Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 6, by ROBERT SOUTHEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 6, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The night was calm, and many a moving cloud
Last Line: Renewing the remembrance of the storm.
Subject(s): France; Heroism; History; Joan Of Arc (1412-1431); Missions & Missionaries; Orleans, France; Victory; War; Heroes; Heroines; Historians


Conrade on his way to Orleans releases a French soldier. Council of the leaders.
Summons of the Maid to the English Generals. The Maid attacks, defeats them, and
enters Orleans in triumph at midnight, amid thunder and lightning.

THE night was calm, and many a moving cloud
Shadowed the moon. Along the forest glade
With swift foot Conrade past, and now had reach'd
The plain, where whilome by the pleasant Loire,
Cheer'd with the song, the rustics had beheld
The day go down upon their merriment:
No song of peace now echoed on its banks.
There tents were pitched, and there the sentinel,
Slow pacing on his sullen rounds, beheld
The frequent corse roll down the tainted stream.
Conrade with wider sweep pursued his way,
Shunning the camp, now hush'd in sleep and still.
And now no sound was heard save of the Loire,
Murmuring along. The noise of coming feet
Alarm'd him; nearer drew the fearful sound
As of pursuit; anon—the clash of arms!
That instant rising o'er a broken cloud
The moonbeams shone, where two with combined force
Prest on a single foe; he, warding still
Their swords, retreated in the unequal fight,
As he would make the city. Conrade shook
His long lance for the war, and strode along.
Full in the breast of one with forceful arm
Plunged he the spear of death; and as, dismayed
The other fled, "Now haste we to the gates,
Frenchman!" he cried. On to the stream they speed,
And plunging stemm'd with sinewy stroke the tide,
Soon on the opposite shore arrived and safe.

"Whence art thou?" cried the warrior; "on what charge
Commission'd?"
"Is it not the voice of Conrade?"
Francis exclaim'd; "and dost thou bring to us
Tidings of speedy aid? oh! had it come
A few hours earlier! Isabel is gone!"

"Nay, she is safe," cried Conrade; "her I found
When wilder'd in the forest, and consign'd
To the protection of that holy Maid,
The delegate of Heaven. One evening more
And thou shalt have thine Isabel. Now say,
Wherefore alone? A fugitive from Orleans,
Or sent on dangerous service from the town?"

"There is no food in Orleans," he replied.
"Scarce a meal more! the assembled chiefs resolved,
If thou shouldst bring no tidings of near aid,
To cut their way to safety, or by death
Prevent the pang of famine. One they sought
Who venturous in the English camp should spy
Where safest they might rush upon the foe.
The perilous task I chose, then desperate
Of happiness."
So saying, they approach'd
The gate. The sentinel, soon as he heard
Thitherward footsteps, with uplifted lance
Challenged the darkling travellers. At their voice
He draws the strong bolts back, and painful turns
The massy entrance. To the careful chiefs
They pass. At midnight of their extreme state
Counselling they sat, serious and stern. To them
Conrade.
"Assembled warriors! sent from God
There is a holy Maid by miracles
Made manifest. Twelve hundred chosen men
Follow her hallowed standard. These Dunois,
The strength of France, arrays. With the next noon
Ye shall behold their march."
Astonishment
Seized the convened chiefs, and joy by doubt
Little repress'd. "Open the granaries!"
Xaintrailles exclaim'd; "give we to all the host
With hand unsparing now the plenteous meal;
To-morrow we are safe! for Heaven all just
Has seen our sufferings and decreed their end.
Let the glad tidings echo through the town!
God is with us!"
"Rest not in too full faith,"
Graville replied, "on this miraculous aid.
Some frenzied femalo whose wild phantasy,
Shaping vain dreams, infects the credulous
With her own madness! that Dunois is there,
Leading in arms twelve hundred chosen men,
Cheers me: yet let not we our little food
Be lavish'd, lest the warrior in the fight
Should haply fail, and Orleans be the prey
Of England!"
"Chief! I tell thee," Conrade cried,
"I did myself behold the sepulchre,
Fulfilling what she spake, give up those arms
That surely for no common end the grave
Through many an age has held inviolate.
She is the delegate of the Most High,
And shall deliver Orleans!"
Gaucour then,
"Be it as thou hast said. High hope I feel,
For to no vulgar tale would Conrade yield
Belief, or he the Bastard. Our small stores
Must yield us, ere another week elapse,
To death or England. Tell through all our troops
There is a holy Virgin sent from God;
They in that faith invincible shall war
With more than mortal fury."
Thus the chief,
And what he said seemed good. The men of Orleans,
Long by their foemen bayed, a victim band
To war, and woe, and want, such transport felt,
As when the Mexicans, with eager eye
Gazing to Huixachtla's distant top,
On that last night, doubtful if ever morn
Again shall cheer them, mark the mystic fire
Flame on the breast of some brave prisoner,
A dreadful alter. As they see the blaze
Beaming on Iztapalapan's near towers,
Or on Tezcuco's calmy lake flash'd far,
Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy
Wake the loud echo; the glad husband tears
The mantling aloe from the female's face,
And children, now delivered from the dread
Of everlasting darkness, look abroad,
Hail the good omen, and expect the sun
Uninjured still to run his flaming race.
Thus whilst in that besieged town the night
Wan'd sleepless, silent slept the hallowed host.
And now the morning came. From his hard couch,
Lightly upstarting and bedight in arms,
The Bastard moved along, with provident eye
Marshalling the troops. All high in hope they march;
And now the sun shot from the southern sky
His noon-tide radiance, when afar they hear
The hum of men, and mark the distant towers
Of Orleans, and the bulwarks of the foe,
And many a streamer wantoning in air.
These as they saw and thought of all the ills
Their brethren had endured, beleaguer'd there
For many a month; such ardour for the fight
Burnt in each bosom, as young Ali felt
When to the assembled tribe Mohammed spake,
Asking for one his Vizir. Fierce in faith
Forth from the race of Hashem stept the youth,
"Prophet of God! lo, I will be the man!"
And well did Ali merit that high post,
Victorious upon Beder's fertile vale,
And on mount Ohud, and before the walls
Of Chaibar, then when cleaving to the chest
His giant foe, he grasp'd the massy gate,
Shook with strong arm and tore it from the fort,
And lifted it in air, portentous shield!

