Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Read online

‘Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely thence

  The skilful bowman, entering with his eye 21

  The city, might, himself the while unseen,

  Through the long opening aim his winged deaths.

  Loire’s waves diverted fill’d the deep-dug moat

  Circling the whole; a bulwark vast it was 25

  As that which round their camp and stranded ships

  The Achaians raised, a common sepulchre

  Of thousands slaughter’d, and the doom’d death-place

  Of many a chief, when Priam’s virtuous son

  Assail’d them, then in hope, with favouring Jove.

  But cowering now amid their sheltering forts 31

  Trembled the invading host. Their leader’s care

  In anxious vigilance prepares to ward

  The assault expected. Rightly he ared

  The Maid’s intent, but vainly did he seek 35

  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

  Defiled and unrepair’d, they sharpen’d not » 40

  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; 45

  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, 50

  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 grave theologists dismiss’d their doubts, 55

  So in the field of battle 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 60

  The lily on that shattered wall shall wave

  Triumphant. — Men of France I ye have fought well

  On yon blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foes

  Lurk trembling now behind their massy walls.

  Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock! 65

  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. 69

  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 famished,.. or his dear loved wife

  Torn from his bosom.. outcast.. broken-hearted..

  Cast on the mercy of mankind?”

  She ceased; 76

  A cry of indignation from the host

  Burst forth, and all impatient for the war

  Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays.

  In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war, 80

  Commands the first; Xaintrailles, who oftentimes

  Defeated, oft a prisoner, and as oft

  Released for ransom, both with friend and foe

  Growing repute of active hardihood,

  And martial skill obtained; so erst from earth 85

  Antæus vaunting in his giant bulk,

  When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell

  Vanquish’d, anon uprose more fierce for war.

  Gaucour the second battle led, true friend

  And faithful servant of the imprison’d Duke; 90

  In counsel provident, in action prompt,

  Collected always, always self-controul’d,

  He from the soldiers’ confidence and love

  Prompter obedience gain’d, than ever fear

  Forced from the heart reluctant.

  The third band

  Alençon leads. On Verneuil’s fatal field 96

  The day when Buchan and the Douglas died,

  Wounded and senseless with the loss of blood,

  He fell, and there being found, was borne away

  A prisoner, in the ills of that defeat 100

  Participant, partaking not the shame:

  But for his rank and high desert, the King

  Had ransom’d him, doom’d now to meet the foe

  With better fortune.

  O’er the last presides

  The bastard son of Orleans, great in arms. 105

  His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame

  Acknowledged, since before his stripling arm

  Fled Warwick; Warwick, he whose wide renown

  Greece knew and Antioch and the holy soil

  Of Palestine, since there in arms he went 110

  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

  Parthenopæus, when the war of beasts 115

  Disdaining, he to cope with men went 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. 119

  Loup’s was the nearest fort. Here Gladdisdale

  Commands the English, who as the enemy

  Moved to the assault, from bow and arbalist

  Their shafts and quarrels shower’d. Nor did they use

  Hand-weapons only and hand-engines here,

  Nor by the arm alone, or bow-string sped 125

  The missile flew, but driven by the strain’d force

  Of the balista, in one body spent

  Stay’d not; through arms and men it made its way,

  And leaving death behind, still held its course 129

  By many a death unclogg’d. With rapid march

  Onward the assailants came, and now they reach’d

  Where by the bayle’s embattled wall in arms

  The knights of England stood. There Poynings shook

  His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace

  For the death-blow prepared. Alençon here, 135

  And here the Bastard came, and by the Maid,

  That daring man who to the English host

  Then insolent of many a conquest gain’d,

  Had borne her bidding. A rude coat of mail

  Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line 140

  He wore, though here amid the high-born chiefs

  Pre-eminent for prowess. On his head

  A black plume shadow’d the rude-featured helm.

  Then was the war of men, when front to front

  They rear’d the hostile hand, for low the wall 145

  Where an assailant’s upward-driven spear

  Might reach his enemy.

  As Alençon moved,

  On his crown-crested helm with ponderous blow

  Fell Gladdisdale’s huge maee. Back he recoil’d

  Astounded; soon recovering, his sharp lance 150

  Thrust on the warrior’s shield: there fast-infixed,

  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 155

  Fell full; it shiver’d, and the Frenchman held

  A pointless tr
uncheon. Where the Bastard fought,

  The spear of Poynings, through his plated mail

  Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath

  Blunted its point. Again he thrust the spear; 160

  At once Dunois on his broad buckler met

  The unharming stroke, and aim’d with better hap

  His javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce

  Maugre the mail: hot from the streaming wound

  He pluck’d the weapon forth, and in his breast 165

  Clean through the hauberk drove.

  But there the war

  Raged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved

  A minister of wrath; for thither throng’d

  The bravest champions of the adverse host.

