Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 9

  Wailing his wilder’d senses.

  “Mission’d Maid!”

  The warrior cried, “be happy! for thy power

  Can make this sufferer so. From Orleans driven,

  Orphan’d by war, and of her only friend 70

  Bereft, I found her wandering in the wilds,

  Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, Joan,

  Wilt his beloved to the youth restore;

  And trust me, Maid! the miserable feel

  When they on others bestow happiness, 75

  Their happiest consolation.”

  She replied,

  Pressing the damsel’s hand, in the mild tone

  Of equal friendship, solacing her cares.

  “Soon shall we enter Orleans,” said the Maid;

  A few hours in her dream of victory 80

  England shall triumph, then to be awaked

  By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath!

  Irksome meantime the busy camp to me

  A solitary woman. Isabel,

  Wert thou the while companion of my tent, 85

  Lightlier the time would pass. Return with me;

  I may not long be absent.”

  So she spake.

  The wanderer in half-utter’d words express’d

  Grateful assent. “Art thou astonish’d, then,

  That one though powerful is benevolent? 90

  In truth thou well mayest wonder!” Conrade cried.

  But little cause to love the mighty ones

  Hath the low cottager; for with its shade

  Too oft doth POWER, a death-dew-dropping tree,

  Blast every herb beneath its baleful boughs! 95

  Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel! Relate

  How warr’d the chieftains, and the people died.

  The mission’d Virgin hath not heard thy woes;

  And pleasant to mine ear the twice-told tale

  Of sorrow.”

  Gazing on the martial Maid 100

  She read her wish, and spake. “A wanderer now,

  Friendless and hopeless, still I love to think

  Upon my native home, and call to mind

  Each haunt of careless youth; the woodbined wall,

  The jessamine that round the straw-roof’d cot 105

  Its fragrant branches wreathed, beneath whose shade

  I wont to sit and watch the setting sun,

  And hear the thrushes song. Nor far remote,

  As o’er the subject landskip round I gazed,

  The towers of Yenville rose upon the view. 110

  A foreign master holds my father’s home!

  I, far away, remember the past years,

  And weep.

  Two brethren form’d our family;

  Humble we were, and happy; honest toil

  Procured our homely sustenance; our herds 115

  Duly at morn and evening to my hand

  Gave their full stores; the vineyard we had rear’d

  Purpled its clusters in the southern sun,

  And, plenteous produce of my father’s toil,

  The yellow harvest billow’d o’er the plain. 120

  How cheerfully around the blazing hearth

  When all the labour of the day was done,

  We past the evening hours; for they would sing

  Or merry roundelay, or ditty sad

  Of maid forsaken and the willow weed, 125

  Or of the doughty Paladins of France

  Some warlike fit, the while my spinning wheel

  A fitting music made.

  Thus long we lived,

  And happy. To a neighbouring youth my hand

  In holy wedlock soon to be consign’d 130

  Was plighted: my poor Francis!” Here she paused,

  And here she wept awhile.

  “We did not think

  The desolating stream of war would reach

  To us; but soon as with the whirlwind’s speed

  Ruin rush’d round us. Mehun, Clery, fell, 135

  The banner’d Leopard waved on Gergeau’s wall;

  Baugenci yielded; soon the foe approach’d

  The towers of Yenville.

  Fatal was the hour

  To me and mine: for from the wall, alas!

  The rusty sword was taken, and the shield 140

  Which long had moulder’d on the mouldering nail,

  To meet the war repair’d. No more was heard

  The ballad, or the merry roundelay;

  The clattering hammer’s clank, the grating file

  Harsh sounded through the day a dismal din; 145

  I never shall forget their mournful sound!

  “My father stood encircling his old limbs

  In long-forgotten arms. ‘Come, boys,’ he cried,

  I did not think that this grey head again 149

  Should bear the helmet’s weight; but in the field

  Better to bravely die a soldier’s death,

  Than here be tamely butcher’d. Isabel,

  Go to the abbey! if we should survive,

  We soon shall meet again; if not, my child, 154

  There is a better world!

  In broken words,

  Lifting his eyes to Heaven, my father breathed

  His blessing on me. As they went away,

  My brethren gazed on me and wrung my hand

  In silence, for they loved their sister well.

  From the near cottage Francis join’d the troop. 160

  Then did I look on our forsaken home,

  And almost sob my very soul away;

  For all my hopes of happiness were fled,

  Even like a dream!”

  “Perish these mighty ones,

  Cried Conrade, “these who let destruction loose,

  Who walk elated o’er their fields of fame, 166

  And count the thousands that lie slaughter’d there,

  And with the bodies of the innocent, rear

  Their pyramid of glory! perish these,

  The epitome of all the pestilent plagues 170

  That Egypt knew! who send their locust swarms

  O’er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood.

