of half expectance, listen'd to the wind.
« There is a fountain in the forest call'd The Fountain of the Fairies: 14 when a child With a delightful wonder I have heard Tales of the Elfin tribe who on its banks Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak, The goodliest of the forest, grows beside; Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat, By the woods bounded like some little isle. It ever hath been deem'd their favourite tree; They love to lie and rock upon its leaves, 15 And bask in moonshine. Here the Woodman leads His boy, and, showing him the green-sward mark'd With darker circlets, says their midnight dance Hath trac'd the ring, and bids him spare the tree. Fancy had cast a spell upon the place, And made it holy; and the villagers Would say that never evil thing approach'd Unpunish'd there. The strange and fearful pleasure Which fill'd me by that solitary spring, Ceased not in riper years; and now it woke
Deeper delight and more mysterious awe.
Lonely the forest spring: a rocky hill Rises beside it, and an aged yew
Bursts from the rifted crag that overbrows The waters; cavern'd there unseen and slow And silently they well. The adder's tongue, Rich with the wrinkles of its glossy green, Hangs down its long lank leaves, whose wavy dip Just breaks the tranquil surface. Ancient woods Bosom the quiet beauties of the place; Nor ever sound profanes it, save such sounds As Silence loves to hear, the passing wind,
Or the low murmuring of the stream scarce heard. A blessed spot! oh how my soul enjoy'd
Its holy quietness, with what delight Escaping from mankind I hasten'd there To solitude and freedom! thitherward On a spring eve I had betaken me,
And the re I sate, and mark'd the deep red clouds Gather before the wind.. the rising wind, Whose sudden gusts, each wilder than the last, Appear'd to rock my senses. Soon the night Darken'd around, and the large rain drops fell Heavy; anon tempestuously the gale
Howl'd o'er the wood. Methought the heavy rain Fell with a grateful coolness on my head, And the boarse dash of waters, and the rush Of winds that mingled with the forest roar, Made a wild music. On a rock I sat;
The glory of the tempest fill'd my soul;
And when the thunders peal'd, and the long flash
Hung durable in heaven, and on my sight
Aye, Chieftain, and the world
Shall soon believe my mission; for the Lord Will raise up indignation, and pour out His wrath, and they shall perish who oppress.»>17
And now beneath the horizon westering slow Had sunk the orb of day: o'er all the vale A purple softness spread, save where the tree Its giant shadow stretch'd, or winding stream Mirror'd the light of Heaven, still traced distinct When twilight dimly shrouded all beside. A grateful coolness freshen'd the calm air, And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song Sung shrill and ceaseless, 18 as the dews of night Descended. On their way the travellers wend, Cheering the road with converse, till at length They mark a cottage lamp, whose steady light Shone through the lattice: thitherward they turn. There came an old man forth his thin : grey locks Waved on the night breeze, and on his shrunk face The characters of age were written deep. Them, louting low with rustic courtesy, He welcomed in; on the white-ember'd hearth Heapt up fresh fuel, then with friendly care Spread out the homely board, and fill'd the bowl With the red produce of the vine that arch'd His evening seat; they of the plain repast
Partook, and quaff'd the pure and pleasant draught.
‹Strangers, your fare is homely,» said their Host; But such it is as we poor countrymen Earn with hard toil: in faith ye are welcome to it! I too have borne a lance in younger days; And would that I were young again to meet These haughty English in the field of fight! Such as I was when on the fatal plain Of Agincourt I met them.»>
« Wert thou, then, A sharer in that dreadful day's defeat?»> Exclaim'd the Bastard: « Didst thou know the Lord Of Orleans?>> « Know him!» cried the veteran, << I saw him ere the bloody fight began Riding from rank to rank, his beaver up, The long lance quivering in his mighty grasp. His eye was wrathful to an enemy,
But for his countrymen it had a smile
Would win all hearts. Looking at thee, Sir Knight, Methinks I see him now; such was his eye,
Spread the grey forest, memory, thought, were gone, 16 Gentle in peace, and such his manly brow.»
All sense of self annihilate, I seem'd
Diffus'd into the scene.
Approach'd the spring; I saw my Uncle Claude :
His grey locks dripping with the midnight storm. He came, and caught me in his arms, and cried, 'My God! my child is safe!'
I felt his words Pierce in my heart; my soul was overcharged;
I fell upon his neck and told him all; GOD was within me; as I felt, I spake, And he believed.
