Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 8

  The Monarch sate, nor could endure to face

  His bosom-probing frown. The Maid of Arc 265

  Meantime had read his features, and she cried

  “I know thee, Conrade!” Rising from her seat,

  She took his hand, for he stood motionless,

  Gazing on Agnes now with steady eye, 269

  Severe though calm: him from the Court she drew,

  And to the river side resisting not,

  Both sad and silent, led; till at the last

  As from a dream awaking, Conrade look’d

  Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck, 274

  He wept.

  “I know thee, Damsel!” he exclaim’d,

  “Dost thou remember that tempestuous night,

  When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought

  Your hospitable door? ah me! I then

  Was happy! you too sojourn’d then in peace.

  Fool that I was! I blamed such happiness, 280

  Arraign’d it as a guilty selfish sloth,

  Unhappily prevailing, so I fear me,

  Or why art thou at Chinon?”

  Him the Maid

  Answering, address’d, “I do remember well,

  That night; for then the holy Spirit first, 285

  Waked by thy words, possess’d me.”

  Conrade cried,

  “Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst lived

  Blessing and blest, if I had never stray’d,

  Needlessly rigid from my peaceful path. 289

  And thou hast left thine home then, and obey’d

  The feverish fancies of an ardent brain!

  And hast thou left him too, the youth whose eye

  For ever glancing on thee, spake so well

  Affection’s eloquent tale?”

  So as he said,

  Hush’d the warm purple to the Virgin’s cheek. 295

  “I am alone,” she answered, “for this realm

  Devoted.” Nor to answer more the Maid

  Endured, for many a melancholy thought

  Throng’d on her aching memory. Her mind’s eye

  Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc: 300

  Her burthen’d heart was full; such grief she felt

  Yet such sweet solacing of self-applause

  As cheers a banish’d Patriot’s lonely hours

  When Fancy pictures to him all he loved,

  Till the big tear-drop rushes o’er its orb, 305

  And drowns the soft enchantment.

  With a look’

  That spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed

  The silent Maid; nor would the Maid repress

  The thoughts that swell’d within her, or from him

  Hide her soul’s workings. “’Twas on the last day

  Before I left Domremi; eve had closed, 311

  I sate beside the brook, my soul was full,

  As if inebriate with Divinity.

  Then Conrade! I beheld a ruffian herd

  Circle a flaming pile, where at the stake 315

  A woman stood; the iron bruised her breast,

  And round her limbs half-garmented, the fire

  Curl’d its fierce flakes. I saw her countenance,

  I knew MYSELF.” Then, in a tone subdued 319

  Of calmness, “There are moments when the soul

  From her own impulse with strange dread recoils,

  Suspicious of herself; but with a full

  And perfect faith I know this vision sent

  From Heaven, and feel of its unerring truth,

  As that God liveth, that I live myself, 325

  The feeling that deceives not.”

  By the hand

  Her Conrade held and cried, “Ill-fated Maid,

  That I have torn thee from affection’s breast,

  My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve

  Like me, the worthless Court, and having served,

  In the hour of ill abandon’d, thou wilt curse 331

  The duty that deluded. Of the world

  Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow-men,

  I shall be seen no more. There is a path...

  The eagle hath not mark’d it, the young wolf 335

  Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod

  That path, and found a melancholy den,

  Fit place for penitence and hopeless woe,

  Where sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,

  Conrade may pass his few and evil days, 340

  Waiting the wish’d-for summons to lay down

  His weary load of life.”

  But then the Maid

  Fix’d on the warrior her reproving eye;

  “I pass’d the fertile Auxerrois,” she said,

  “The vines had spread their interwoven shoots

  Over the unpruned vineyards, and the grape 346

  Rotted beneath the leaves; for there was none

  To tread the vintage, and the birds of Heaven

  Had had their fill. I saw the cattle start

  As they did hear the loud alarum bell, 350

  And with a piteous moaning vainly seek

  To fly the coming slaughterers. I look’d back

  Upon the cottage where I had partaken

  The peasant’s meal,.. and saw it wrapt in flames.

  And then I thank’d my God that I had burst 355

  The ties, strong as they are, which bind us down

  To selfish happiness, and on this earth

  Was as a pilgrim... Conrade! rouse thyself!

  Cast the weak nature off! A time like this

  Is not for gentler feelings, for the glow 360

  Of love, the overflowings of the heart

  There is oppression in thy country, Conrade!

  There is a cause, a holy cause, that needs

  The brave man’s aid. Live for it, and enjoy

  Earth’s noblest recompense, thine own esteem;

  Or die in that good cause, and thy reward 366

  Shall sure be found in Heaven.”