  Fear and Destruction go before their path,

  And Famine dogs their footsteps. God of Justice,

  Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain!” 175

  Thus while he spake, the murmur of the camp

  Rose on their ear; first like the distant sound

  When the full-foliaged forest to the storm

  Shakes its hoarse head; anon with louder din; 179

  And through the opening glade gleam’d many a fire.

  The Virgin’s tent they enter’d; there the board

  Was spread, the wanderer of the fare partook,

  Then thus her tale renew’d: —

  “Slow o’er the hill

  Whose rising head conceal’d our cot I past,

  Yet on my journey paused awhile, and gazed 185

  And wept; for often had I crost the hill

  With cheerful step, and seen the rising smoke

  Of hospitable fire; alas! no smoke

  Curl’d o’er its melancholy chimneys now!

  Orleans I reach’d. There in the suburbs stood 190

  The abbey; and ere long I learnt the fall

  Of Yenville.

  On a day, a soldier ask’d

  For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet

  Support me. It was Francis, and alone...

  The sole survivor of that company! 195

  “And soon the foes approach’d: impending war

  Soon sadden’d Orleans. There the bravest chiefs

  Assemble: Thouars, Coarase, Chabannes,

  And the Sire Chapelle, in successful war 199

  Since wounded to the death; and that good Knight

  Giresme of Rhodes, who in a better cause

  Can never wield the crucifix that hilts

  His hallowed sword; and Xaintrailles ransom’d now,

&
nbsp; And Fayette late released, and that young Duke

  Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound 205

  Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest man

  That ever yet did win his soldiers’ love,

  And over all for hardihood renown’d

  The Bastard Orleans.

  These within the town

  Expect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen men 210

  Well tried in war, uprear the guardian shield

  Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight

  Of preparation. The wide suburbs stretch’d

  Along the pleasant borders of the Loire, 214

  Late throng’d with multitudes, now feel the hand

  Of ruin. These preventive care destroys,

  Lest England, shelter’d by the friendly walls,

  Securely should approach. The monasteries

  Fell in the general waste. The holy monks

  Unwillingly their long-accustom’d haunts 220

  Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook

  Call’d to awaken’d memory some trace

  Of vision seen, or sound miraculous.

  Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells,

  For the rude uproar of a world unknown, 225

  The nuns desert: their abbess, more composed,

  Collects her maids around, and tells her beads,

  And pours the timid prayer of piety.

  The pioneers, by day and night employ’d,

  Throw up the violated earth, to impede 230

  The foe: the hollow chambers of the dead

  Echo’d beneath their stroke. The brazen tomb

  Which late recorded death, in the furnace cast

  Is made to inflict it now. Sad sight it was

  To see so wide a waste; the aged ones 235

  Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went

  O’er the fallen dwellings of their happier years;

  The stern and sullen silence of the men

  Musing on vengeance: and but ill represt,

  The mother’s fears as to her breast she clasp’d, 240

  Her ill-doom’d infant. Soon the suburbs lay

  One ample ruin; whence the stones were borne

  Within the town to serve in its defence.

  “And now without the walls the desolate space

  Appear’d, a rough and melancholy waste, 245

  With uptorn pavements and foundations deep

  Of many a ruin’d dwelling. Nor within

  Less dreary was the scene; at evening hour

  No more the merry viol’s note was heard;

  No more the aged matron at her door 250

  Humm’d cheery to her spinning wheel, and saw

  Her children dancing to the roundelay.

  The chieftains strengthening still the ancient walls,

  Survey them every where with prying eye;

  The eager youth in anxious preparation 255

  Practise the arts of war; silent and stern,

  With the hurrying restlessness of fear, they urge

  Their gloomy labours. In the city dwelt

  An utter silence of all pleasant sounds, 259

  But all day long the armourer’s beat was heard,

  And all night long it echoed.

  Soon the foe

  Led to our walls the siege: as on they move

  The clarions clangor, and the cheerful fife,

  Accordant to the thundering drum’s deep sound,

  Direct their measured march. Before the ranks

  Salisbury was seen, Salisbury, so long the scourge

  Of France; and Talbot towered by his side, 267

  Talbot, at whose dread name the froward child

  Clings mute and trembling to his nurse’s breast.

  Suffolk was there, and Hungerford, and Scales,

  And Fastolffe, victor in the frequent fight. 271

  Dark as the autumnal storm they roll’d along,

  A countless host! From the high tower I mark’d

  The dreadful scene; I saw the iron gleam

  Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun, 275

  Their banners tossing to the troubled gale,

  And.. fearful music.. heard upon the wind

  The modulated step of multitudes.