  And on her either side two warriors stood 170

  Protecting her, and aiming at her foes

  Watchful their weapons, of themselves the while

  Little regarding: on the one side he

  Who to the English had her bidding borne;

  Firmly he stood, untired and undismay’d, 175

  Though many a spear against his burgonet

  Was thrust, and on his arm the buckler hung

  Heavy, thick-bristled with the hostile shafts,

  Even like a porcupine when in his rage

  Roused, he collects within him all his force, 180

  Himself a quiver. On the other hand

  Competing with him to protect the Maid,

  Conrade maintain’d the fight; at all points arm’d,

  A jazerent of double mail he wore,

  Its weight in little time had wearied one 185

  Of common strength; but unencumber’d he

  And unfatigued, alertly moved in it,

  And wielded with both hands a battle-axe,

  Which gave no second stroke; for where it fell,

  Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail 190

  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 his fall the enemy, 195

  Stricken with instantaneous fear, gave way.

  That instant Conrade, with an active bound,

  Sprung on the battlements; and there he stood,

  Keeping the ascent. The herald and the Maid

  Follow’d, and soon the exulting cry of France 200

  Along the lists was heard, as there they saw

  Her banner planted. Gladdisdale beheld,

  And hastened from his well-defended post,

  That where immediate danger more required

  There he might take his stand; against the Maid

  He bent his way, and hoped one happy blow 206

  Might end at once the new-raised hopes of France,

  And by her death, to the English arms their old

  Ascendancy restore. Nor did not Joan

  A reed his purpose, but with lifted shield 210

  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,

  And Gladdisdale with his collected strength

  Impell’d the blow. The man of lowly line 215

  That instant rush’d between, and rear’d his shield

  And met the broken stroke, and thrust his lance

  Clean through the gorget of the English knight.

  A gallant man, of no ignoble line,

  Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace; 220

  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,

  And to their ancient burial-place were borne 224

  With book and bell, torches, and funeral chaunt;

  And duly for their souls the neighbouring monks

  The solemn office sung. Now far away

  Their offspring falls, the last of all his race,

  Slain in a foreign land, and doom’d to share

  A common grave.

  Then terror seized the host, 230

  Their chieftain dead. And lo! where on the wall,

  Maintain’d of late by Gladdisdale so well,

  The Son of Orleans stands, and sways around

  His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe,

  Till on the battlements his comrades climb 235

  And raise 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 240

  Press’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 245

  Pass’d in the flying conflict.

  Well I deem

  And wisely did the heroic 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 251

  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, 255

  Fierce in vain valour, on their dreadful foes.

  There was a portal in the English fort

  Which open’d on the wall; a speedier path

  In the hour of safety, whence the soldiers eye

  Might overlook the river’s pleasant course. 260

  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 265

  (Lest upon friend and enemy alike

  The indiscriminating blow should light,)

  Could give no aid, the English of that way

  Bethought them; by that egress they forsook

  St. Loup’s, and the Orleanites with shouts of joy

  Beheld the Virgin’s banner on its height 271

  In triumph planted. Swift along the wall

  The English haste to St. John’s neighbouring fort,

  Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuit

  The victors ceased, but with the fugitives 275

  Mingled and waged the war; and combatants,

  Lock’d in each other’s grasp, together fell

  Precipitate.

  But foremost of the French,

  Dealing destruction, Conrade made his way

  Along the wall, and to the nearest fort 280

  Came in pursuit; nor did not then the chief

  What most might serve bethink him; but he took

  His stand in the portal, and first looking back,

  Lifted his voice aloud; three times he raised,

  Cheering and calling on his countrymen, 285

  That voice o’er all the uproar heard afar,

  Then to the strife addrest himself, assail’d

  By numerous foes, who clamorously now

  Menaced his single person. He the while

  Stood firm, not vainly confident, or rash, 290

  But in his vantage more than his own strength

  Trusting; for narrow was the portal way,

  To one alone fit passage, from above

  Not overbrow’d by jutting parapet,

  Whence aught might crush him. He in double mail

  Was arm’d; a massy burgone
t, well tried 296

  In many a hard-fought field, helming his head;

  And fenced with iron plates, a buckler broad

  Hung from his neck. Nor to dislodge the chief.

  Could the English bring their numbers, for the way

  By upward steps presented from the fort 301

  A 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 305

  A single warrior, who at length must sink

  Fatigued with slaughter, and by toil foredone

  Succumb.

  There was amid the garrison

  A gallant knight who at Verneuil had fought,

  And good renown for feats of arms achieved 310

  Had gain’d in that day’s victory. For him

  His countrymen made way, and he his lance

  Thrust upward against Conrade, who perceived

  The intent, and as the weapon touch’d his shield

  Smote with his battle-axe the ashen shaft; 315

  Then plucking from the shield the severed head,

  He threw it back. With wary bend the foe

  Shrunk from the flying death; yet not in vain

  From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon flew:

  Full on the corslet of a meaner man 320

  It fell, and pierced him 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 325

  Grasp’d his long pike. Of unrecorded name

  The soldier died; and yet he left behind

  One who then never said her daily prayers

  Of him forgetful; who to every tale

  Of the distant war lending an eager ear, 330

  Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door

  The wretched one shall sit, and with fix’d eye

  Gaze on the path, where on his parting steps

  Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know

  Her husband dead, but cherishing a hope, 335

  Whose falsehood inwardly she knows too well,

  Feel life itself with that false hope decay;

  And wake at night from miserable dreams

  Of his return, and weeping o’er her babe,

  Too surely think that soon that fatherless child 340

  Must of its mother also be bereft.

  Dropping his broken spear, the exasperate knight

  Drew forth the sword, and up the steps advanced,

  Like one who disregarded in his strength