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, hiding the burning shame Which flush'd his face. "But he shall live, Dunois," The mission'd Maid replied; "but he shall live 55 To hear good tidings; hear of liberty,
Of his own liberty, by his brother's arm Atchieved in well-won battle. He shall live Happy, the memory of his prison'd years Shall heighten all his joys, and his grey hairs Go to the grave in peace."
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 our 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! 70 There was not one who on that fatal day
"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 80 Their conquerors!"
"Yet believe not," Bertram cried,
"That cowardice disgraced thy countrymen! They by their leaders arrogance led on
With heedless fury, found all numbers vain, All effort fruitless there; and hadst thou seen, 85 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 Thick as the snow-flakes and with lightning force; Thou wouldst have known such soldiers, such 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 turn on the defenceless prisoners The cruel 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, 100 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 weapon. Then I look'd for 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. But the brave 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 Childless and old to think upon the past, And wish that I had perish'd!"
Wept as he spake. "Ye may perhaps have heard Of the hard siege that Roan so long endur'd.
I dwelt there, strangers; I had then a wife, And I had children tenderly beloved, Who I did hope should cheer me in old age And close mine eyes. The tale of misery May-hap were tedious, or I could relate Much of that dreadful time."
Wishing of that devoted town to hear.
Thus then the veteran:
"So by Heaven preserved,
From the disastrous plain of Agincourt
I speeded homewards, and abode in peace. Henry, as wise as brave, had back to England Led his victorious army; well aware That France was mighty, that her warlike sons, Impatient of a foreigner's command, Might rise impetuous, and with multitudes Tread down the invaders. Wisely he return'd, For our proud barons in their private broils
Wasted the strength of France. I dwelt at home, And with the little I possess'd content, Lived happily. A pleasant sight it was To see my children, as at eve I sat
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 Would with such anxious eagerness attend The tale of life preserved, as made me feel Life's value. My poor children! a hard fate 145 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 his 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 154 To the sword! Again from England the fierce foe Came 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 warlike sons of Roan. 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 made them vow before Almighty God 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 wide intrenchments. From the watch-tower's top In vain with fearful hearts along the Seine We strain'd the eye, and every distant wave Which in the sun-beam glitter'd, fondly thought The white sail of supply. Alas! no more The white sail rose upon our aching sight; For guarded was the Seine, and our stern foe Had made a league with Famine. How my heart Sunk in me when at night I carried home The scanty pittance of to-morrow's meal! You know not, strangers, what it is to see The asking eye of hunger!
Expecting aid; nor longer force to force, Valour to valour, in the fight opposed, But to the exasperate patience of the foe, Desperate endurance. 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 pass'd on; 195
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