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 foe. Amid their host
Was one who well could from the stubborn yew
Send his sharp shafts; well skill'd in wood-craft he,
Even as the merry outlaws who their haunts 365
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, 371
And swift and strong the well-fledged arrow flew.
It pierced the shield, and reach'd, but reach'd in vain,
The breast-plate: while he fitted to the bow
A second arrow, Conrade raised his voice,
Shouting for timely succour to secure
The entrance he had gain'd. Nor was the call
Unheard, nor unobey'd; responsive shouts
Announced assistance nigh; the Orleanites
From St. Loup's captured fort along the wall 380
Sped to support him; cheering was the sound
Of their near footsteps to the chief; he drew
His falchion forth, and down the steps he went.
Then terror seized the English, for their foes
Press'd thro' the open portal, and the sword
Of Conrade was among them making way.
Not to the Trojans, when their ships were lost
More dreadful the Rutilian hero seem'd,
Then hoping well to right himself in arms;
Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris
Rush'd the fierce king of Sarza, Rodomont,
Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves
Spend their vain force, unshaken Conrade stood,
When drawing courage from despair the foe
Renew'd the contest. Through the throng he hew'd
His way unhurt amid the arrowy shower,
Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast,
As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling tree
The autumnal whirlwind shakes. Nor did he pause
Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand 401
Seized on the massy bolts. These as he drew,
Full on his helm a weighty English sword
Descended; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath,
When lo! the assailant gasping on the ground, 405
Cleft by the Maiden's falchion: she herself
To the foe opposing with her herald's aid,
For they alone, following the adventurous steps
Of Conrade, still kept pace as he advanced,
Shielded him while 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 held on high the bridge: down fell the bridge
Rebounding; the victorious troops rush'd in;
And from their walls the Orleanites with shouts
And tears of joy beheld on Fort St. John
Cried Conrade; "Xaintrailles! while the day endures Once more advance to certain victory!
Force ye the lists, and fill the moat, and bring 420
The battering-ram against their gates and walls.
Anon I shall be with you." Thus he said;
Then to the damsel. "Maid of Arc! awhile
Let thou and I withdraw, and by short rest
Renew our strength." So saying he his helm 425
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
Still panted from the fight: silent they lay,
And gratefully the cooling breezes bathed
Their throbbing temples.
The sun-beams on the gently-waving stream
Danced sparkling. Lost in thought the warrior lay,
Then as if wakening from a dream he said,
"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 hopes
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
Cast one upbraiding.. but to stoop to him!
A harlot!.. an adulteress ! "
Fierce anger flash'd; anon of what she was
Ere the contagious vices of the court
Polluted her, he thought.
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 plow,
What hollow moanings of the western wind
Foretell the storm, and in what lurid clouds
The embryo lightning lies. Well pleased, he taught,
A 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,
In his own ground, and underneath the tree
Which, planted at his birth, with him had grown,
And flourish'd in its strength when he decay'd, 476
They delved the narrow house: where oft at eve
Their children's children gathered round to hear
The example of his life and death impress'd.
Maiden! and such the evening of my days 480
Fondly I hoped; and would that I had lived
In those old times, or till some better age
for this is a hard race,
An evil generation; nor by day
Nor in the night have respite from their cares 485 And wretchedness. But I shall be at rest
Soon, in that better world of peace and love
Where evil is not: in that better world,
Joan we shall meet, and he too will be there,
Thy Theodore."
Soothed by his words, the Maid
Had listen'd sadly, till at that loved name
Nay, Maid!" he cried, "I did not think
yet pleasant is thy grief!
To wake a tear;.
Thou know'st not what it is, around thy heart
To have a false one wreathe in viper folds.
But to the battle! in the clang of arms,
He sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose
Bidding awhile adieu to gentle thoughts.
On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'd 500
England's proud capital to the English host,
Now half subdued, anticipating death,
And vainly wishing they from her white cliffs
Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creeps
Through every nerve: already they look round 505
With haggard eyes, as seeking where to fly,
Though Talbot there presided, with their chief,
The dauntless Salisbury.
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