«No tongue but speaketh honour of that name!»> Exclaimed Dunois. << Strangers and countrymen Alike revered the good and gallant Chief. His vassals like a father loved their Lord; His gates stood open to the traveller; The pilgrim when he saw his towers rejoiced, For he had heard in other lands the fame Of Orleans... And he lives a prisoner still! Losing all hope because my arm so long Hath fail'd to win his liberty!»
His head away to hide the burning shame Which flush'd his face. « But he shall live, Dunois,>> Exclaim'd the mission'd Maid; « but he shall live To hear good tidings; hear of liberty, Of his own liberty, by his brother's arm Achieved in hard-fought battle. He shall live Happy: the memory of his prison'd years 19 Shall heighten all his joys, and his grey hairs Go to the grave in peace.»>
<< I would fain live To see that day,» replied their aged host: << How would my heart leap to behold again The gallant generous chieftain! I fought by him When all the hopes of victory were lost,
And down his batter'd arms the blood stream'd fast From many a wound. Like wolves they hemm'd us in, Fierce in unhoped-for conquest: all around Our dead and dying countrymen lay heap'd; Yet still he strove;-I wonder'd at his valour! There was not one who on that fatal day Fought bravelier.>>
<< Fatal was that day to France,>> Exclaim'd the Bastard; « there Alençon fell, Valiant in vain; there D'Albert, whose mad pride Brought the whole ruin on. There fell Brabant, Vaudemont, and Marle, and Bar, and Faquenberg, Our noblest warriors; the determin'd foe Fought for revenge, not hoping victory, Desperately brave; ranks fell on ranks before them; The prisoners of that shameful day out-summ'd Their conquerors!» 20
<< Yet believe not,» Bertram cried, <<That cowardice disgraced thy countrymen : They by their leader's arrogance led on With heedless fury, found all numbers vain, All efforts fruitless there; and hadst thou seen, Skilful as brave, how Henry's ready eye Lost not a thicket, not a hillock's aid;
From his hersed bowmen how the arrows flew 21 Thick as the snow flakes and with lightning force, Thou wouldst have known such soldiers, sueh a chief, Could never be subdued.
But when the field Was won, and they who had escaped the fight Had yielded up their arms, it was foul work To glut on the defenceless prisoners 22 The blunted sword of conquest. Girt around I to their mercy had surrender'd me, When lo! I heard the dreadful cry of death. Not as amid the fray, when man met man And in fair combat gave the mortal blow; Here the poor captives, weaponless and bound, Saw their stern victors draw again the sword, And groan'd and strove in vain to free their hands, And bade them think upon their plighted faith, And pray'd for mercy in the name of God, In vain: the King had bade them massacre, And in their helpless prisoners' naked breasts They drove the blade. Then I expected death, And at that moment death was terrible- For the heat of fight was over; of my home I thought, and of my wife and little ones In bitterness of heart. The gallant man,
To whom the chance of war had made me thrall, Had pity, loosed my hands, and bade me fly. It was the will of Heaven that I should live
« So by Heaven preserved,
From the disastrous plain of Agincourt 23 I speeded homewards and abode in peace. Henry as wise as brave had back to England 24 Led his victorious army; well aware That France was mighty, that her warlike sons, Impatient of a foreign victor's sway, Might rise impetuous and with multitudes Tread down the invaders. Wisely he return'd, For the proud barons in their private broils Wasted the strength of France. I dwelt at home, And, with the little I possessed content, Lived happily. A pleasant sight it was To see my children, as at eve I sate
Beneath the vine, come clustering round my knee, That they might hear again the oft-told tale Of the dangers I had past: their little eyes Did with such anxious eagerness attend The tale of life preserved, as made me feel Life's value. My poor children! a hard fate Had they! but oft and bitterly I wish That God had to his mercy taken me In childhood, for it is a heavy lot To linger out old age in loneliness!
