Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 4, by ROBERT SOUTHEY


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 4, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went round
Last Line: "we march to rescue orleans from the foe."
Subject(s): Duty; France; Heroism; Joan Of Arc (1412-1431); Love; Man-woman Relationships; Missions & Missionaries; Obedience; War; Heroes; Heroines; Male-female Relations


A Messenger from Orleans requests immediate succour. The Maid takes her armour
from a tomb in the church of St. Catharine. She announces her intention of
marching on the morrow.

THE Feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went round,
And to the assembled court the minstrel harp'd
The song of other days. Sudden they heard
The horn's loud blast. "This is no time for cares;
Feast ye the messenger without!" cried Charles,
"Enough is given of the wearying day
To the public weal."
Obedient to the king
The guard invites the traveller to his fare.
"Nay, I shall see the monarch," he replied,
"And he shall hear my tidings; duty-urged,
For many a long league have I hasten'd on,
Not now to be repell'd." Then with strong arm
Removing him who barr'd his onward way,
The hall he enters.
"King of France, I come
From Orleans, speedy and effectual aid
Demanding for her gallant garrison,
Faithful to thee, though thinn'd in many a fight,
And wither'd now by want. Thee it beseems,
For ever anxious for thy people's weal,
To succour these brave men, whose honest breasts
Bulwark thy throne."
He said, and from the hall
With upright step departing, in amaze
At his so bold deportment, left the Court.
The king exclaim'd, "But little need to send
Quick succour to this gallant garrison,
If to the English half so firm a front
They bear in battle!"
"In the field, my liege,"
Dunois replied, "that man has serv'd thee well.
Him have I seen the foremost of the fight,
Wielding so fearfully his death-red axe,
His eye so fury-fired, that the pale foe
Let fall their palsied arms with powerless stroke,
Desperate of safety. I do marvel much
That he is here: Orleans must be hard press'd
When one, the bravest of her garrison,
Is thus commission'd."
Swift the Maid exclaim'd,
"I tell thee, Chief, that there the English wolves
Shall never pour their yells of victory!
The will of God defends those fated walls,
And resting in full faith on that high will,
I mock their efforts. But the night draws on;
Retire we to repose. To-morrow's sun,
Breaking the darkness of the sepulchre,
Shall on that armour gleam, through many an age
Kept holy and inviolate by time."
She said, and rising, from the board retired.

Meantime the herald's brazen voice proclaim'd
Coming solemnity, and far and wide
Spread the strange tidings. Every labour ceas'd;
The ploughman from the unfinish'd furrow hastes;
The armorer's anvil beats no more the din
Of future slaughter. Through the thronging streets
The buzz of asking wonder hums along.

On to St. Catherine's sacred fane they go;
The holy fathers with the imaged cross
Leading the long procession. Next, as one
Suppliant for mercy to the King of Kings,
And grateful for the benefits of Heaven,
The monarch pass'd, and by his side the Maid,
Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest.
Wistless that every eye on her was fix'd,
With stately step she moved: her labouring soul
To high thoughts elevate; and gazing round
With the wild eye, that of the circling throng
And of the visible world unseeing, saw
The shapes of holy phantasy. By her
The warrior Son of Orleans strode along
Pre-eminent. He, nerving his young frame
With manly exercise, had scaled the cliff,
And dashing in the torrent's foaming flood,
Stemm'd with broad breast its fury; so his form,
Sinewy and firm, and fit for loftiest deeds,
Tower'd high amid the throng effeminate;
No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs
Effaced the hauberk's honourable marks;
His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints
Many and deep; upon his pictur'd shield
A lion vainly struggled in the toils,
Whilst by his side the cub, with pious rage
His young mane floating to the desert air,
Rends the fallen huntsman. Tremouille him behind,
The worthless favourite of the slothful prince,
Stalk'd arrogant, in shining armour clasp'd,
Emboss'd with gold and gems of richest hue,
Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade
Defaced, and rusted by no hostile blood;
Trimly-accoutred court habiliments,
Gay lady-dazzling armour, to adorn
In dangerless manœuvres some review,
The mockery of murder! follow'd him
The train of courtiers; summer-flies, that sport
In the sun beam of favour; insects, sprung
From the court dunghill; greedy blood suckers,
The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.

