Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 5, by ROBERT SOUTHEY


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JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 5, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Scarce had the earliest ray from chinon's towers
Last Line: So saying, conrade from the tent went forth.
Variant Title(s): The Maid Of Orleans Girding For Battle
Subject(s): France; Heroism; History; Joan Of Arc (1412-1431); Missions & Missionaries; Orleans, France; War; Heroes; Heroines; Historians


The Maid receives a consecrated Banner. The troops under her command march
towards Orleans. They meet with one of the female outcasts from that city. Her
history, including that of the siege.

SCARCE had the earliest ray from Chinon's towers
Made visible the mists that curl'd along
The winding waves of Vienne, when from her couch
Started the martial maid. She mail'd her limbs;
The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head;
She girt the sacred falchion by her side,
And, like some youth that 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 well-sharp'd spears,
Await her coming. Terrible in arms,
Before them towered Dunois, his manly face
Dark-shadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks.
The assembled court gaz'd on the marshall'd train,
And at the gate the aged prelate stood
To pour his blessing on the chosen host.
And now a soft and solemn symphony
Was heard, and chanting high the hallow'd hymn,
From the near convent came the vestal maids.
A holy banner, woven by virgin hands,
Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment
Of awe, and eager ardour for the fight,
Thrill'd through the troops, as he the reverend man
Took the white standard, and with heaven-ward eye
Call'd on the God of Justice, blessing it.
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,
Receiv'd the mystic ensign. From the host
A loud and universal shout burst forth,
As rising from the ground, on her white 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,
Purpling the sky with his dilated light,
Sunk westering; when embosomed in the depth
Of that old forest, that for many a league
Shadows the hills and vales of Orleannois,
They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation
Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale,
The streamers wanton; 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,
The martial Maiden wander'd through the wood;
There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank
Reclined, she saw a damsel; her long locks
Engarlanded, and as she nearer came,
The Virgin knew it for the willow weed.
Resting his head upon her lap, there lay
A dark-hair'd man, listening as she did sing
Sad ditties, and enwreathe to bind his brow
The melancholy rue. Scared at the sound
Of one in arms approaching, she had fled;
But Conrade, looking upward, recognis'd
The Maid of Arc. "Fear not, poor Isabel,"
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 held it to his bosom. "My weak heart,
Though school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind,
Beats high, a rebel to its own resolves.
Come hither, outcast one! and call her friend,
And she shall be thy friend more readily
Because thou art unhappy."
Isabel
Saw a tear starting in the Virgin's eye,
And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept,
Wailing his wilder'd senses.
"Mission'd Maid!"
The warrior cried, "be happy! for thy power
Can make this wanderer so. From Orleans driven,
Orphan'd by war, and torn away from one
Her only friend, I found her 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,
High joys and soul ennobling."
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
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,
Lightly the time would pass. Return with me,
I may not long be absent."
So she spake.
The wanderer in half-uttered words express'd
Grateful assent. "Art thou astonish'd, Maid,
That one though powerful is benevolent?
In truth thou well mayst wonder!" Conrade cried.
"But little cause to love the mighty ones
Has the low cottager! for with its shade
Does Power, a barren, death-dew-dropping tree,
Blast ev'ry herb beneath its baleful boughs!
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,
She read her wish and spake. "A wanderer now,
Friendless and hopeless; still I love to think
Upon my pleasant home, and call to mind
Each haunt of careless youth; the woodbin'd wall,
The jessamine that round the straw-roof'd cot
Its fragrant branches wreath'd, beneath whose shade
I wont to sit and watch the setting sun,
And hear the redbreast's lay. Nor far remote,
As o'er the subject landskip round I gazed,
The towers of Jenville rose upon the view.
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
Procur'd our homely sustenance; our herds,
Duly at morn and evening to my hand
Gave their full stores; the vineyard he 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.
How cheerful, seated round the blazing hearth,
When all the labour of the day was done,
We past the evening hours! for they would sing,
Or cheerful roundelay, or ditty sad,
Of maid forsaken and the willow weed;
Or of the doughty Paladins of France,
Some warlike fit, the while my spinning wheel
Humm'd not unpleasing round!
Thus long we lived,
And happy. To a neighbouring youth my hand,
In holy wedlock soon to be conbin'd,
Was plighted: my poor Francis!" Here she paus'd,
And here she wept awhile.
"We did not dream
The desolating sword of War would stoop
To us; but soon, as with the whirlwind's speed,
Ruin rushed round us. Mehun, Clery, fell,
The banner'd Leopard waved on Gergeau's wall;
Baugenci yielded; soon the foe approach'd
The towers of Jenville.
Fatal was the hour
To wretched Isabel: for from the wall
The rusty sword was taken, and the shield,
That long had mouldered 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.
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,
Should bear the helmet's weight! but in the field,
Better to boldly die a soldier's death,
Than here be tamely butcher'd. Thou, my child,
Go to the Abbey; here is gold to buy
The safe protection of the holy church.
Fare thee well, Isabel! if we survive
And conquer, we shall meet again: if not,
There is a better world!'
In broken words,
Lifting his looks to Heaven, my father breath'd
His blessing on me. As they strode away,
My brethren gazed on me and prest my hand
In silence, for they lov'd their Isabel.
From the near cottage Francis join'd the troop.
Then did I look on our forsaken home,
And almost sob my very soul away!
For all my hopes of happiness were fled,
Like a vain dream!"
"Perish these mighty ones,"
Cried Conrade, "these prime ministers of death,
Who stalk elated o'er their fields of fame,
And count the thousands they have massacred,
And with the bodies of the innocent, rear
Their pyramid of glory! perish these,
The epitome of all the pestilent plagues
That Egypt knew! who pour 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!"