  He answer’d not,

  But pressing to his heart the virgin’s hand,

  Hasten’d across the plain. She with dim eyes,

  For gushing tears obscured them, follow’d him 370

  Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought

  Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne

  Awhile she wander’d, then upon the bank

  She laid her down, and watch’d the tranquil stream

  Flow with a quiet murmuring, by the clouds 375

  Of evening purpled. The perpetual flow,

  The ceaseless murmuring, lull’d her to such dreams

  As memory in her melancholy mood

  Loves best. The wonted scenes of Arc arose;

  She saw the forest brook, the weed that waved 380

  Its long green tresses in the stream, the crag

  Which overbrow’d the spring, and that old yew

  Which through the bare and rifted rock had forced

  Its twisted trunk, the berries cheerful red 384

  Starring its gloomy green. Her pleasant home

  She saw, and those who made that home so dear,

  Her lov’d lost friends. The mingled feelings fill’d

  Her eyes, when from behind a voice was heard,

  “O Lady! canst thou tell me where to find 389

  The Maid whom Heaven hath sent to rescue

  France?”

  Thrill’d by the well-known tones, she started up,

  And fell upon the neck of Theodore.

  “Have I then found thee!” cried the impas-

  sioned youth;

  “Henceforth we part no more; but where thou

  goest

  Thither go I. Beloved! in the front 395

  Of battle thou shalt find me at thy side;

  And in the breach this breast shall be thy shield

  And rampart, Oh, ungenerous! Why from me

  Conceal the inspiration? why from me

 
Hide thy miraculous purpose? Am I then 400

  So all-unworthy that thou shouldst set forth

  Beneath another’s guidance?”

  Thus he cried,

  Mingling reproach with tenderness, yet still

  Clasping in warm embrace the maid beloved.

  She of her bidding and futurity 405

  Awhile forgetful, patient of the embrace,

  With silent tears of joy bedew’d his neck.

  At length, “I hope,” she cried, “thou art not come

  With heavier fault and breach of nearer tie!

  How did thy mother spare thee,.. thou alone 410

  The stay and comfort of her widowed age?

  Did she upon thy parting steps bestow

  Her free-will blessing, or hast thou set forth,

  Which Heaven forbid, unlicensed, and unblest?”

  “Oh, surely not unblest!” the youth replied; 415

  Yet conscious of his unrepented fault,

  With countenance flush’d, and faltering in reply:

  “She wept at my departure, she would fain

  Have turn’d me from my purpose, and my heart

  Perhaps had fail’d me, if it had not glow’d 420

  With ardour like thine own; the sacred fire

  With which thy bosom burns had kindled me;

  High in prophetic hope, I bade her place

  Her trust in Heaven; I bade her look to hear

  Good tidings soon of glorious victory; 425

  I told her I should soon return,.. return

  With thee, and thou wouldst be to her old age

  What Madelon had been.”

  As thus he spake,

  Warm with the imaginary bliss, he clasp’d

  The dear one closer to his yearning heart. 430

  But the devoted Virgin in his arms

  Started and shudder’d, for the flaming pile

  Flash’d on remembrance now, and on her soul

  The whole terrific vision rose again.

  A death-like paleness at the dreadful thought 435

  Wither’d her cheek; cold damps suffused her brow,

  And falling on the neck of Theodore,

  Feeble and faint she hung. His eager eye

  Concentring all the anguish of the soul,

  And strain’d in anxious love, gazed fearfully 440

  With wondering anguish; till ennobling thoughts

  Of her high mission roused her, and her soul

  Collected, and she spake.

  “My Theodore,

  Thou hast done ill to quit thy mother’s home!

  Alone and aged she will weep for thee, 445

  Wasting her little that is left of life

  In anguish. Now go back again to Arc,

  And cheer her wintry hours of widowhood,

  And love my memory there.”

  Swift he exclaim’d,

  “Nay, Maid! the pang of parting is o’erpast, 450

  And my dear mother looks for the glad hour

  When we shall both return. Amid the war

  How many an arm will seek thy single life,

  How many a sword and spear... I will go with thee

  And spread the guardian shield!”

  “Nay,” she replied,

  “I shall not need thy succour in the war. 456

  Me, Heaven, if so seem good to its high will,

  Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore,

  Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home,

  And make thy mother happy.”

  The youth’s cheek

  A rapid blush disorder’d. “Oh! the court 461

  Is pleasant then, and thou wouldst fain forget

  A humble villager, who only boasts

  The treasure of the heart!”

  She look’d at him

  With a reproaching eye of tenderness: 465

  “Injurious man! devoted for this realm,

  I go a willing victim. The dark veil

  Hath been withdrawn for me, and I have seen

  The fearful features of Futurity.

  Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country, 470

  Abandoning for it the joys of life,

  Yea, life itself!” Then on his neck she fell,

  And with a faultering voice, “Return to Arc!