As o'er some flowery field the busy bees
Pour their deep music, pleasant melody
To the tired traveller, under some old oak
Stretch'd in the chequer'd shade; or as the sound
Of many waters down the far-off steep
Dash'd with loud uproar, rose the murmur round
Of admiration. Every gazing eye
Dwelt on the mission'd Maid; of all beside,
The long procession and the gorgeous train,
Though glittering they with gold and sparkling gems,
And their rich plumes high waving to the air,
Heedless.
The consecrated dome they reach,
Rear'd to St. Catharine's holy memory.
Her tale the altar told; when Maximin,
His rais'd lip kindled with a savage smile,
In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel
Tear her life piecemeal, that the very face
Of the hard executioner relax'd
With horror; calm she heard; no drop of blood
Forsook her cheek; her steady eye was turn'd
Heavenward, and Hope and meekest Piety
Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust:
For lo! the Angel of the Lord descends
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel!
One glance of holy triumph Catharine cast,
Then bow'd her to the sword of martyrdom.

Her eye averting from the storied wo,
The delegated damsel knelt, and pour'd
To Heaven the earnest prayer.
A trophied tomb
Close to the altar rear'd its ancient bulk.
Two pointless javelins and a broken sword,
Time-mouldering now, proclaim'd some warrior slept
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone
And rude-ensculptur'd effigy o'erlaid
The sepulchre. In silent wonderment
The expectant multitude with eager eye
Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke
Invades the tomb's repose: the heavy stroke
Sounds hollow; over the high-vaulted roof
Roll the repeated echoes: soon the day
Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam
Beams on the enshrined arms, the crested helm,
The bauldrick's strength, the shield, the sacred sword.
A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment
Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid
Over her robes the hallowed breast-plate threw,
Self-fitted to her form; on her helm'd head
The white plumes nod majestically slow;
She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword,
Gleaming portentous light.
The amazed crowd
Raise the loud shout of transport. "God of Heaven!
The Maid exclaim'd; "Father all-merciful!
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield
The sword of Vengeance, go before our host!
All-just Avenger of the innocent,
Be thou our Champion! God of Love, preserve
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms."

She ceas'd, and with an eager hush the crowd
Still listened; a brief while throughout the dome
Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst,
Devout and full, they rais'd the choral hymn—
"Thee, Lord, we praise, our God!" The throng without
Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy,
And thundering transport peals along the heavens.

As thro' the parting crowd the virgin pass'd,
He who from Orleans on the yesternight
Demanded succour, clasp'd with warmth her hand,
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd,
"Ill-omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth,
Devoted for the king-curst realm of France!—
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee!" So saying,
He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words
Disturb'd, the warrior-virgin pass'd along,
And much revolving in her troubled mind,
Retreads the court.
And now the horn announced
The ready banquet; they partook the feast,
Then rose, and in the cooling water cleansed
Their hands, and seated at the board again,
Enjoyed the bowl, or scented high with spice,
Or flavour'd with the fragrant summer fruit,
Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich.
Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp: he sung
Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest knight
That ever loved fair lady; and the youth
Of Cornwall, underneath whose maiden sword
The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck
The dolorous stroke, the blameless and the brave
Who died beneath a brother's erring arm.
Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel!
The songs of earlier years embalm your fame,
And haply yet some poet shall arise,
Like that divinest Tuscan, and enwreathe
The immortal garland for himself and you.

The full sound echoed o'er the arched roof,
And listening eager to the favourite lay,
The guests sat silent, when into the hall
The messenger from that besieged town
Stalk'd stately. "It is pleasant, King of France,
To feast at ease and hear the harper's song;
Far other music hear the men of Orleans!
Death is among them; there the voice of Wo
Moans ceaseless."
"Rude, unmannerly intruder!"
Exclaim'd the monarch: "Cease to interrupt
The hour of merriment; it is not thine
To instruct me in my duty."
Of reproof
Heedless, the stranger to the minstrel cried:
"Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame
Amid these walls? Virtue and Genius love
That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose lewd tale
To pamper and provoke the appetite?
Such should procure thee worthy recompence!
Or rather sing thou of that mighty one,
Who tore the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom,
That was to him even as a daughter! Charles,
This holy tale would I tell, prophet-like,
And look at thee, and cry, 'Thou art the man!' "

He said, and with a quick and troubled step
Retired. Astonish'd at his daring phrase,
The guests sat heedless of the minstrel's song,
Pondering the words mysterious. Soon the harp
Beguil'd their senses of anxiety.

