Classic and Contemporary Poetry
JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 9, by ROBERT SOUTHEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Far through the shadowy sky the ascending flames Last Line: "the thundershe shall blast her despot foes." Subject(s): Death; England; Faith; France; Funerals; God; Heroism; Joan Of Arc (1412-1431); Missions & Missionaries; Victory; War; Dead, The; English; Belief; Creed; Burials; Heroes; Heroines | ||||||||
Transactions of the night. Murmurs, council and retreat of the English. Advance of Burgundy to their assistance prevented. Burial of the dead. Their funeral oration pronounced by the Maid. FAR through the shadowy sky the ascending flames Stream'd their fierce torrents, by the gales of night Now curl'd, now flashing their long lightnings up, That made the stars seem pale; less frequent now, Through the red volumes the brief splendour shot, And blacker waves roll'd o'er the darkened heaven. Dismay'd amid the forts that yet remain'd, The invaders saw, and clamoured for retreat, Deeming that aided by invisible powers The Maid went forth to conquer. Not a sound Moved on the air, but filled them with vague dread Of unseen dangers; if the blast arose Sudden, through every fibre a deep fear Crept shivering, and to their expecting minds Silence itself was dreadful. One there was, Who, learning wisdom in the hour of ill, Exclaimed, "I marvel not, that the Most High Hath hid his face from England! wherefore thus Quitting the comforts of domestic life, Swarm we to desolate this goodly land, Making the drenched earth rank with human blood, Scatter pollution on the winds of heaven? Oh! that the sepulchre had closed its jaws On that foul priest, that bad blood-guilty man, Who, trembling for the church's ill-got wealth, Bade Henry look on France, ere he had drawn The desolating sword, and sent him forth To slaughter! Sure he spake the will of God, That holy hermit, who in his career Of conquest met the king and bade him cease The work of death, before the wrath divine Fell heavy on his head; and soon it fell, And sunk him to the grave; and soon that wrath On us, alike in sin, alike shall fall: For thousands and ten thousands, by the sword Cut off, and sent before the eternal Judge, With all their unrepented crimes upon them, Cry out for vengeance! for the widow's groan, Though here she groan unpitied or unheard, Is heard in Heaven against us! o'er this land, For hills of human slain, unsepulchred, Steam pestilence, and cloud the blessed sun! The wrath of God is on usGod has call'd This Virgin forth, and gone before her path Our brethren, vainly valiant, fall beneath them, Clogging with gore their weapons, or in the flood, Whelm'd like the Egyptian tyrant's impious host, Mangled and swoln, their blackened carcasses Toss on the tossing billows! We remain, For yet our rulers will pursue the war, We still remain to perish by the sword, Soon to appear before the throne of God; Lost, guilty wretches, hireling murderers, Uninjur'd, unprovok'd, who dared to risk The life his goodness gave us, on the chance Of war, and in obedience to our chiefs, Durst disobey our God." Then terror seized The troops and late repentance: and they thought The spirits of the mothers and their babes Famish'd at Roan, sat on the clouds of night, Circling the forts, to hail with gloomy joy The hour of vengeance. Nor the English chiefs Heard their loud murmurs heedless: counselling, They met despondent. Suffolk, now their chief, Since conquered by the arm of Theodore, Fell Salisbury, thus began. "It were now vain Lightly of this our more than mortal foe, To speak contemptuous. She has vanquish'd us, Aided by Hell's leagued powers, nor aught avails Man unassisted 'gainst the powers of Hell, To dare the conflict: were it best remain Waiting the doubtful aid of Burgundy, Doubtful and still delayed; or from this scene, Scene of our shame, retreating as we may, Yet struggle to preserve the guarded towns Of Orleannois?" He ceas'd, and with a sigh Struggling with pride that heav'd his gloomy breast, Talbot replied"Our council little boots; For by the numbers now made bold in fear, The soldiers will not fight, they will not heed Our vain resolves, heart-withered by the spells Of this accursed sorceress soon will come The expected host from England: even now Perchance the tall bark scuds across the deep That bears my son: young Talbot comeshe comes To find his sire disgraced! but soon mine arm, By vengeance nerved, and shame of such defeat, Shall, from the crest-fallen courage of yon witch, Regain its ancient glory. Near the coast Best is it to retreat, and there expect The coming succour." Thus the warrior spake. Joy ran through all the troops, as though retreat Were safety. Silently in ordered ranks They issue forth, favoured by the deep clouds That mantled o'er the moon. With throbbing hearts Fearful they speeded on: some, thinking