  I do not tell thee there are other maids

  As fair; for thou wilt love my memory, 475

  Hallowing to me the temple of thy heart.

  Worthy a happier, not a better love,

  My Theodore!” — Then, pressing his pale lips,

  A last and holy kiss the virgin fix’d, 479

  And fled across the plain.

  She reach’d the court

  Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind

  Shook every fibre. Sad and sick at heart,

  Fain to her lonely chamber’s solitude

  The Maiden had retired; but her the King

  Met on the threshold. He of the late scene 485

  Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem’d

  As though there had not been a God in Heaven!

  “Enter the hall,” he said, “the masquers there

  Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad?

  Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame 490

  With his strange speeches?”

  Ere the Maid replied,

  The Son of Orleans came with joyful speed,

  Poising his massy javelin. “Thou hast roused

  The sleeping virtue of the sons of France, 494

  They crowd around the standard,” cried the chief.

  “Our brethern pent in Orleans, every moment

  Gaze from the watch-tower with the sickening eye

  Of expectation.”

  Then the King exclaim’d,

  “O chosen by Heaven! defer one day thy march,

  That humbled at the altar we may join 500

  The general prayer. Be these our holy rites

  To-morrow’s task; — to night for merriment!”

  The Maid replied, “The wretched ones in Orleans,

  In fear and hunger and expiring hope,

  Await my succour, and my prayers would plead 505

  In Heaven against me, did they waste one hour

  When active duty calls. For this night’s mirth

  Hold me excused; in truth I am not fit

  For merriment; a heavy charge is on me,

  And I must put away all mortal thoughts.” 510

  Her heart was full, and pausing, she repress’d

  The unbidden anguish. “Lo! they crowd around

  The standard! Thou, Dunois, the chosen troops

  Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn

  We march to rescue Orleans from the foe.” 515

  JOAN OF ARC. THE FIFTH BOOK.

  SCARCE had the early dawn from Chinon’s towers

  Made visible the mist that curl’d along

  The river’s winding way, when from her couch

  The martial Maid arose. She mail’d her limbs;

  The white plumes nodded o’er her helmed head; 5

  She girt the sacred falchion by her side,

  And, like a youth who from his mother’s arms,

  For his first field impatient, breaks away,

  Poising the lance went forth.

  Twelve hundred men,

  Rearing in order’d ranks their glittering spears, 10

  Await her coming. Terrible in arms

  Before them tower’d Dunois, his manly face

  O’er-shadow’d by the helmet’s iron cheeks.

  The assembled court gazed on the marshall’d train,

  And at the gate the aged prelate stood 15

  To pour his blessing on the chosen host.

  And now a soft and solemn symphony

  Was heard, and chaunting high the hallow’d hymn.

  From the near convent came the vestal maids.

  A holy banner, woven by virgin hands, 20

  Snow-white they
bore. A mingled sentiment

  Of awe and eager ardor for the fight.

  Thrill’d through the army, as the reverend man

  Took the white standard, and with heaven-ward eye

  Call’d on the God of Justice, blessing it. 25

  The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm’d,

  Her dark hair floating on the morning gale,

  Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand

  Received the mystic banner. From the host

  A loud and universal shout burst forth, 30

  As rising from the ground, upon her brow

  She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high

  The banner’d lilies. On their way they march,

  And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon

  Fade from the eye reverted.

  The sixth sun, 35

  Purpling the sky with his dilated light,

  Sunk westering; when embosom’d in the depth

  Of that old forest, which for many a league

  Shadow’d the hills and vales of Orleannois,

  They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation 40

  Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale

  The streamers flutter; and ascending slow’

  Beneath the foliage of the forest trees,

  With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke

  Melts in the impurpled air. Leaving her tent, 45

  The martial Maiden wander’d through the wood;

  There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank

  Reclined, she saw a damsel, her long locks

  With willow wreathed; upon her lap there lay

  A dark-hair’d man, listening the while she sung 50

  Sad ditties, and enwreathed to bind his brow

  The melancholy garland. At the sound,

  Of one in arms approaching, she had fled;

  But Conrade, looking upward, recognized

  The Maid of Arc. “Nay, fear not, Isabel,” 55

  Said he, “for this is one of gentle kind,

  Whom even the wretched need not fear to love.”

  So saying, he arose and took her hand,

  And press’d it to his bosom. “My weak heart, 59

  Though school’d by wrongs to loath at human kind,

  Will beat, rebellious to its own resolves.

  Come hither, outcast one I and call her friend,

  And she will be thy friend more readily

  Because thou art unhappy.”

  Isabel.

  Saw a tear starting in the virgin’s eye, 65

  And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept,