Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Read online

  Betaking them, for now the night drew on.

  JOAN OF ARC. THE EIGHTH BOOK.

  Now was the noon of night, and all was still,

  Save where the sentinel paced on his rounds

  Humming a broken song. Along the camp

  High flames the frequent fire. The Frenchmen there,

  On the bare earth extended, rest their limbs 5

  Fatigued, their spears lay by them, and the shield

  Pillow’d the helmed head: secure they slept,

  And busy in their dreams they fought again

  The fight of yesterday.

  But not to Joan,

  But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid, 10

  Soother of sorrows, Sleep I no more her pulse,

  Amid the battle’s tumult throbbing fast,

  Allow’d no pause for thought. With clasp’d hands now

  And with fix’d eyes she sat, and in her mind

  The spectres of the days departed rose, 15

  A melancholy train! Upon the gale

  The raven’s croak was heard; she started then,

  And passing through the camp with hasty step

  She sought the field of blood.

  The night was calm;

  Nor ever clearer welkin canopied 20

  Chaldea, while the watchful shepherd’s eye

  Survey’d the host of heaven, and mark’d them rise

  Successive, and successively decay,

  Lost in the stream of light, as lesser springs

  Amid Euphrates’ current. The high wall 25

  Cast a deep shadow, and the Maiden’s feet

  Stumbled o’er carcasses and broken arms;

  And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan

  Of one yet struggling in the pangs of death.

  She reach’d the spot where Theodore was slain 30

  Before Fort London’s gate; but vainly there

  Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold face

  Gazing with such a look as though she fear’d

  The thing she sought. And much she marvell’d then,

  For there the victim of his vengeful arm, 35

  And close beside where he himself had fallen,

  Known by the buckler’s blazon’d heraldry,

  Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stood

  Looking around the plain, she mark’d a man

  Pass slowly on, as burthen’d. Him to aid 40

  She sped, and soon with unencumber’d speed

  O’ertaking, thus bespake him: “Dost thou bear

  Some slaughter’d friend? or is it one whose wounds

  Leave yet a hope of life? oh! if he lives,

  I will with earnest prayer petition heaven 45

  To shed its healing on him!”

  So she said,

  And as she spake stretch’d forth her careful hands

  To ease the burthen. “Warrior!” he replied,

  “Thanks for thy proffer’d aid: but he hath ceased

  To suffer, and my strength may well suffice 50

  To bear him hence for burial. Fare thee well!

  The night is far advanced; thou to the camp

  Return: it fits not darkling thus to stray.”

  “Conrade!” the Maid exclaim’d, for well she knew

  His voice:...With that she fell upon his neck 55

  And cried, “my Theodore!... But wherefore thus

  Through the dead midnightdost thou bear his corse?”

  “Peace, Maiden!” C onrade cried,
  He is but gone before thee to that world

  Whither thou soon must follow! Yestermorn, 60

  Ere yet from Orleans to the war we went,

  He pour’d his tale of sorrow on mine ear.

  Lo, Conrade, where she moves! beloved Maid!

  Devoted for the realm of France she goes,

  Abandoning for this the joys of life, 65

  Yea.. life itself! Yet on my heart her words

  Vibrate. If she must perish in the war,

  I will not live to bear the thought that I

  Perhaps might have preserved her. I will go

  In secret to protect her. If I fall,.. 70

  And trust me I have little love of life...

  Do thou in secret bear me from the field,

  Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye

  A mangled corpse. She must not know my fate.

  Do this last act of friendship, and in the stream 75

  Cast me,.. she then may think of Theodore

  Without a pang.” Maiden, I vow’d with him

  To take our place in battle by thy side,

  And make thy safety our peculiar care.

  And now I hoped thou hadst not seen him fall.” 80

  Saying thus he laid the body on the ground.

  With steady eye the wretched Maiden view’d

  That life-left tenement: his batter’d arms

  Were with the night-dews damp; his brown hair clung

  Gore-clotted in the wound, and one loose lock 85

  Play’d o’er his cheek’s black paleness. ‘‘Gallant youth!”

  She cried, “I would to God the hour were come

  When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss!

  No, Theodore! the sport of winds and waves

  Thy body shall not float adown the stream! 90

  Bear him with me to Orleans, there to rest

  In holy ground, where priests may say their prayers

  And hymn the requiem to his parted soul.

  So will not Elinor in bitterness

  Lament that no dear friend to her dead child 95

  Paid the last office.”

  From the earth they lift

  Their mournful burthen, and along the plain

  Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate.

  The obedient sentinel, knowing Conrade’s voice,

  Admits them at that hour, and on they go, 100

  Till in the neighbouring abbey’s porch arrived

  They rest the lifeless load.