"Behold the towers of Orleans," cried Dunois.
"Lo! this the vale where on the banks of Loire,
Of yore, at close of day the rustic band
Danced to the roundelay. In younger years
As oft I glided down the silver stream,
Frequent upon the lifted oar I paus'd
Listening the sound of far-off merriment.
There wave the English banners! martial Maid,
Give thou the signal—let me rush upon
These ministers of murder, who have sack'd
The fruitful fields, and made the hamlet haunts
Silent—or hearing but the widow's groan.
Give thou the signal, Maiden!"
Her dark eye
Fix'd sadly on the foe, the holy Maid
Answer'd him. "Ere the bloody sword be drawn,
Ere slaughter be let loose, befits us send
Some peaceful messenger, who shall make known
The will of Heaven. So timely warn'd, our foes
Haply may yet repent, and quit in peace
Besieged Orleans. Victory is sad
When even one man is murder'd."
So she said,
And as she spake a soldier from the ranks
Advanced. "I will be thy messenger,
Maiden of God! I to the English camp
Will bear thy bidding."
"Go," the Virgin cried,
"Say to the chief of Salisbury, and the host
Attending, Suffolk, Fastolffe, Talbot, Scales,
Invaders of the country, say, thus says
The Maid of Orleans. 'With your troops retire
In peace. Of every captur'd town the keys
Restore to Charles; so bloodless you may seek
Your native England; for the God of Hosts
Thus has decreed. To charles the rightful heir,
By long descent and voluntary choice,
Of duteous subjects hath the Lord assign'd
His conquest. In his name the Virgin comes
Arm'd with his sword; yet not of mercy void.
Depart in peace: for ere the morrow dawns,
Victorious upon Orleans' wall shall wave
The holy banner." To the English camp
Fearless the warrior strode.
At midday-meal,
With all the dissonance of boisterous mirth,
The British chiefs carous'd and quaff'd the bowl
To future conquest. By the sentinel
Conducted came the Frank.
"Chiefs," he exclaim'd,
"Salisbury, and ye the representatives
Of the English king, usurper of this realm;
To ye the leaders of the invading host
I come, no welcome messenger. Thus says
The Maid of Orleans. 'With your troops retire
In peace. Of every captur'd town the keys
Restore to Charles; so bloodless you may seek
Your native England; for the God of Hosts
Thus has decreed. To Charles the rightful heir,
By long descent and voluntary choice
Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd
His conquest. In his name the Virgin comes,
Arm'd with his sword, yet not of mercy void.
Depart in peace: for ere the morrow dawns,
Victorious upon Orleans' wall shall wave
The holy banner.'"
Wonder made a pause;
To this the laugh succeeds. "What!" Fastolffe cried,
"A woman warrior has your monarch sent
To save devoted Orleans? By the rood,
I thank his Grace. If she be young and fair,
No worthless prize, my lords! Go tell your Maid,
Joyful we wait her coming."
There was one
Among the English chiefs, who had grown old
In arms, yet had not age unnerved his limbs,
But from the flexile nimbleness of youth
Braced to unyielding strength. One, who had seen
The warrior at the feast, might well have deem'd
That Talbot with his whole collected might
Wielded the sword in war; for on his neck
The veins were full, and every muscle bore
Most powerful character He his stern eye
Fix'd on the herald, and before he spake,
His silence threaten'd.
"Get thee gone!" exclaimed
The indignant chief; "away! nor think to scare
With girlish phantasies the English host
That scorns your bravest warriors. Hie thee hence,
Insolent herald! tell this frantic girl,
This courtly minion, to avoid my wrath,
For if she dares the war, I will not stain
My good-blood-rusted sword—but she shall meet
The mockery of the camp!"
"Nay, scare her not,"
Replied their chief; "go tell this Maid of Orleans,
That Salisbury longs to meet her in the fight.
Nor let her fear that rude and iron chains
Shall gall her tender limbs; for I myself
Will be her prison, and_____"
"Contemptuous ma
No more," the Frank exclaimed, as to his cheek
Rush'd the red anger. "Bearing words of peace
And timely warning, came I to your camp,
Here with rude mockery and stern insolence
Received, Bear witness, chieftains! that the French,
Free from blood-guiltiness, shall meet the war."