  “There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I saw

  The dreadful stores of death; tremendous roll’d

  Over rough roads the harsh wheels; the brazen tubes

  Flash’d in the sun their fearful splendor far, 282

  And last the loaded waggons creak’d along.

  “Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care procured

  Human defence, neglectful to implore 285

  That heavenly aid, deprived of which the strength

  Of man is weakness. Bearing through our streets

  The precious relics of the holy dead,

  The monks and nuns pour’d many an earnest prayer,

  Devoutly join’d by all. Saint Aignan’s shrine 290

  Was throng’d by supplicants, the general voice

  Call’d on Saint Aignan’s name again to save

  His people, as of yore, before he past

  Into the fulness of eternal rest;

  When by the Spirit to the lingering camp 295

  Of Ætius borne, he brought the timely aid,

  And Attila with all his multitudes

  Far off retreated to their field of shame.”

  And now Dunois, for he had seen the camp 299

  Well-order’d, enter’d. “One night more in peace

  England shall rest,” he cried, “ere yet the storm

  Burst on her guilty head! then their proud vaunts

  Forgotten, or remember’d to their shame,

  Vainly her chiefs shall curse the hour when first

  They pitch’d their tents round Orleans.”

  “Of that siege,”

  The Maid of Arc replied, “gladly I hear 306

  The detail. Isabel proceed! for soon

  Destined to rescue this devoted town,

  The tale of all the ills she hath endured

  I listen, sorrowing for the past, and feel 310

  Joy and contentment in the merciful task

  For which I am sent forth.”

  Thus spake the Maid,

  And Isabel pursued. “And now more near

  The hostile host advancing pitch their tents. 314

  Unnumber’d streamers wave, and clamorous shouts,

  Anticipating conquest, rend the air

  With universal uproar. From their camp

  A herald came; his garb emblazon’d o’er

  With leopards and the lilies of our realm, 319

  Foul shame to France! The summons of the foe

  He brought.”

  The Bastard interrupting cried,

  “I was with Gaucour and the assembled chiefs,

  When by his office privileged and proud

  That herald spake, as certain of success

  As he had made a league with Victory. 325

  “Nobles of France rebellious! from the chief

  Of yon victorious host, the mighty Earl

  Of Salisbury, now there in place of him

  Your Regent John of Bedford: in his name

  I come, and in our sovereign Lord the King’s, 330

  Henry. Ye know full well our master’s claim,

  Incontrovertible to this good realm,

  By right descent, and solemnly confirm’d

  By your great monarch and our mighty king

  Fifth Henry, in the treaty ratified 335

  At Troyes, wherein your monarch did disclaim

  All future right and title to this crown,

  His own exempted, for his son and heirs

  Down to the end of time. This sign’d and seal’d

  At the holy altar, and by nuptial knot 340

  Of Henry and your princess, gives the realm,

  Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son

&n
bsp; Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose

  My Master’s title, in the face of God,

  Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime, 345

  Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion ‘gainst

  The Lord’s anointed. He at Paris crown’d

  With loud acclaim of duteous multitudes,

  Thus speaks by me. Deliver up your town

  To Salisbury, and yield yourselves and arms, 350

  So shall your lives be safe: and such his grace,

  If of your free accord to him you pay

  Due homage as your sovereign lord and King,

  Your rich estates, your houses shall be safe,

  And you in favour stand, as is the Duke, 355

  Philip of Burgundy. But... mark me well!

  If obstinately wilful, you persist

  To scorn his proffer’d mercy, not one stone

  Upon another of this wretched town

  Shall then be left; and when the English host 360

  Triumphant in the dust have trod the towers

  Of Orleans, who survive the dreadful war

  Shall die like traitors by the hangman’s hand.

  Ye men of France, remember Caen and Roan!”

  “He ceased: nor Gaucour for a moment paused

  To form reply.

  ‘Herald! to all thy vaunts

  Of English sovereignty let this suffice 367

  For answer: France will only own as King

  Her own legitimate Lord. On Charles’s brow,

  Transmitted through a long and good descent, 370

  The crown remains. We know no homage due

  To English robbers, and disclaim the peace

  Inglorious made at Troyes by factious men

  Hostile to France. Thy master’s proffer’d grace

  Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, yes, 375

  Be sure we shall remember Caen and Roan!

  Go tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury,

  That as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power,

  Like Blanchard, he can brave his cruelty,

  And triumph by enduring. Speak I well, 380

  Ye men of Orleans?’

  “Never did I hear

  A shout so universal as ensued

  Of approbation. The assembled host

  As with one voice pour’d forth their loyalty, 384

  And struck their sounding shields; and walls and

  towers,

  Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went.’

  The work of war began.

  A fearful scene,”