  Loud rings the bell;

  The awaken’d porter turns the heavy door.

  To him the Virgin! “Father, from the slain

  On yonder field, a dear-loved friend we bring 105

  Hither for Christian sepulture: chant ye

  The requiem to his soul: to-morrow eve

  I will return, and in the narrow house

  Will see him laid to rest.” The father knew

  The Prophetess, and humbly bow’d assent. 110

  Now from the city, o’er the shadowy plain,

  Backward they bend their way. From silent thoughts

  The Maid awakening cried, “There was a time,

  When thinking on my closing hour of life, 114

  Though with a mind resolved, some natural fears

  Shook my weak frame: but now the happy hour,

  When this emancipated soul shall burst

  The cumbrous fetters of mortality,

  I look for wishfully. Conrade! my friend,

  This wounded heart would feel another pang 120

  Shouldst thou forsake me.”

  “Joan!” the chief replied,

  “Along the weary pilgrimage of life

  Together will we journey, and beguile

  The painful way with hope,.. such hope as fix’d

  On heavenly things, brings with it no deceit, 125

  Lays up no food for sorrow, and endures

  From disappointment safe.”

  Thus communing

  They reach’d the camp, yet hush’d; there separating,

  Each in the post allotted, restless waits 129

  The day-break.

  Morning came: dim through the shade

  The twilight glimmers; soon the brightening clouds

  Imbibe the rays, and o’er the landscape spread

  The dewy light. The soldiers from the earth

  Arise invigorate, and each his food

  Receives, impatien
t to renew the war. 135

  Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points,

  “Soldiers of France! behold your foes are there!”

  As when a band of hunters, round the den

  Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate

  In hope of conquest and the future feast, 140

  When on the hospitable board their spoil

  Shall smoke, and they, as foaming bowls go round,

  Tell to their guests their exploits in the chase;

  They with their shouts of exultation make

  The forest ring; so elevate of heart, 145

  With such loud clamours for the fierce assault

  The French prepare. Nor, keeping now the lists

  Dare the disheartened English man to man

  Meet the close conflict. From the barbican,

  Or from the embattled wall at random they 150

  Their arrows and their death-fraught enginery

  Discharged; meantime the Frenchmen did not cease

  With well-directed shafts their loftier foes

  To assail: behind the guardian pavais fenced,

  They at the battlements their arrows aim’d, 155

  Showering an iron storm, whilst o’er the bayle,

  The bayle now levell’d by victorious France,

  The assailants pass’d with all their mangonels;

  Or tortoises, beneath whose roofing safe,

  They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers

  Make fit foundation; or with petraries, 161

  War-wolves, and beugles, and that murderous sling

  The matafund, from whence the ponderous stone

  Made but one wound of him whom in its way,

  It met; no pious hand might then compose 165

  The crush’d and mangled corpse to be conveyed

  To where his fathers slept: a dreadful train

  Prepared by Salisbury o’er the town besieged

  For hurling ruin; but that dreadful train

  Must hurl its ruin on the invader’s head, 170

  Such retribution righteous heaven decreed.

  Nor lie the English trembling, for the fort

  Was ably garrison’d. Glacidas, the chief,

  A gallant man, sped on from place to place

  Cheering the brave; or if an archer’s hand, 175

  Palsied, with fear, shot wide his ill-aim’d shaft,

  Driving him from the ramparts with reproach

  And shame. He bore an arbalist himself,

  A weapon for its sure destructiveness

  Abominated once; wherefore of yore 180

  The assembled fathers of the Christian church

  Pronounced the man accursed whose impious hand

  Should use the murderous engine. Such decrees

  Befitted them as ministers of peace,

  To promulgate, and with a warning voice, 185

  To cry aloud and spare not, ‘woe to them

  Whose hands are full of blood!’

  An English king,

  The lion-hearted Richard, their decree

  First broke, and rightly was he doom’d to fall

  By that forbidden weapon; since that day 190

  Frequent in fields of battle, and from far

  To many a good knight bearing his death wound

  From hands unknown. With such an instrument

  Arm’d on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye

  Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance 195

  Darts not the hawk when from the feather’d tribe

  He marks his prey.

  A Frenchman for his aim

  He chose, who kneeling by the trebuchet,

  Charged its long sling with death. Him Glacidas

  Secure behind the battlements, beheld, 200

  And strung his bow; then bending on one knee,

  He in the groove the feather’d quarrel placed,

  And levelling with sure eye, his victim mark’d.

