Classic and Contemporary Poetry
JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 8, by ROBERT SOUTHEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Now was the noon of night; and all was still Last Line: The shattered fragments of the midnight wreck. Subject(s): England; Faith; France; Heroism; Joan Of Arc (1412-1431); Missions & Missionaries; Religion; Victory; War; English; Belief; Creed; Heroes; Heroines; Theology | ||||||||
Transactions of the night. Attack of the Tournelles. The garrison retreat to the tower on the bridge. Their total defeat there. NOW was the noon of night; and all was still, Save where the sentinel paced on his rounds Humming a broken song. Along the camp High flames the frequent fire. The warrior Franks, On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs Fatigued; their spears lay by them, and the shield Pillowed the helmed head: secure they slept, And busy fancy in her dream renewed The fight of yesterday. But not to Joan, But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid, Soother of sorrows, Sleep! no more her pulse, Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast, Allow'd no pause for thought. With clasped hands And fixed eye she sat; the while around The spectres of the days departed rose, A melancholy train! upon the gale The raven's croak was heard; she started up, And passing through the camp with hasty step Strode to the field of blood. The night was calm; Fair as was ever on Chaldea's plain When the pale moon-beams o'er the silvery scene Shone cloudless, whilst the watchful shepherd's eye Survey'd the host of heaven, and mark'd them rise Successive, and successively decay; Lost in the stream of light, as lesser springs Amid Euphrates' current. The high wall Cast a deep shadow, and her faltering feet Stumbled o'er broken arms and carcasses; And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan Of one yet struggling in the pangs of death. She reach'd the spot where Theodore had fallen, Before fort London's gate; but vainly there Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold face Gazing with such a look, as though she fear'd The thing she sought. Amazement seiz'd the Maid, For there, the victim of his vengeful arm, Known by the buckler's blazon'd heraldry, Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stood Gazing around the plain, she marked a man Pass slowly on, as burthened. Him to aid She sped, and soon with unencumber'd speed O'ertaking, thus bespake: "Stranger! this weight Impedes thy progress. Dost thou bear away Some slaughter'd friend? or lives the sufferer With many a sore wound gash'd? oh! if he lives I will, with earnest prayer, petition heaven To shed its healing on him!" So she said, And as she spake stretched forth her careful hands To ease the burthen. "Warrior!" he replied, "Thanks for this proffered succour: but this man Lives not, and I, with unassisted arm, Can bear him to the sepulchre. Farewell! The night is far advanced; thou to the camp Return: it fits not darkling thus to stray." "Conrade!" the Maid exclaim'd, for well she knew His voice:with that she fell upon his neck And cried, "my Theodore! but wherefore thus Through the dead midnight dost thou bear his corse?" "Peace, Maiden!" Conrade cried, "collect thy soul! He is but gone before thee to that world Whither thou soon must follow! in the morn, Ere yet from Orleans to the war we went, He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear 'Lo, Conrade, where she movesbeloved Maid! Devoted for the realm of France she goes Abandoning for this the joys of life, Yea, life itself! yet on my heart her words Vibrate. If she must perish in the war, I will not live to bear the dreadful thought, Haply my arm had saved her. I shall go Her unknown guardian. Conrade, if I fall, And trust me, I have little love of life, Bear me in secret from the gory field, Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye A mangled corse. She must not know my fate. Do this last act of friendshipin the flood Whelm me: so shall she think of Theodore Unanguish'd.' Maiden, I did vow with him That I would dare the battle by thy side, And shield thee in the war. Thee of his death I hoped unknowing." As the warrior spake, He on the earth the clay-cold carcass laid. With fixed eye the wretched Maiden gazed The life-left tenement: his batter'd arms Were with the night-dews damp; his brown hair clung Gore-clotted in the wound, and one loose lock Played o'er his cheek's black paleness. "Gallant youth!" She cried, "I would to God the hour were come When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss! No, Theodore! the sport of winds and waves, Thy body shall not roll adown the stream, The sea-wolf's banquet. Conrade, bear with me The corse to Orleans, there in hallowed ground To rest; the priest shall say the sacred prayer, And hymn the requiem to his parted soul. So shall not Elinor in bitterness Lament that no dear friend to her dead child Paid the last office." From the earth they lift The mournful burden, and along the plain Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate. The obedient sentinel, at Conrade's voice, Admits the midnight travellers; on they pass, Till