Thus whilst 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;
And through the opening glade gleamed 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 paus'd awhile, and gaz'd
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 the melancholy chimneys now!
Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood
The abbey; and ere long I learnt the fall
Of Jenville.
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 the fatal fight!

"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
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,
And Fayette late releas'd, and that young duke
Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound
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
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,
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-accustomed haunts
Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook
Call'd to awakened memory some trace
Of vision seen, or sound miraculous.
Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells
For the rude uproar of a world unknown,
The nuns desert: their abbess, more composed,
Collects her mainds around, and tells her beads,
And pours the timid prayer of piety.
The citizens with strong and ceaseless stroke
Dug up the violated earth, to impede
The foe: the hollow chambers of the dead
Echoed beneath. The brazen-trophied tomb
Thrown in the furnace, now prepares to give
The death it late recorded. It was sad
To see so wide a waste; the aged ones
Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went
O'er the fall'n 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
Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay
One ample ruin; the huge stones remov'd,
Wait in the town to rain the storm of death.

"And now without the walls the desolate plain
Stretch'd wide, a rough and melancholy waste,
With uptorn pavements and foundations deep
Of many a ruined 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
Humm'd cheery to her spinning wheel, and mark'd
Her children dancing to the roundelay.
The chieftains strengthening still the massy walls,
Survey them with the prying eye of fear.
The eager youth in dreadful preparation
Strive in the mimic war. Silent and stern,
With the hurrying restlessness of fear, they urge
Their gloomy labours. In the city dwelt
A most dead silence of all pleasant sounds,
But all day long the armourer's beat was heard,
And all the night it echoed.
Soon the foe
Led to our walls the siege: as on they move
The clarion's clangor, and the cheerful fife,
According to the thundering drum's deep sound,
Direct their measur'd march. Before the ranks
Stalks the stern form of Salisbury, the scourge
Of France; and Talbot towered by his side,
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.
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 blaze
Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun,
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 splendour far,
And last the loaded waggons creak'd along

"Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care procur'd
Human defence, neglectful to implore
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
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
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
Well-order'd, enter'd. "One night more in peace
England shall rest," he cried, "ere yet the storm
Bursts 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
The detail. Isabel, proceed! for soon
Destin'd to rescue that devoted town,
All that has chanced, the ills she has endur'd,
I listen sorrowing for the past, and feel
High satisfaction at the saviour power
To me commission'd."
Thus the virgin spake,
Nor Isabel delayed. "And now more near
The hostile host advancing pitch their tents.
Unnumber'd streamers wave, and clamorous shouts,
Anticipating conquest, rend the air
With universal uproar. From their camp
A herald comes; his garb emblazon'd o'er
With leopards and the lilies of our realm;
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.
'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,
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
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
Of Henry and your Princess, yields the realm,
Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son,
Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose
My master's title, in the face of God,
Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime,
Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion 'gainst
The Lord's anointed. He at Paris crown'd,
With loud acclaim from the duteous multitude
Thus speaks by me. Deliver up your town
To Salisbury, and yield yourselves and arms,
So shall your lives be safe: and—mark 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,
Philip of Burgundy. But—mark we 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
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 paus'd
To form reply.
'Herald! to all thy vaunts
Of English sovereignty let this suffice
For answer: France will only own as king
Him whom the people choose. On Charles's brow
Transmitted through a long and good descent,
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,
We shall remember Meaux, and Caen, and Roan!
Go, tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury,
That as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power;
Like Blanchard, he can mock his cruelty,
And triumph by enduring. Speak I well,
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,
And struck their sounding shields. The towers of Orleans
Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went.
The work of war began."
"A fearful scene,"
Cried Isabel. "The iron storm of death
Clash'd in the sky; from the strong engines hurl'd
Huge rocks with tempest force convulsed the air;
Then was there heard at once the clang of arms,
The bellowing cannons, and the soldier's shout,
The female's shriek, the affrighted infant's cry,
The groan of death: discord of dreadful sounds
That jarr'd the soul!
Nor while the encircling foe
Leaguer'd the walls of Orleans, idly slept
Our friends; for winning down the Loire its way
The frequent vessel with provision fraught,
And men, and all the artillery of death,
Cheer'd us with welcome succour. At the bridge
These safely stranded mock'd the foeman's force.
This to prevent, Salisbury, their watchful chief,
Prepares the amazing work. Around our walls
Encircling walls he builds, surrounding thus
The city. Firm'd with massiest buttresses,
At equal distance, sixty forts protect
The pile. But chief where in the sieged town,
The six great avenues meet in the midst,
Six castles there he rear'd impregnable,
With deep-dug moats and bridges drawn aloft,
Where over the strong gate suspended hung
The dread portcullis. Thence the gunner's eye
From his safe shelter could with ease survey
Intended sally, or approaching aid,
And point destruction.
It were long to tell
And tedious, how with many a bold assault
The men of Orleans rush'd upon their foes;
How after difficult fight the enemy
Possess'd the Tournelles, and the embattled tower
That shadows from the bridge the subject Loire;
Though numbering now three thousand daring men,
Frequent and fierce the garrison repell'd
Their far-outnumbering foes. From every aid
Included, they in Orleans groan'd beneath
All ills accumulate. The shatter'd roofs
Gave to the dews of night free passage there,
And ever and anon the ponderous stone,
Ruining where'er it fell, with hideous crash
Came like an earthquake, startling from his sleep
The affrighted soldier. From the brazen slings
The wild fire-balls shower'd through the midnight sky,
And often their huge engines cast among us
The dead and loathsome cattle of their camp,
As though our enemies, to most deadly league
Forcing the common air, would make us breathe
Poisonous pollution. Through the streets were seen
The frequent fire, and heaps of dead, in haste
Piled up and steaming to infected Heaven.
For ever the incessant storm of death
Pours down, and shrouded in unwholesome vaults
The wretched females hide; not idle there,
Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ'd,
Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal,
Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds;
A sad equality of wretchedness!

"Now came the worst of ills, for famine came!
The provident hand deals out its scanty dole,
Yielding so little a supply to life
As but protracted death. The loathliest food
Hunted with eager eye, and dainty deem'd;
The dog is slain, that at his master's feet
Howling with hunger lay; with jealous fear,
Hating a rival's look, the husband hides
His miserable meal; the famished babe
Clings closely to his dying mother's breast;
And—horrible to tell!—where, thrown aside
There lay unburied in the open streets
Huge heaps of carcasses, the soldier stands
Eager to seize the carrion crow for food.

"Oh, peaceful scenes of childhood! pleasant fields!
Haunts of mine infancy, where I have stray'd
Tracing the brook along its winding way,
Or pluck'd the primrose, or with giddy speed
Chased the gay butterfly from flower to flower!
Oh days in vain remember'd! how my soul,
Sick with calamity, and the sore ills
Of hunger, dwelt upon you! quiet home!
Thinking of you amid the waste of war,
I could in bitterness have cursed the great
Who made me what I was—a helpless one,
Orphan'd, and wanting bread!"
"And be they curst,"
Conrade exclaim'd, his dark eye flashing rage,
"And be they curst! O groves and woodland shades,
How blest indeed were you, if the iron rod
Should one day from oppression's hand be wrenched
By everlasting justice! come that hour
When in the sun the angel of the Lord
Shall stand and cry to all the fowls of heaven,
'Gather ye to the supper of your God,
That ye may eat the flesh of mighty men,
Of captains, and of kings!' Then shall be peace."

"And now, lest all should perish," she pursued,
"The females and the infirm must from the town
Go forth, and seek their fate.
I will not now
Recal the moment when on my poor Francis
With a long look I hung! At dead of night,
Made mute by fear, we mount the secret bark,
And glide adown the stream with silent oars.
Thus thrown upon the mercy of mankind,
I wandered reckless where, till wearied out
And cold at heart, I laid me down to die:
So by this warrior found. Him I had known
And loved, for all loved Conrade who had known him;
Nor did I feel so pressing the hard hand
Of want in Orleans, ere he parted thence
On perilous envoy. For of his small fare"—

"Of this enough," said Conrade. "Holy Maid!
One duty yet awaits me to perform.
Orleans her envoy sent me, claiming aid
From her inactive sovereign. Willingly
Did I achieve the hazardous enterprise,
For rumour had already made me fear
The ill that has fallen on me. It remains,
Ere I do banish me from human kind,
That I re-enter Orleans, and announce
Thy march. 'Tis night—and hark! how dead a silence!
Fit hour to tread so perilous a path!"

So saying, Conrade from the tent went forth.





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