sad Of distant England, and, now wise too late, Cursing in bitterness that evil hour That led them from her shores: some in faint hope, Calling to mind the comforts of their home. Talbot went musing on his blasted fame, Sullen and stern, and feeding on dark thoughts, And meditating vengeance. In the walls Of Orleans, though her habitants with joy Humbly acknowledged the high aid of heaven, Of many a heavy ill and bitter loss Mindful, such mingled sentiments they felt, As one from shipwreck saved, the first warm glow Of transport past, who contemplates himself, Preserved alone, a solitary wretch, Possessed of life, indeed, but reft of all That makes man love to live. The chieftains shared The social bowl, glad of the town relieved, And communing of that miraculous Maid, Who came, the saviour of the realm of France, When vanquish'd in the frequent field of shame, Her bravest warriors trembled. Joan the while Foodless and silent to the convent pass'd: Conrade with her, and Isabel; both mute, Yet gazing on her oft with eloquent eye, Looking the consolation that they fear'd To give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome: The glaring torches o'er the house of death Stream'd a sad splendour. Flowers and funeral herbs Bedeck'd the bier of Theodore: the rue, The dark green rosemary, and the violet, That pluck'd like him withered in its first bloom. Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief Pour'd copious; Conrade wept: the Maid alone Was tearless, for she stood unheedingly, Gazing the vision'd scene of her last hour, Absorb'd in contemplation; from her eye Intelligence was absent; nor she seem'd To hear, though listening to the dirge of death. Laid in his last home now was Theodore, And now upon the coffin thrown, the earth Fell heavy: the Maid startedfor the sound Smote on her heart; her eye one lightning glance Shot wild, and shuddering, upon Isabel She hung, her pale lips trembling, and her cheek As wan as though untenanted by life. Then in the priest arose the earnest hope, That weary of the world and sick with woe, The Maid might dwell with them a vestal vowed. "Ah, damsel!" slow he spake, and cross'd his breast, "Ah, damsel! favoured as thou art of Heaven, Let not thy soul beneath its sorrow sink Despondent; Heaven by sorrow disciplines The froward heart, and chastens whom it loves; Therefore, companion of thy way of life, Affliction thee shall wean from this vain world, Where happiness provokes the traveller's chase, And like the midnight meteor of the marsh, Allures his long and perilous pursuit, Then leaves him dark and comfortless. O Maid! Fix thou thine eyes upon that heavenly dawn Beyond the night of life! thy race is run, Thou hast delivered Orleans: now perfect Thyself; accomplish all, and be the child Of God. Amid these sacred haunts the groan Of woe is never heard; these hallowed roofs Re-echo only to the pealing quire, The chanted mass, and Virgin's holy hymn, Celestial sounds! secluded here, the soul Receives a foretaste of her joys to come! This is the abode of piety and peace: Oh! be their inmate, Maiden! come to rest, Die to the world, and live espous'd to Heaven!" Then Conrade answered, "Father! Heaven has doom'd This Maid to active virtue." "Active!" cried The astonish'd priest; "thou dost not know the toils This holy warfare asks; thou dost not know How powerful the attacks that Satan makes By sinful nature aided! dost thou deem It is an easy task from the fond breast To root affection out? to burst the cords That grapple to society the heart Of social man? to rouse the unwilling spirit, That, rebel to devotion, faintly pours The cold lip-worship of the wearying prayer? To fear and tremble at him, yet to love A God of Terrors? Maid, beloved of heaven! Come to this sacred trial! share with us The day of penance and the night of prayer! Humble thyself! feel thine own worthlessness, A reptile worm! before thy birth condemn'd To all the horrors of thy Maker's wrath, The lot of fallen mankind! oh hither come! Humble thyself in ashes, so thy name Shall live amid the blessed host of saints, And unborn pilgrims at thy hallowed shrine Pour forth their pious offerings." "Hear me, priest!" Exclaim'd the awakened Maid; "amid these tombs, Cold as their clayey tenants, know, my heart Must never grow to stone! chill thou thyself, And break thy midnight rest, and tell thy beads, And labour through thy still repeated prayer; Fear thou thy God of Terrors; spurn the gifts He gave, and sepulchre thyself alive! But far more valued is the vine that bends Beneath its swelling clusters, than the dark And joyless ivy, round the cloister's wall Wreathing its barren arms. For me I know Mine own worth, priest! that I have well perform'd My duty, and untrembling shall appear Before the just tribunal of that God, Whom grateful Love has taught me to adore!" Severe she spake, for sorrow in her heart Had wrought unwonted