The court dispers'd: retiring from the hall,
Charles and the delegated damsel sought
The inner palace. There awaited them
The Queen: with her JOAN loved to pass the hours,
By various converse cheer'd; for she had won
The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy,
The calm and duteous patience that deplor'd
A husband's cold half-love. To her she told
With what strange words the messenger from Orleans
Had rous'd uneasy wonder in her mind;
For on her ear yet vibrated the voice,
"Ill-omened Maid, I pity thee!" when lo!
Again that man stalk'd to the door, and stood
Scowling around.
"Why dost thou haunt me thus?"
The monarch cried. "Is there no place secure
From thy rude insolence? Unmanner'd man!
I know thee not!"
"Then learn to know me, Charles!"
Solemnly he replied. "Read well my face,
That thou mayest know it on that dreadful day,
When at the throne of God I shall demand
His justice on thee!" Turning from the king,
To Agnes as she enter'd, in a tone
More low, more awfully severe, he cried,
"Dost thou, too, know me not?"
She glanced on him,
And pale and breathless hid her head, convuls'd,
In the Maid's bosom.
"King of France!" he said,
"She lov'd me! Day by day I dwelt with her;
Her voice was music, very sweet her smiles!
I left her! left her, Charles, in evil hour,
To fight thy battles. Thou meantime didst come,
Staining most foul her spotless purity;
For she was pure.—Alas! these courtly robes
Hide not the hideous stain of infamy.
Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on
An honourable name, unhappy one!
My poor, polluted Agnes!—Thou bad man!
Thou hast almost shaken my faith in Heaven.
I see thee rioting in sloth and guilt,
And yet thou restest pillowing thy head
Even on her bosom! I, though innocent
Of ill, the victim of another's vice,
Drag on the loathsome burthen of existence,
And doubt Heaven's justice!"
So he said, and frown'd
Dark as that man who at Mohammed's door
Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearful look,
Bath'd with cold damps, every beholder fled.
Even he the Prophet, almost terrified,
Endur'd but half to view him; for he knew
Azrael, stern-brow'd Messenger of Fate,
And his death-day was come. Guilt-petrified
The monarch sat, nor could endure to face
His bosom-probing frown. The mission'd Maid
Read anxious his stern features, and exclaim'd
"I know thee, Conrade!" Rising from her seat,
She took his hand, for he stood motionless,
Gazing on Agnes now with full-fix'd eye,
Dreadful, though calm: him from the court she drew,
And to the river's banks, resisting not,
Both sadly silent, led; till at the last,
As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd
Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck,
He wept.
"I know thee, damsel!" he exclaim'd.
"Dost thou remember that tempestuous night,
When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought
Your hospitable doors? Ah me! I then
Was happy! You too sojourn'd then in peace.
Fool that I was; I blam'd such happiness;
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
Waked by thy words, possess'd me."
Conrade cried:
"Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst liv'd
Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd
Needlessly rigid from my peaceful path.
And thou hast left thine home, then, and obey'd
The feverish fancies of thine 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,
Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek.
"I am alone," she answer'd, "for this realm
Devoted." Nor to answer more the Maid
Endur'd; for many a melancholy thought
Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind's eye
Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc:
Her burthen'd heart was full; such grief she felt,
Yet such sweet solacing of self applause
As cheers the banish'd patriot's lonely hours
When Fancy pictures to him all he loved,
Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb,
And drowns the soft enchantment.
With a look,
That spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed
The silent Maid; nor would the Maid suppress
The thoughts that swell'd within her, or from him
Hide her soul's workings. "'Twas on the last night
Before I left Domremi's pleasant home,
I sate beside the brook, my labouring soul
Full, as inebriate with Divinity.
Then, Conrade! I beheld the ruffian herd
Circle a flaming pile, where at the stake
A female stood; the iron bruised her breast,
And round her limbs ungarmented, the fire
Curl'd its fierce flakes. I saw her countenance;
I knew myself." Then, in subdued tones
Of calmness, "There are moments when the soul
From her own impulse with strange dread recoils,
Suspicious of herself: but with most 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,
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 serv'd,
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou shalt curse
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
Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod
That path, and mark'd a melancholy den,
Where one whose jaundiced soul abhors itself,
May pamper him in complete wretchedness.
There sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,
Conrade shall dwell; and in the languid hour,
When the jarr'd senses sink to a sick calm,
Shall mourn the waste of frenzy!"
Then the Maid
Fix'd upon Conrade her commanding eye:
"I pass'd the fertile Auxerrois," she cried;
"The vines had spread their interwoven shoots
Over the unpruned vineyards, the rich grapes
Rotted beneath the leaves, for there was none
To tread the vintage, and the birds of heaven
Had glutted them. I saw the cattle start
As they did hear the loud alarum-bell,
And with a piteous moaning vainly seek
To fly the death to come. I have look'd back
Upon the cottage where I had partook
The peasant's meal, and seen it wrapt in flames;
And then I thank'd my God that I had burst
The stubborn ties that fetter down the soul
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
Of love, the overflowings of the heart.
There is oppression in thy country, Conrade!
There is a cause, a holy cause, that needs
The just man's aid. Live for it, and enjoy
Earth's noblest recompence, thine own esteem;
Or die in that good cause, and thy reward
Shall sure be found in heaven."
He answer'd not,
But clasping to his heart the Virgin's hand,
Sped rapid o'er the plain. She with dim eyes,
For gushing tears obscur'd them, follow'd him
Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought
Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne
A while she wandered; then upon the bank
She laid her down, and watch'd the tranquil stream
Flow with a quiet murmuring, by the clouds
Of evening purpled. The perpetual flow,
The ceaseless murmuring, lull'd her to such dreams
As Memory in her melancholy mood
Most loves. The wonted scenes of Arc arose;
She saw the forest brook, the weed that waved
Its long green tresses in the stream, the crag
That overbrow'd the spring, and the old yew
That through the bare and rifted rock had forced
Its twisted trunk, the berries cheerful red
Starring its gloomy green. Her pleasant home
She saw, and those who made that home so dear,
Her loved, lost friends. The mingled feelings fill'd
Her eye, when from behind a voice address'd her:
"Forgive the intrusion, lady! I would ask
Where I might meet that Heaven-commission'd Maid,
Call'd to deliver France."
The well-known tones
Thrill'd her; her heart throbb'd fast; she started up,
And fell upon the neck of Theodore.