in the neighbouring abbey's porch arrived, They rest the lifeless load. Loud rings the bell; The awakened porter turns the heavy door. To him the Virgin: "Father, from the slain On yonder reeking field a dear-loved friend I bring to holy sepulture: chant ye The requiem to his soul: to-morrow eve Will I return, and in the narrow house Behold him laid to rest." The father knew The mission'd Maid, and humbly bow'd assent. Now from the city, o'er the shadowy plain, Backward they bend their way. From silent thoughts The Maid, awakening, cried: "There was a time, When thinking on my closing hour of life, Though with resolved mind, some natural fears Shook the weak frame; now that, the happy hour, When my emancipated soul shall burst The cumbrous fetters of mortality, Wishful I contemplate. Conrade! my friend, My wounded heart would feel another pang, Shouldst thou forsake me!" "Joan!" the chief replied, "Along the weary pilgrimage of life Together will we journey, and beguile The dreary road, telling with what gay hopes We in the morning eyed the pleasant fields Vision'd before; then wish that we had reach'd The bower of rest!" Thus communing, they gain'd The camp, yet hush'd in sleep; there separating, Each in the post allotted, restless waits The day-break. Morning came: dim through the shade The first rays glimmer; soon the brightening clouds Drink the rich beam, and o'er the landscape spread The dewy light. The soldiers from the earth Leap up invigorate, and each his food Receives, impatient to renew the war. Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points, "Soldiers of France! your English foes are there;" As when a band of hunters, round the den Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate In hope of conquest and the future feast; When on the hospitable board their spoil Shall smoke, and they, as the rich bowl goes round, Tell to their guests their exploits in the chase; They with their shouts of exultation, make The forest ring; so elevate of heart, With such loud clamours for the fierce assault The French prepare; nor, guarding now the lists, Durst the disheartened English man to man Meet the close conflict. From the barbican, Or from the embattled wall they their yew bows Bent forceful, and their death-fraught enginery Discharged; nor did the Gallic archers cease, With well-directed shafts, their loftier foes To assail: behind the guardian pavais fenced, They at the battlements their arrows aim'd, Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the bayle, The bayle now levell'd by victorious France, Pass'd the bold troops with all their mangonels; Or tortoises, beneath whose roofing safe, They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers Make fit foundation, or their petraries, War-wolfs, and beugles, and that murderous sling, The matafunda, whence the ponderous stone Fled fierce, and made one wound of whom it struck, Shattering the frame, so that no pious hand Gathering his mangled limbs, might him convey To where his fathers slept: a dreadful train Prepared by Salisbury over the sieged town To hurl his ruin; but that dreadful train Must hurl their ruin on the invaders' heads, Such retribution righteous Heaven decreed. Nor lie the English trembling, for the fort Was ably garrison'd. Glacidas, the chief, A gallant man, sped on from place to place, Cheering the brave; or if the archer's hand, Palsied with fear, shot wide the ill-aim'd shaft, Threatening the coward who betrayed himself, He drove him from the ramparts. In his hand The chief a cross-bow held; an engine dread Of such wide-wasting fury, that of yore The assembled fathers of the Christian church Pronounced that man accurs'd whose impious hand Should point the murderous weapon. Such decrees Befits the men of God to promulgate, And with a warning voice, though haply vain, To cry aloud and spare not, woe to them Whose hands are full of blood! An English king, The lion-hearted Richard, their decree First broke, and heavenly retribution doom'd His fall by the keen quarrel; since that day Frequent in fields of battle, and from far To many a good knight, bearing his death wound From hands unknown. With such an instrument, Arm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance Darts not the hawk when from the feather'd tribe He marks his victim. On a Frank he fix'd His gaze, who, kneeling by the trebuchet, Charged its long sling with death. Him Glacidas Secure behind the battlements, beheld, And strung his bow; then, bending on one knee, He in the groove the feather'd quarrel placed, And levelling with firm eye, the death-wound mark'd. The bow-string twang'd, on its swift way the dart Whizzed fierce, and struck, there where the helmet's clasps Defend the neck; a weak protection now; For through the tube that the pure air inhales Pierced the keen shaft; blood down the unwonted way Gush'd to the lungs: prone fell the dying man Grasping, convuls'd, the earth: a hollow groan In his throat struggled, and the dews of death Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth He had passed peaceful, and had known what joys Domestic love bestows, the father once Of two fair infants; in the city hemm'd During the hard