  The bow-string twang’d, swift on its way the dart

  Whizz’d, and it struck, there where the helmet’s clasps

  Defend the neck; a weak protection now, 206

  For through the tube which draws the breath of life

  Pierced the keen shaft; blood down the unwonted way

  Gush’d to the lungs: prone fell the dying man

  Grasping, convulsed, the earth; a hollow groan 210

  In his throat struggled, and the dews of death

  Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth

  He had pass’d peaceful, and had known what joys

  Domestic love bestows, the father once

  Of two fair children; in the city hemm’d 215

  During the siege, he had beheld their cheeks

  Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries

  For bread. His wife, a broken-hearted one,

  Sunk to the cold grave’s quiet, and her babes

  With hunger pined, and follow’d; he survived, 220

  A miserable man, and heard the shouts

  Of joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach’d,

  As o’er the corpse of his last little one

  He heap’d the unhallowed earth. To him the foe

  Perform’d a friendly part, hastening the hour 225

  Grief else had soon brought on.

  The English chief,

  Pointing again his arbalist, let loose

  The string; the quarrel, by that impact driven,

  True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struck

  Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix’d 230

  Deep in his liver; blood and mingled gall

  Flow’d from the wound, and writhing with keen pangs,

  Headlong he fell. He for the wintry hour

  Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale,

  A man in his small circle well-beloved. 235

  None better knew with prudent hand to guide

  The vine’s young tendrils, or at vintage time

  To press the full-swoln clusters; he, heart-glad,

  Taught his young boys the little all he knew,

  Enough for happiness. The English host 240

  Laid waste his fertile fields: he, to the war,

  By want compell’d, adventured, in his gore

  Now weltering.

  Nor the Gallic host remit

  Their eager efforts; some, the watery fence,

  Beneath the tortoise roof’d, with engines apt 245

  Drain painful; part, laden with wood, throw there

  Their buoyant burthens, labouring so to gain

  Firm footing: some the mangonels supply,

  Or charging with huge stones the murderous sling,

  Or petrary, or in the espringal 250

  Fix the brass-winged arrows: hoarse around

  The uproar and the din of multitudes

  Arose. Along the ramparts Gargrave went,

  Cheering the English troops; a bow he bore;

  The quiver rattled as he moved along. 255

  He knew aright to aim his feather’d shafts,

  Well-skill’d to pierce the mottled roebuck’s side,

  O’ertaken in his speed. Him passing on,

  A ponderous stone from some huge martinet,

  Struck: on his breast-plate falling, the huge weight

  Shattered the bone, and to his mangled lungs 261

  Drove in the fragments. On the gentle brow

  Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home,

  A stately mansion, far and wide from whence

  The sight ranged unimpeded, and survey’d 265

  Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety!

  The traveller knew its hospitable towers,

  For open were the gates, and blazed for all

  The friendly fire. By glory lured, the youth 269

  Went forth; and he had bathed his falchion’s edge

  In many a Frenchman’s blood; now crush’d beneath

  The ponderous fragments force, his lifeless limbs />
  Lie quivering.

  Lo! towards the levelled moat

  A moving tower the men of Orleans wheel

  Four stages elevate. Above was hung, 275

  Equalling the walls, a bridge; in the lower stage

  A battering-ram: within a chosen troop

  Of archers, through the opening, shot their shafts.

  In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepared

  To mount the rampart; for, no hunter he, 280

  He loved to see the dappled foresters

  Browze fearless on their lair, with friendly eye,

  And happy in beholding happiness,

  Not meditating death: the bowman’s art

  Therefore he little knew, nor was he wont 285

  To aim the arrow at the distant foe,

  But uprear in close conflict, front to front,

  His battle-axe, and break the shield and helm,

  First in the war of men. There too the Maid

  Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield 290

  Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower,

  Slow o’er the moat and steady, though the foe

  Shower’d there their javelins, aim’d their engines there,

  And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart

  Shot burning through the sky. In vain it flamed,

  For well with many a reeking hide secured, 296

  Pass’d on the dreadful pile, and now it reach’d

  The wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven,

  The iron-headed engine swings its stroke,

  Then back recoils; while they within who guide,

  In backward step collecting all their strength, 301

  Anon the massy beam with stronger arm

  Drive full and fierce. So rolls the swelling sea

  Its curly billows to the unmoved foot

  Of some huge promontory, whose broad base 305

  Breaks the rough wave; the shiver’d surge rolls back,

  Till, by the coming billow borne, it bursts

  Again, and foams with ceaseless violence:

  The wanderer, on the sunny clift outstretch’d,

  Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock 310

  His weary senses to forgetfulness.

  But nearer danger threats the invaders now,

  For on the ramparts, lower’d from above

  The bridge reclines. An universal shout

  Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant French

  Break out in loud rejoicing, whilst the foe 316

  Raise a responsive cry, and call aloud

  For speedy succour there, with deafening shout

  Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din

  The mountain-torrent flings precipitate 320