« Ah me! when war the masters of mankind, Woe to the poor man! if he sow the field, He shall not reap the harvest; if he see His offspring rise around, his boding heart Aches at the thought that they are multiplied To the sword! Again from England the fierce foe Rush'd on our ravaged coasts. In battle bold, Merciless in conquest, their victorious King Swept like the desolating tempest round. Dambieres submits; on Caen's subjected wall The flag of England waved. Roan still remain'd, Embattled Roan, bulwark of Normandy; Nor unresisted round her massy walls Pitch'd they their camp. I need not tell Sir Knight How oft and boldly on the invading host We burst with fierce assault impetuous forth, For many were the warrior Sons of Roan.25 One gallant Citizen was famed o'er all For daring hardihood pre-eminent, Blanchard. He, gathering round his countrymen, With his own courage kindling every breast, Had bade them vow before Almighty God 26 Never to yield them to the usurping foe. Before the God of Hosts we made the vow: And we had baffled the besieging power, Had not the patient enemy drawn round
His strong entrenchments. From the watch-tower's top
Still we strove, Expecting aid; nor longer force to force, Valour to valour in the fight opposed, But to the exasperate patience of the foe Desperate endurance. 28 Though with Christian zeal Ursino would have pour'd the balm of peace Into our wounds, Ambition's ear, best pleased With the war's clamour and the groan of Death, Was deaf to prayer. Day after day fled on; We heard no voice of comfort. From the walls Could we behold the savage Irish Kernes 29 Ruffians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptized,30 Come with their spoil, mingling their hideous shouts With moan of weary flocks, and piteous low Of kine sore-laden, in the mirthful camp Scattering abundance; while the loathliest food We prized above all price; while in our streets The dying groan of hunger, and the scream Of famishing infants echoed,- and we heard, With the strange selfishness of misery, We heard and heeded not.
Thou would'st have deem'd Roan must have fallen an easy sacrifice, Young warrior, hadst thou seen our meagre limbs And pale and shrunken cheeks, and hollow eyes; Yet still we struggled nobly! Blanchard still Spake of the savage fury of the foe,
Of Harfleur's wretched race cast on the world 31 Houseless and destitute, while that fierce King Knelt at the altar,32 and with impious prayer Gave God the glory, even while the blood That he had shed was reeking up to Heaven. He bade us think what mercy they had found Who yielded on the plain of Agincourt, And what the gallant sons of Caen, by him In cold blood murder'd,33 Then his scanty food Sharing with the most wretched, he would bid us Bear with our miseries bravely.
Thus distress'd, Lest all should perish thus, our chiefs decreed Women and children, the infirm and old, All who were useless in the work of war,
Should forth and take their fortune. Age, that makes The joys and sorrows of the distant years Like a half-remember'd dream, yet on my heart Leaves deep impress'd the horrors of that hour. Then as our widow wives clung round our necks, And the deep sob of anguish interrupted The prayer of parting, even the pious Priest As he implored his God to strengthen us, And told us we should meet again in Heaven, He groan'd and cursed in bitterness of heart 34 That merciless man. The wretched crowd pass'd on: My wife-my children-through the gates they pass'd, Then the gates closed-Would I were in my grave,
The aged ones groan'd to our foe in vain, The mother pleaded for her dying child, And they felt no remorse!»>
The mission'd Maid Starts from her seat-« The old and the infirm, The mother and her babes!-and yet no lightning Blasted this man!»
Ay, Lady,» Bertram cried; «And when we sent the herald to implore His mercy 36 on the helpless, his stern face Assumed a sterner smile of callous scorn, And he replied in mockery. On the wall I stood and mark'd the miserable outcasts, And every moment thought that Henry's heart, Hard as it was, would melt. All night I stood,Their deep groans came upon the midnight gale, Fainter they grew, for the cold wintry wind Blew bleak; fainter they grew, and at the last All was still, save that ever and anon Some mother shriek'd o'er her expiring child The shriek of frenzying anguish.37
On all the busy turmoil of the world
I gazed with strange indifference; bearing want With the sick patience of a mind worn out. Nor when the traitor yielded up our town 38 Ought heeded I as through our ruin'd streets,. Through putrid heaps of famish'd carcasses, Pass'd the long pomp of triumph. One keen pang I felt, when by that bloody King's command The gallant Blanchard died.39 Calmly he died; And as he bow'd beneath the axe, thank'd God That he had done his duty.
I survive, A solitary, friendless, wretched one, Knowing no joy save in the faith I feel That I shall soon be gather'd to my sires, And soon repose, there where the wicked ceascí. From troubling, and the weary are at rest. >>
« And happy,» cried the delegated Maid, «And happy they who in that holy faith Bow meekly to the rod! A little while Shall they endure the proud man's contumely, The injustice of the great. A little while Though shelterless they feel the wintry wind, The wind shall whistle o'er their turf-grown grave, And all be peace below. But woe to those, Woe to the Mighty Ones who send abroad Their train'd assassins, and who give to Fury The flaming firebrand; these indeed shall live The heroes of the wandering minstrel's song; But they have their reward; the innocent blood
Steams up to Heaven against them. The widow's groan.»>
« I saw him,» Bertram cried, Henry of Agincourt, this conqueror King, Go to his grave. The long procession past Slowly from town to town, and when I heard The deep-toned dirge, aud saw the banners wave A pompous shade,41 and the high torches glare In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light, 42 I thought what he had been on earth who now God Was gone to his account, and blest my I was not such as he'»
So spake the old man, And then his guests betook them to repose.