siege; he had seen their cheeks Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries For bread! his wife, a broken-hearted one, Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babes With hunger pined, and followed; he survived, A miserable man, and heard the shouts Of joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd, As o'er the corse of his last little one He heap'd the unhallowed earth. To him the foe Perform'd a friendly part, hastening the hour Grief else had soon brought on. The English chief, Pointing again his arbalist, let loose The string; the quarrel, driven by that strong blow, True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struck Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd Deep in his liver; blood and mingled gall Flow'd from the wound; and writhing with keen pangs, Headlong he fell; he for the wintry hour Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale: A man in his small circle well-beloved. None better knew with prudent hand to guide The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time To press the full-swoln clusters; he, heart-glad, Taught his young boys the little all he knew, Enough for happiness. The English host Laid waste his fertile fields: he, to the war, By want compell'd, adventur'd, in his gore Now weltering. Nor the Gallic host remit Their eager efforts; some, with watery fence, Beneath the tortoise roof'd, with engines apt Drain painful; part, laden with wood, throw there Their buoyant burdens, labouring so to gain Firm footing: some the-mangonels supply, Or charging with huge stones the murderous sling, Or petrary, or in the espringal Fix the brass-winged arrows. Hoarse around Rose the confused din of multitudes. Fearless along the ramparts Gargrave moved, Cheering the English troops. The bow he bore; The quiver rattled as he moved along. He knew aright to aim the feathered shafts, Well skill'd to pierce the mottled roebuck's side, O'ertaken in his flight. Him passing on, From some huge martinet, a ponderous stone Crush'd: on his breast-plate falling, the vast force, Shatter'd the bone, and with his mangled lungs The fragments mingled. on the sunny brow Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home; A pleasant dwelling, whence the ample ken Gazed o'er subjected distance, and surveyed Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety! The traveller knew its hospitable towers, For open were the gates, and blazed for all The friendly fire. By glory lured, the youth Went forth; and he had bathed his falchion's edge In many a Frenchman's gore; now crush'd beneath The ponderous fragment's force, his mangled limbs Lie quivering. Lo! towards the levelled moat, A moving tower the men of Orleans wheel, Four stages elevate. Above was hung, Equalling the walls, a bridge; in the lower stage The ponderous battering-ram: a troop, within, Of archers, through the opening, shot their shafts. In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepar'd To mount the rampart; for he loath'd the chase, And loved to see the dappled foresters Browse fearless on their lair, with friendly eye, And happy in beholding happiness, Not meditating death: the bowman's art, Therefore, he little knew, nor was he wont To aim the arrow at the distant foe. But uprear in close conflict, front to front, His death-red battle-axe, and break the shield, First in the war of men. There, too, the Maid Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower, Slow o'er the moat and steady, though the foe Showered there their javelins, aim'd their engines there, And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart Shot lightning through the sky. In vain it flamed, For well with many a reeking hide secured, Pass'd on the dreadful pile, and now it reached The wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven, The iron-horned engine swings its stroke, Then back recoils, whilst they within, who guide, In backward step collecting all their strength, Anon the massy beam, with stronger arm, Drive full and fierce; so rolls the swelling sea Its curly billows to the unmoved foot Of some huge promontory, whose broad base Breaks the rough wave; the shiver'd surge rolls back, Till, by the coming billow borne, it bursts Again, and foams with ceaseless violence. The wanderer, on the sunny cliff outstretch'd, Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock His weary senses to forgetfulness. But nearer danger threats the invaders now, For on the ramparts, lowered from above, The bridge reclines. An universal shout Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant Franks Clamour their loud rejoicing, whilst the foe Lift up the warning voice, and call aloud For speedy succour there, with deafening shout Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din The mountain torrent flings precipitate Its bulk of waters, though, amid the fall, Shattered, and dashing silvery from the rock. Lo! on the bridge he stands, the undaunted man, Conrade! the gathered foes along the wall Throng opposite, and on him point their pikes, Cresting with armed men the battlements. He, undismayed, though on that perilous height, Stood firm, and hurl'd his javelin; the keen point