sternness. From the dome They past in silence; when, with hasty steps, Sent by the assembled chieftains, one they met Seeking the mission'd Virgin, as alarm'd, The herald of ill tidings. "Holy Maid!" He cried, "they ask thy counsel. Burgundy Comes in the cause of England, and his troops, Scarce three leagues from our walls, a fearful power, Rest tented for the night." "Say to the chiefs, At morn I will be with them," she replied. "Meantime their welfare well shall occupy My nightly thoughts." So saying, on she past, Thoughtful and silent. A brief while she mus'd, Brief, but sufficing to impel the soul, As with a strange and irresistible force, To loftiest daring. "Conrade!" she exclaim'd, "I pray thee meet me at the eastern gate With a swift steed prepared: for I must hence." Her voice was calm; nor Conrade through the gloom Saw the faint flush that witness'd on her cheek High thoughts conceived. She to her home repair'd, And with a light and unplumed casquetel She helm'd her head; hung from her neck the shield. And forth she went. Her Conrade by the wall Awaited. "May I, Maiden, seek unblamed Whither this midnight journey? may I share The peril?" cried the warrior. She rejoin'd, "This, Conrade, may not be. Alone I go. That impulse of the soul that comes from God Hath summon'd me. Of this remain assured, If ought of patriot enterprise required Associate firmness, thou shouldst be the man, Bestlastand only friend!" So up she sprung And left him. He beheld the warden close The gate, and listened to her courser's tramp, Till soon upon his ear the far-off sound Fell faintly, and was lost. Swift o'er the vale Sped the good courser; eagerly the Maid Gave the loose rein, and now her speed attain'd The dark encampment. Through the sleeping ranks Onward she past. The trampling of the steed Or mingled with the soldier's busy dreams, Or with vague terrors fill'd his startled sense, Prompting the secret prayer. So on she past To where in loftier shade arose the tent Of Burgundy: light leaping from her seat She entered. On the earth the chieftain slept. His mantle scarf around him; armed all, Save that his shield hung near him, and his helm: And by his side, in warrior readiness, The sheathed falchion lay. Profound he slept, Nor heard the speeding courser's sounding hoof, Nor entering footstep. "Burgundy," she cried, "What, Burgundy! awake!" He started up And caught the gleam of arms, and to his sword Reach'd the quick hand. But soon his upward glance Thrill'd him, for full upon her face the lamp Stream'd its deep glare, and in her solemn look Was most unearthly meaning. Pale she was, But in her eye a saintly lustre beam'd, And that most calm and holiest confidence That guilt knows never. "Burgundy, thou seest The Maid of Orleans!" As she spake, a voice Exclaim'd, "Die, sorceress!" and a knight rush'd in Whose name by her illustrated yet lives, Franquet of Arras. With uplifted arm Furious he came; her buckler broke the blow, And forth she flash'd her sword, and with a stroke Swift that no eye could ward it, and of strength No mail might blunt, smote on his neck, his neck Unfenced, for he in haste aroused had cast An armet on; resistless there she smote And to the earth prone fell the headless trunk Of Franquet. Then on Burgundy she fix'd Her eye severe. "Go, chief, and thank thy God That he with lighter judgments visits thee Than fell on Sisera, or by Judith's hand He wrought upon the Assyrian! thank thy God That when his vengeance smote the ruffian sons Of England, equalled though thou wert in guilt, Thee he has spared to work by penitence And better deeds atonement." Thus she spake, Then issued forth, and bounding on her steed Sped o'er the plain. Dark on the upland bank The hedge-row trees distinct and colourless Rose o'er the grey horizon, and the Loire Form'd in its winding way islands of light Amid the shadowy vale, when now she reach'd The walls of Orleans. From the eastern clouds The sun came forth, as to the assembled chiefs The Maiden past. Her bending thitherwards The Bastard met. "New perils threaten us," He cried, "new toils await us; Burgundy_____" "Fear not for Burgundy!" the Maid exclaim'd, "Him will the Lord direct. Our earliest scouts Shall tell his homeward march. What of the troops Of England?" "They," the son of Orleans cried, "By darkness favour'd, fled: yet not by flight Shall England's robber sons escape the arm Of retribution. Even now our troops, By battle unfatigued, unsatisfied With conquest, clamour to pursue the foe." The delegated damsel thus replied: "So let them fly, Dunois! but other toils Than those of battle, these our hallowed troops Await. Look yonder to that carnaged plain! Behoves us there to delve the general grave. Then, chieftain, for pursuit, when we have paid The rites of burial to our fellow men, And hymned our gratitude to that All-just Who gave the conquest. Thou, meantime, dispatch Tidings to Chinon: bid the