FAIR dawn'd the morning, and the carly sun Pour'd on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam, the travellers rose, and on their way And up Hastened, their dangerous way,43 through fertile tracks The waste of war. They pass'd the Auxerrois; The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth 44 The unreap'd harvest, from the village church No even-song bell was heard, the shepherd's dog Prey'd on the scatter'd flock, for there was now No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth Where he had slumber'd at his master's feet The rank weed flourish'd. Did they sometimes find A welcome, he who welcomed them was one Who linger'd in the place where he was born, For that alone was left him now to love.
They pass'd the Yonne, they pass'd the rapid Loire, Still urging on their way with cautious speed, Shunning Auxerre, and Bar's embattled wall, And Romorantin's towers.
So journeying on, Fast by a spring, which welling at his feet With many a winding crept along the mead, A Knight they saw, who there at his repast Let the west wind play round his ungirt brow. Approaching near, the Bastard recognized The gallant friend of Orleans, the brave chief Du Chastel; and, the mutual greeting pass'd, They on the streamlet's mossy bank reclined Beside him, and his frugal fare partook, And drank the running waters.
For the Court, Dunois ?» exclaim'd the aged Knight; I deem'd thee far away, coop'd in the walls Of Orleans; a hard siege her valiant sons Right loyally endure!»
« I left the town,»> Dunois replied, thinking that my prompt speed Might seize the hostile stores, and with fresh force Re-enter. Fastolfe's better fate prevail'd,45 And from the field of shame my maddening horse Bore me, for the barb'd arrow gored his flank. Fatigued and faint with that day's dangerous toil, My deep wounds bleeding, vainly with weak hand I check'd the powerless rein. Nor aught avail'd When heal'd at length, defeated and alone Again to enter Orleans. In Lorraine
I sought to raise new powers, and now return'd
With strangest and most unexpected aid Sent by high Heaven. I seek the Court, and thence To that beleaguer'd town shall lead such force, That the proud English in their fields of blood Shall perish.>>
<< I too,» Tanneguy replied,
« In the field of battle once again perchance May serve my royal Master; in his cause My youth adventured much, nor can my age Find better close than in the clang of arms To die for him whom I have lived to serve. 46 Thou art for the Court; Son of the Chief I loved! Be wise by my experience. He who seeks Court favour, ventures like the boy who leans Over the brink of some high precipice
To reach the o'erhanging fruit. 47 Thou seest me here A banish'd man, Dunois! 48 so to appease Richemont, 49 who, jealous of the royal ear, With midnight murder leagues, and down the Loire Rolls the black carcase of his strangled foe. Now confident of strength, at the King's feet
He stabs the King's best friends, and then demands, As with a conqueror's imperious tone,
The post of honour. Son of that loved Chief Whose death my arm avenged, 50 all thy days may Be happy! serve thy country in the field, And in the hour of peace amid thy friends Dwell thou without ambition.»
They journey on their way till Chinon's towers Rose to the distant view; imperial seat
Of Charles, for Paris with her servile sons,
A headstrong, mutable, ferocious race, Bow'd to the invader's yoke, since that sad hour 51 When Faction o'er her streets with giant stride
Strode terrible, and Murder and Revenge,
As by the midnight torches' lurid light
They mark'd their mangled victims writhe convulsed, Laugh'd at the deep death groan.
Through many a dark age drench'd with innocent blood, And one day doom'd to know the damning guilt
Of BRISSOT murder'd, and the heroic wife Of ROLAND! Martyr'd patriots, spirits pure, Wept by the good ye fell! Yet still survives, Sown by your toil and by your blood manured, The imperishable seed; and still its roots Spread, and strike deep, and yet shall it become That Tree beneath whose shade the Sons of Men Shall pitch their tents in peace.
In Paris now The invader triumph'd. On an infant's head Had Bedford placed the crown of Charlemagne, And factious nobles bow'd the subject knee In homage to their King, their baby Lord, Their cradled mighty one!
« Beloved of Heaven,» So spake the Son of Orleans as they pass'd,
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