Pierced through the destined victim, where his arm Join'd the broad breast: a wound that skilful care Haply had heal'd; but, him disabled now For farther service, the unpitying throng Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to hurl His deadly javelins fast, for well within The tower was stored with weapons, to the chief Quickly supplied: nor did the mission'd Maid Rest idle from the combat; she, secure, Aim'd the keen quarrel, taught the cross-bow's use By the willing mind that what it well desires Gains aptly: nor amid the numerous throng, Though haply erring from their destin'd mark, Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower Ceaseless the bow-strings twang: the knights below, Each by his pavais bulwark'd, thither aimed Their darts, and not a dart fell woundless there; So thickly throng'd, they stood, and fell as fast As when the monarch of the East goes forth From Gemna's banks and the proud palaces Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood Die in the blameless warfare: closed within The still-contracting circle, their brute force Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there, Or by each other's fury lacerate, The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain, Rajah or Omrah, for the war of beasts Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood. The shout of terror rings along the wall, For now the French their scaling ladders place, And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault Mount fearless: from above the furious troops Hurl down such weapons as inventive care Or frantic rage supplies: huge stones and beams Crush the bold foe; some, thrust adown the height, Fall living to their death: some in keen pangs And wildly-writhing, as the liquid lead Gnaws through their members, leap down desperate, Eager to cease from suffering. Still they mount, And by their fellows' fate unterrified, Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerless To the English was the fight, though from above Easy to crush the assailants: them amidst Fast fled the arrows; the large brass-wing'd darts, There driven resistless from the espringal, Keeping their impulse even in the wound, Whirl as they pierce the victim. Some fall crush'd Beneath the ponderous fragment that descends The heavier from its height: some, the long lance, Impetuous rushing on its viewless way, Transfix'd. The death-fraught cannon's thundering roar Convulsing air, the soldier's eager shout, And terror's wild shriek echo o'er the plain In dreadful harmony. Meantime the chief, Who equall'd on the bridge the rampart's height, With many a well-aim'd javelin dealing death, Made through the throng his passage: he advanced In wary valour o'er his slaughtered foes, On the blood-reeking wall. Him drawing near, Two youths, the boldest of the English host, Prest on to thrust him from that perilous height; At once they rush'd upon him: he, his axe Dropping, the dagger drew: one through the throat He pierced, and swinging his broad buckler round, Dash'd down his comrade. So, unmoved he stood, The sire of Guendolen, that daring man, Corineus; grappling with his monstrous foe, He the brute vastness held aloft and bore, And headlong hurl'd, all shatter'd, to the sea, Down from the rock's high summit, since that day Him, hugest of the giants, chronicling, Called Langoemagog. The Maid of Arc Bounds o'er the bridge, and to the wind unfurls Her hallowed banner. At that welcome sight A general shout of acclamation rose, And loud, as when the tempest-tossing forest Roars to the roaring wind; then terror seiz'd The garrison; and fired anew with hope, The fierce assailants to their prize rush on Resistless. Vainly do their English foes Hurl there their beams, and stones, and javelins, And fire-brands; fearless in the escalade, Firm mount the French, and now upon the wall Wage equal battle. Burning at the sight With indignation, Glacidas beheld His troops fly scattered; fast on every side The foes up-rushing eager to their spoil; The holy standard waving; and the Maid Fierce in pursuit. "Speed but this arrow, Heaven!" The chief exclaim'd, "and I shall fall content." So saying, he his sharpest quarrel chose, And fix'd the bow-string, and against the Maid Levelling, let loose: her arm was rais'd on high To smite a fugitive; he glanced aside, Shunning her deadly stroke, and thus receiv'd The chieftain's arrow: through his ribs it pass'd, And cleft that vessel, whence the purer blood, Through many a branching channel, o'er the frame Meanders. "Fool!" the enraged chief exclaim'd, "Would she had slain thee! thou hast lived too long." Again he aim'd his arbalist: the string Struck forceful: swift the erring arrow sped, Guiltless of blood, for lightly o'er the court Bounded the warrior Virgin. Glacidas Levelled his bow again; the fated shaft Fled true, and difficultly through the mail Pierced to her neck, and tinged its point with blood. "She bleeds! She bleeds!" exulting cried the chief; "The sorceress bleeds! Nor all her hellish arts Can charm my arrows from their destined course." Ill-fated man! In vain, with murderous hand Placing thy feathered quarrel in its groove, Dream'st thou of JOAN subdued! She from