Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Read online

  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 180

  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! 185

  You know not, strangers, what it is to see

  The asking eye of hunger!

  “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, 190

  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 prajer. Day after day pass’d on; 195

  We heard no voice of comfort. From the walls

  Could we behold their savage Irish Kerns,

  Ruffians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptized,

  Come with their spoil, mingling their hideous shouts

  With moan of weary flocks, and piteous low 200

  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 cries

  Of famishing infants echoed,.. and we heard, 205

  With the strange selfishness of misery,

  We heard, and heeded not.

  “Thou wouldst 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 bravely! Blanchard still

  Spske of the obdurate temper of the foe, 212

  Of Harfleur’s wretched people driven out

  Houseless and destitute, while that stem King

  Knelt at the altar, and with impious prayer 215

  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 w hat the gallant sons of Caen, by him, 220

  In cold blood slaughter’d: then his scanty food

  Sharing with the most wretched, he would bid us

  Bear with our miseries manfully.

  “Thus press’d,

  Lest all should perish thus, our chiefs decreed

  Women and children, the infirm and old, 225

  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. 230

  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, 235

  He groan’d and curs’d in bitterness of heart

  That merciless King. 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

  That I might lose remembrance!

  “What is man

  That he can hear the groan of wretchedness 241

  And feel no fleshly pang! Why did the All-Good

  Create these warrior scourges of mankind,

  These who delight in slaughter? I did think

  There was not on this earth a heart so hard 245

  Could hear a famish’d woman ask for food,

  And feel no pity. As the outcast train

  Drew near, relentless Henry bade his troops

  Drive back the miserable multitude.

  They drove them to the walls;... it was the depth

  Of winter,... we had no relief to grant. 251

  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

  Rose from her seat,.. “The old and the infirm, 255

  The mother and her babes!.. and yet no lightning

  Blasted this man!”

  “Aye, Lady,” Bertram cried,

  “And when we sent the herald to implore

  His mercy on the helpless, his stern face

  Assum’d a sterner smile of callous scorn, 260

  And he replied in mockery. On the wall

  I stood and watch’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 266

  Blew bleak; fainter they grew, and at the last

  All was still, save that ever and anon

  Some mother raised o’er her expiring child

  A cry of frenzying anguish.

  “From that hour

  On all the busy turmoil of the world 271

  I look’d with strange indifference; bearing want

  With the sick patience of a mind worn out

  Nor when the traitor yielded up our town

  Aught heeded I as through our ruin’d streets, 275

  Through putrid heaps of famish’d carcases,

  The pomp of triumph pass’d. One pang alone

  I felt, when by that cruel King’s command

  The gallant Blanchard died: calmly he died,

  And as he bow’d beneath the axe, thank’d God 280

  That he had done his duty.

  “I survive,

  A solitary, friendless, wretched one,

  Knowing no joy save in the certain hope

  That I shall soon be gather’d to my sires,

  And soon repose, there where the wicked cease

  From troubling, and the weary are at rest.” 286

  “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, 290

  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 295

  Their ministers of death, and 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: God shall hear

  The widow’s groan.”

  “I saw him,” Bertram cried,

  “Henry of Agincourt, this mighty King, 302

  Go to his grave. The long procession pass’d

  Slowly from town to town, and when I heard

  The deep-toned dirge, and saw the banners wave

  A pompous shade, and the tall torches cast 306

  In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light,

  I thought what he had been on earth who now

  Was gone to his account, and blest my God

  I was not such as he!”

  So spake the old man, 310

  And then his guests betook them to repose
.

  JOAN OF ARC. THE THIRD BOOK.

  FAIR dawn’d the morning, and the early sun

  Pour’d on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam,

  And up the travellers rose, and on their way

  Hasten’d, their dangerous way, through fertile tracks

  Laid waste by war. They pass’d the Auxerrois; 5

  The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth

  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 10

  Where he had slumber’d at his master’s feet

  Weeds grew and reptiles crawl’d. Or if they found

  Sometimes a welcome, those who welcomed them

  Were old and helpless creatures, lingering there

  Where they were bom, and where they wish’d to die,

  The place being all that they had left to love. 16

  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 21

  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 recognised 25

  That faithful friend of Orleans, the brave chief

  Du Chastel; and their mutual greeting pass’d,

  They on the streamlet’s mossy bank reclined

  Beside him, and his frugal fare partook, 29

  And drank the running waters.

  “Art thou bound

  For the Court, Dunois?” exclaim’d the aged Knight;

  “I thought thou hadst been far away, shut up

  In Orleans, where her valiant sons the siege

  Right loyally endure!”

  “I left the town,”

  Dunois replied, “thinking that my prompt speed

  Might seize the enemy’s stores, and with fresh force

  Re-enter. Fastolffe’s better fate prevail’d, 37

  And from the field of shame my maddening horse

  Bore me, an arrow having pierced his flank.

  Worn out 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 42

  When heal’d at length, defeated and alone

  Again to enter Orleans. In Lorraine

  I sought to raise new powers, and now return’d 45

  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.” 50

  “I too,” Tanneguy reply’d,

  In the field of battle once again perchance

  May serve my royal Master; in his cause

  My youth adventur’d much, nor can my age

  Find better close than in the clang of arms 55

  To die for him whom I have lived to serve.

  Thou art for the Court. Son of the Chief I loved!