king set forth, That, crowning him before assembled France, In Rheims delivered from the enemy, I may accomplish all." So said the Maid. Then to the gate moved on. The assembled troops Beheld their coming chief, and smote their shields, Clamouring their admiration; for they thought That she would lead them to the instant war. She waved her hand, and silence still'd the host. Then thus the mission'd Maid, "Fellows in arms! We must not speed to joyful victory, Whilst our unburied comrades, on yon plain, Allure the carrion bird. Give we this day To our dead friends!" Nor did she speak in vain; For as she spake, the thirst of battle dies In every breast, such awe and love pervade The listening troops. They o'er the corse-strewn plain Speed to their sad employment: some dig deep The house of death; some bear the lifeless load; One little troop search carefully around, If haply they might find surviving yet Some wounded wretches. As they labour thus, They mark far off the iron-blaze of arms; See distant standards waving on the air, And hear the clarion's clang. Then spake the Maid To Conrade, and she bade him speed to view The coming army; or to meet their march With friendly greeting, or if foes they came With such array of battle as short space Allowed: the warrior sped across the plain, And soon beheld the bannered lilies wave. Their chief was Richemont: he, when as he heard What rites employed the Virgin, straightway bade His troops assist in burial; they, though grieved At late arrival, and the expected day Of conquest past, yet give their willing aid: They dig the general grave, and thither bear English or French alike commingled now, And heap the mound of death. Amid the plain There was a little eminence, of old Piled o'er some honoured chieftain's narrow house. His praise the song had ceased to celebrate, And many an unknown age had the long grass Waved o'er the nameless mound, though barren now Beneath the frequent tread of multitudes. There, elevate, the martial Maiden stood, Her brow unhelmed, and floating on the wind Her long dark locks. The silent troops around Stood thickly throng'd, as o'er the fertile field Billows the ripen'd corn. The passing breeze Bore not a murmur from the numerous host, Such deep attention held them. She began. "Glory to those who in their country's cause Fall in the field of battle! Citizens, I stand not here to mourn these gallant men, Our comrades, nor with vain and idle phrase Of pity and compassion, to console The friends who loved them. They, indeed, who fall Beneath oppression's banner, merit well Our pity; may the God of peace and love Be merciful to those blood-guilty men Who came to desolate the realm of France, To make us bow the knee, and crouch like slaves, Before a tyrant's footstool! Give to these, And to their wives and orphan little-ones That on their distant father vainly cry For bread, give these your pity. Wretched men, Forced or inveigled from their homes, or driven By need and hunger to the trade of blood; Or, if with free and willing mind they came, Most wretchedfor before the eternal throne They stand, as hireling murderers arraign'd. But our dead comrades for their freedom fought; No arts they needed, nor the specious bribes Of promise, to allure them to this fight, This holy warfare! them their parents sent, And as they raised their streaming eyes to heaven, Bade them go forth, and from the ruffian's sword Save their grey hairs: these men their wives sent forth, Fix'd their last kisses on their armed hands, And bade them in the battle think they fought For them and for their babes. Thus rous'd to rage By every milder feeling, they rush'd forth, They fought, they conquer'd. To this high-rear'd mound The men of Orleans shall in after days Bring their young boys, and tell them of the deeds Our gallant friends achieved, and bid them learn Like them to love their country, and like them, Should wild oppression pour again its tide Of desolation, to step forth and stem Fearless, the furious torrent. Men of France! Mourn not for these our comrades; boldly they Fought the good fight, and that eternal One, Who bade the angels harbinger his word With 'Peace on earth,' rewards them. We survive, Honouring their memories to avenge their fall On England's ruffian hordes; in vain her chiefs Madly will drain her wealth, and waste her blood, To conquer this vast realm! for, easier were it To hurl the rooted mountain from its base, Than force the yoke of slavery upon men Determin'd to be free: yes,let them rage, And drain their country's wealth, and waste her blood, And pour their hireling thousands on our coasts, Sublime amid the storm shall France arise, And like the rock amid surrounding waves, Repel the rushing oceanshe shall wield The thundershe shall blast her despot foes." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CONFESSION OF ST. 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