her neck Plucking the shaft unterrified, exclaim'd: "This is a favour! Frenchmen, let us on! Escape they cannot from the hand of God!" But Conrade, rolling round his angry eyes, Beheld the English chieftain as he aim'd Again the bow: with rapid step he strode; Nor did not Glacidas the Frank perceive: At him he drew the string: the powerless dart Fell blunted from his buckler. Fierce he came And lifting high his ponderous battle-axe, Full on his shoulder drove the furious stroke Deep-buried in his bosom: prone he fell; The cold air rushed upon his heaving heart. One whose low lineage gave no second name Was Glacidas, a gallant man, and still His memory in the records of the foe Survives. And now disheartened at his death The vanquish'd English fly towards the gate, Seeking the inner court, as yet in hope Again to dare the siege, and with their friends Find present refuge there. Mistaken men! The vanquish'd have no friends! defeated thus, Prest by pursuit, in vain, with eager voice, They call their comrades in the suppliant tones Of pity now, now in the indignant phrase Of fruitless anger; they indeed within Fast from the ramparts on the victor troops Hurl their keen javelins,but the gate is barr'd The huge portcullis down! Then terror seiz'd Their hopeless hearts: some, furious in despair, Turn on their foes; fear-palsied, some await The coming death; some drop the useless sword And cry for mercy. Then the Maid of Arc Had pity on the vanquish'd; and she call'd Aloud, and cried unto the host of France, And bade them cease from slaughter. They obeyed The delegated damsel. Some there were Apart that communed murmuring, and of these Graville address'd her. "Mission'd Maid! our troops Are few in number; and to well secure These many prisoners such a force demands, As should we spare might shortly make us need The mercy we bestow; not mercy then, Rather to these our soldiers, cruelty. Justice to them, to France, and to our king, And that regard wise Nature has in each Implanted of self-safety, all demand Their deaths." "Foul fall such evil policy!" The indignant Maid exclaim'd. "I tell thee, chief, God is with us! but God shall hide his face From him who sheds one drop of human blood In calm cold-hearted wisdom; him who weighs The right and the expedient, and resolves, Just as the well-pois'd scale shall rise or fall. These men shall livelive to be happy, chief, And in the latest hour of life, shall bless Us who preserved. What is the conqueror's name, Compared to this when the death hour shall come? To think that we have from the murderous sword Rescued one man, and that his heart-pour'd prayers, Already with celestial eloquence, Plead for us to the All-just!" Severe she spake, Then turn'd to Conrade. "Thou from these our troops Appoint fit escort for the prisoners: I need not tell thee, Conrade, they are men, Misguided men, led from their little homes, The victims of the mighty! thus subdued They are our foes no longer: be they held In Orleans. From the war we may not spare Thy valour long." She said: when Conrade cast His eyes around, and mark'd amid the court From man to man where Francis rush'd along, Bidding them spare the vanquish'd. Him he hail'd. "The Maid hath bade me choose a leader forth To guard the captives; thou shalt be the man; For thou wilt guard them with due diligence, Yet not forgetting they are men, our foes No longer!" Nor meantime the garrison Ceas'd from the war; they, in the hour of need, Abandoning their comrades to the sword, A daring band, resolved to bide the siege In desperate valour. Fast against the walls The battering-ram drove fierce; the enginery Ply'd at the ramparts fast; the catapults Drove there their dreadful darts; the war-wolfs there Hurl'd their huge stones; and, through the kindled sky, The engines showered their sheets of liquid fire. "Feel ye not, comrades, how the ramparts shake Beneath the ponderous ram's unceasing stroke?" Cried one, a venturous Englishman. "Our foes, In woman-like compassion, have dismissed A powerful escort, weakening thus themselves, And giving us fair hope, in equal field, Of better fortune. Sorely here annoyed, And slaughtered by their engines from afar, We perish. Vainly does the soldier boast Undaunted courage and the powerful arm, If thus pent up, like some wild beast he falls, Mark'd for the hunter's arrows: let us rush And meet them in the battle, man to man, Either to conquer, or, at least, to die A soldier's death." "Nay, naynot so," replied One of less daring valour. "Though they point Their engines here, our archers, not in vain, Speed their death-doing shafts. Let the strong walls First by the foe be won; 'twill then be time To meet them in the battle man to man, When these shall fail us." Scarcely had he spoke When full upon his breast a ponderous stone Fell, fierce impell'd, and drove him to the earth, All shattered. Horror the spectators seiz'd, For as the dreadful weapon shivered him, His blood besprinkled round, and they beheld His mangled lungs lie quivering! "Such the fate Of those who trust them to their walls' defence," Again exclaimed the soldier: "Thus they fall, Betrayed by their own fears. Courage alone Can save us." Nor to draw