  Be wise by my experience. He who seeks

  Court-favour, ventures like a boy who leans

  Over the brink of some high precipice 60

  To reach the o’er-hanging fruit. Thou seest me here

  A banish’d man, Dunois! so to appease

  Richemont, who jealous of the royal ear,

  With midnight murder leagues, and down the Loire

  Sends the black carcass of his strangled foe. 65

  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 good Duke

  Whose death my arm avenged, may all thy days 70

  Be happy; serve thy country in the field,

  But in the hour of peace amid thy friends

  Dwell thou without ambition.”

  So he spake.

  But when the Bastard told his wonderous tale,

  How interposing Heaven had its high aid 75

  Vouchsafed to France, the old man’s eyes flash’d fire,

  And rising from the bank, his ready steed

  That grazed beside he mounted. “Farewell friend,

  And thou, the Delegate of Heaven!” he cried.

  “I go to do my part, and we shall meet 80

  At Orleans.” Saying thus, he spurr’d away.

  They journey on their way till Chinons towers

  Rose on the distant view; the royal seat

  Of Charles, while Paris with her servile sons,

  A headstrong, mutable, ferocious race, 85

  Bow’d to the invader’s yoke; City even then

  Above all Cities noted for dire deeds!

  Yet doom’d to be the scene of blacker guilt,

  Opprobry more enduring, crimes that call’d

  For heavier vengeance, than in those dark days 90

  When the Burgundian faction fill’d thy streets

  With carnage. Twice hast thou since then been made

  A horror and a warning to all lands;

  When kingly power conspired with papal craft

  To plot and perpetrate that massacre, 95

  Which neither change of kalendar, nor lapse

  Of time, shall hide from memory, or efface;

  And when in more enlighten’d days,.. so deem’d,

  So vaunted,.. the astonish’d nations saw

  A people, to their own devices left, 100

  Therefore as by judicial frenzy stricken,

  Lawless and godless, fill the whole wide realm

  With terror, and with wickedness and woe,..

  A more astounding judgement than when Heaven

  Shower’d on the cities of the accursed plain 105

  Its fire and sulphur down.

  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,

  And own’d an English infant for their King, 110

  False to their own liege Lord.

  “Beloved of Heaven,”

  Then said the Son of Orleans to the Maid,

  “Lo these the walls of Chinon, this the abode

  Of Charles our monarch. Here in revelry

  He of his armies vanquish’d, his fair towns 115

  Subdued, hears careless and prolongs the dance.

  And little marvel I that to the cares

  Of empire still he turns the unwilling ear,

  For loss on loss, defeat upon defeat,

  His strong holds taken, and his bravest Chiefs 120

  Or slain or captured, and the hopes of youth

  All blasted have subdued the royal mind

  Undisciplined in Fortitude’s stern school.

  So may thy voice arouse his sleeping virtue!”

  The mission’d Maid replied, “Do thou, Dunois,

  Announce my mission to the royal ear. 126

  I on the river’s winding bank the while

  Will roam, collecting for the interview

  My thoughts, though firm, yet troubled. Who essays

  Achievements of great import will perforce 130

  Feel the heart heave; and in my breast I own

  Such perturbation.”

  On the banks of Vienne

  Devious the Damsel turn’d, while through the gate

  The Son of Orleans press’d with hasty step

  To seek the King. Him from the public view 135

  He found secluded with
his blameless Queen,

  And his partaker of the unlawful bed,

  The lofty-minded Agnes.

  “Son of Orleans!”

  So as he enter’d cried the haughty fair,

  Thou art well come to witness the disgrace, 140

  The weak, unmanly, base despondency

  Of this thy Sovereign Liege. He will retreat

  To distant Dauphiny and fly the war!

  Go then, unworthy of thy rank! retreat

  To distant Dauphiny, and fly the war, 145

  Recreant from battle! I will not partake

  A fugitive’s fate; when thou hast lost thy crown

  Thou losest Agnes. — Do’st not blush, Dunois!

  To bleed in combat for a Prince like this,

  Fit only like the Merovingian race 150

  On a May morning deck’d with flowers, to mount

  His gay-bedizen’d car, and ride abroad

  And make the multitude a holiday.

  Go Charles! and hide thee in a woman’s garb,

  And these long locks will not disgrace thee then! 155

  “Nay, Agnes!” Charles replied, “reproach me not!

  I have enough of sorrow. Look around,

  See this fair country ravaged by the foe,

  My strong holds taken, and my bravest friends

  Fallen in the field, or captives far away. 160

  Dead is the Douglas; cold thy gallant heart,

  Illustrious Buchan! ye from Scotland’s hills,

  Not mindless of your old ally distress’d,

  Came to his succour; in his cause ye fought, 165

  For him ye perish’d. Rash impetuous Narbonne!

  Thy mangled corse waves to the winds of Heaven.

  Cold, Graville, is thy sinewy arm in death;

  Fallen is Ventadaur; silent in the grave

  Rambouillet sleeps. Bretagne’s unfaithful chief

  Leagues with my foes; and Richemont,’or in arms 170

  Defies my weak controul, or from my side,

  A friend more dreaded than the enemy,

  Scares my best servants with the assassin’s sword.

  Soon must beleaguer’d Orleans fall. — But now

  A truce to these sad thoughts! We are not yet 175

  So utterly despoil’d but we can spread

  The friendly board, and giving thee, Dunois,

  Such welcome as befits thy father’s son

  Win from our public cares a day for joy.

  Dunois replied, “So may thy future years 180

  Pass from misfortune free, as all these ills

  Shall vanish like a vision of the night!

  I come to thee the joyful messenger