"Oh! I have found thee!" cried the enraptur'd youth,
And I shall dare the battle by thy side,
And shield thee from the war! but tell me, JOAN,
Why didst thou brood in such strange mystery,
Over thy Heaven-doom'd purpose? Trust me, Maiden,
I have shed many tears for that wild gloom
That so estranged thee from thy Theodore!
If thou couldst know the anguish I endur'd
When thou wert gone! in sooth, it was unkind
To leave us thus!"
Mindless of her high call,
Again the lowly shepherdess of Arc,
In half-articulated words the Maid
Express'd her joy. Of Elinor she ask'd,
How from a doting mother he had come
In arms array'd.
"Thou wakest in my mind
A thought that makes me sad," the youth replied,
For Elinor wept much at my resolve,
And, eloquent with all a mother's fears,
Urged me to leave her not. My wayward heart
Smote me, as I look'd back and saw her wave
Adieu! but high in hope I soon beguil'd
These melancholy feelings, by the thought
That we should both return to cheer her age,
Thy mission well fulfill'd, and quit no more
The copse-embosom'd cottage."
But the Maid
Soon started from her dream of happiness,
For on her memory flash'd the flaming pile.
A death-like paleness at the dreadful thought
Wither'd her cheek; the dews on her cold brow
Started, and on the arm of Theodore,
Feeble and faint, she hung. His eager eye,
Concentring all the anguish of the soul,
And strain'd in anxious love, on her wan cheek
Fearfully silent gazed. But by the thought
Of her high mission rous'd, the Maiden's soul
Collected, and she spake.
"My Theodore,
Thou hast done wrong to quit thy mother's home!
Alone and aged, she will weep for thee,
Wasting the little that is left of life
In anguish. Go thee back again to Arc,
And cheering so her wintry hour of age,
Cherish my memory there."
Swift he exclaim'd,
"Nay, Maid! the pang of parting is o'erpast,
And Elinor looks on to the glad hour
When we shall both return. Amid the war
How many an arm will seek thy single life,
How many a sword pierce thro' thy brittle mail,
Wound thy fair face, or, driven with impious rage,
Gore thy white bosom! JOAN, I will go with thee,
And spread the guardian shield!"
Again the Maid
Grew pale; for of her last and terrible hour
The vision'd scene she saw. "Nay," she replied,
"I shall not need thy succour in the war.
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. "O! the Court
Is pleasant, and thy soul would fain forget
An obscure villager, who only boasts
The treasure of the heart!"
She look'd at him
With the reproaching eye of tenderness:
"Devoted for the realm of France, I go
A willing victim. The unpierced veil
To me was rais'd, my gifted eye beheld
The fearful features of Futurity.
Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country,
Abandoning for this the joys of life,
Yea, life itself!" Then on his neck she fell,
And with a faltering voice, "Return to Arc!
I do not tell thee there are other maids
As fair; for thou wilt love my memory,
Hallowing to it 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,
And rush'd 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 retir'd; but her the king
Met on the threshold. He of the late scene
Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem'd
As though there had not been a God in Heaven!
"Enter the hall," he cried, "the maskers there
Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad?
Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame
With his strange frenzies?"
Ere the Maid replied,
The son of Orleans came with joyful speed,
Poising his massy javelin.
"Thou hast rous'd
The sleeping virtue of the sons of France;
They crowd around the standard," cried the chief.
"My lance is ponderous, I have sharp'd my sword
To meet the mortal combat. Mission'd Maid,
Our brethren sieged in Orleans, every moment
Gaze from the watch-tower with the sick'ning 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
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
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 let go from me mortal thoughts."

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."





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net