them from the fort Now needed eloquence; with one accord They bade him lead to battle. Forth they rush'd Impetuous. With such fury o'er the plain, Swoln by the autumnal tempest, Vega rolls His rapid waters, when the gathered storm, On the black hills of Cambria bursting, swells The tide of desolation. Then the Maid Spake to the son of Orleans, "Let our troops Fall back, so shall the English in pursuit Leave this strong fortress, thus an easy prey." Time was not for long counsel. From the court, Obedient to Dunois, a band of Franks Retreat, as at the irruption of their foes Disheartened; they, with shouts and loud uproar, Rush to their fancied conquest: Joan, the while, Placing a small, but gallant garrison, Bade them secure the gates: then forth she rush'd, With such fierce onset charging on their rear, That terror smote the English, and they wish'd Again that they might hide them in their walls Rashly abandoned; for now wheeling round, The son of Orleans fought. All captainless, Ill-marshall'd, ill-directed, in vain rage, They waste their furious efforts, falling fast Before the Maid's good falchion and the sword Of Conrade: loud was heard the mingled sound Of arms and men; the earth, that trampled late By multitudes, gave to the passing wind Its dusty clouds, now reek'd with their hot gore. High on the fort's far summit Talbot mark'd The fight, and call'd impatient for his arms, Eager to rush to war; and scarce withheld: For now, disheartened and discomfited, The troops fled fearful. On the bridge there stood A strong-built tower, commanding o'er the Loire. The traveller sometimes lingered on his way, Marking the playful tenants of the stream, Seen in its shadow, stem the sea-ward tide. This had the invaders won in hard assault, Ere she the delegate of heaven, came forth And made them fear who never fear'd before. Hither the English troops with hasty steps Retir'd, yet not forgetful of defence, But waging still the war: the garrison Them thus retreating saw, and open threw Their guarded gates; and on the Gallic host, Covering their vanquish'd fellows, pour'd their shafts Check'd in pursuit, they stopt. Then Graville cried, "Ill, maiden, hast thou done! those valiant troops Thy womanish pity has dismissed, with us Conjoin'd might press upon the vanquish'd foes, Though aided thus, and plant the lilied flag Victorious on yon tower." "Dark-minded man!" The Maid of Orleans answered, "to act well Brings with itself an ample recompence. I have not rear'd the oriflamme of death, The butcher flag! the banner of the Lord Is this; and come what will, me it behoves, Mindful of that good power who delegates, To spare the fallen foe: that gracious God Sends me the minister of mercy forth, Sends me to save this ravaged realm of France; To England friendly as to all the world, Foe only to the great blood-guilty ones, The masters and the murderers of mankind." She said, and suddenly threw off her helm; Her breast heaved highher cheek grew redher eyes Flash'd forth a wilder lustre. "Thou dost deem That I have illy spar'd so large a band, Disabling from pursuit our weakened troops God is with us!" she cried"God is with us! Our champion manifest!" Even as she spake, The tower, the bridge, and all its multitudes, Sunk with a mighty crash. Astonishment Seized on the Frenchan universal cry Of terror burst from them. Crush'd in the fall, Or by their armour whelm'd beneath the tide, The sufferers sunk, or vainly plied their arms, Caught by some sinking wretch, who grasp'd them fast And dragg'd them down to death: shrieking they sunk; Huge fragments frequent dash'd with thundering roar, Amid the foaming current. From the fort Talbot beheld, and gnash'd his teeth, and cursed The more than mortal Virgin; whilst the towers Of Orleans echoed to the loud uproar, And all who heard, trembled, and cross'd their breasts. And as they hastened to the city walls, Told fearfully their beads. 'Twas now the hour When o'er the plain the pensive hues of eve Shed their meek radiance; when the lowing herd, Slow as they stalk to shelter, draw behind The lengthening shades; and seeking his high nest As heavily he flaps the dewy air, The hoarse rook pours his not unpleasant note. "Now then, Dunois, for Orleans!" cried the Maid, "And give we to the flames these monuments Of sorrow and disgrace. The ascending flames Shall to the dwellers of yon rescued town Blaze with a joyful splendour, while the foe Behold and tremble." As she spake, they rush'd To fire the forts; they shower their wild fire there, And high amid the gloom the ascending flames Blaze up; then joyful of their finish'd toil, The host retire. Hush'd is the field of fight As the calm'd ocean, when its gentle waves Heave slow and silent, wafting tranquilly The shattered fragments of the midnight wreck. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MYSTIC BOUNCE by TERRANCE HAYES MATHEMATICS CONSIDERED AS A VICE by ANTHONY HECHT UNHOLY SONNET 11 by MARK JARMAN SHINE, PERISHING REPUBLIC by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE COMING OF THE PLAGUE by WELDON KEES A LITHUANIAN ELEGY by ROBERT KELLY BISHOP BRUNO by ROBERT SOUTHEY |
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