"And who art thou?" cried Suffolk, and his eye
Grew fierce and wrath-inflamed; "what fool art thou
That at this woman's bidding comest to brave
The host of England? Thou shalt have thy meed!"
Then, turning to the sentinel, he cried,
"Prepare the stake! and let the men of Orleans,
And let this woman, who believes her name
May privilege her apostle, see the fire
Consume him. Build the stake! for by my God
He shall be kalendered of this new faith
First martyr."
As he spake, a sudden flush
Came o'er the herald's cheek, and his heart beat
With quicker action; but the sudden flush,
Alarmed Nature's impulse, faded soon
To such a steady hue as spake the soul
Rous'd up with all its powers, and unsubdued,
And glorying in endurance. Through the camp
Soon as the tidings spread, a shout arose,
A hideous shout, more savage than the howl
Of midnight wolves; and round the Frank they throng'd
To gaze upon their victim. He pass'd on,
And as they led him to the appointed place
Look'd round, as though forgetful of himself,
And cried aloud, "Oh! I am sad to think
So many men shall never see the sun
Go down! Ye English mothers, mourn ye now,
Daughters of England, weep! for hard of heart
Still your mad leaders urge the impious war,
And for their folly and their wickedness,
Your sons, your husbands, by the sword must fall.
Long-suffering is the Lord, and slow to wrath,
But heavy are his judgments!"
He who spake
Was young and comely; had his cheek been pale
With dread, and had his eye look'd fearfully,
Sure he had won compassion; but the blood
Gave now a livelier meaning to his cheek,
As with a prophet's look and prophet's voice
He spake the ominous words: and they who heard,
Wonder'd, and they who rear'd the stake urged on
With half-unwilling hands their slacken'd toil,
And doubted what might follow.
Not unseen
Rear'd they the stake, and piled around the wood;
In sight of Orleans and the Maiden's host,
Had Suffolk's arrogant fierceness bade the work
Of death be done. The Maiden's host beheld:
At once in eager wrath they rais'd the loud
And general clamour, "Lead us to the foe!"
"Not upon us, O God!" the Maid exclaim'd,
"Not upon us cry out the innocent blood!"
And bade the signal sound. In the English camp
The clarion and the trumpet's blare was heard,
In haste they seize their arms, in haste they form,
Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear
Even from themselves, some silently in prayer,
For much their hearts misgave them.
But the rage
Of Suffolk swell'd within him, "Speed your work!"
Exclaim'd the savage earl; "kindle the pile,
That France may see the fire, and in defeat
Feel aggravated shame!"
And now they bound
The herald to the stake: he cried aloud,
And fix'd his eye on Suffolk, "Let not him
Who girdeth on his harness boast himself
As he that puts it off! They come! they come!
God and the Maid!"
The host of France approached,
And Suffolk eagerly beheld the fire
Draw near the pile: sudden a fearful shout
Towards Orleans turn'd his eye, and thence he saw
A mailed man upon a mailed steed
Come thundering on.
As when Chederles comes
To aid the righteous on his deathless steed,
Swaying his sword with such resistless arm,
Such mightiest force, as he had newly quaff'd
The hidden waters of eternal youth,
Till with the copious draught of life and strength
Inebriate; such, so fierce, so terrible,
Came Conrade through the camp; aright, aleft
The affrighted English scatter from his spear.
Onward he drives, and now the circling throng
Fly from the stake; and now he checks his course,
And cuts the herald's bonds, and bids him live,
And arm, and fight, and conquer.
"Haste thee hence
"To Orleans," cried the warrior, "Tell the chiefs
There is confusion in the English camp.
Bid them come forth." On Conrade's steed the youth
Leapt up and hasten'd onward. He the while
Turn'd to the war.
Like two conflicting clouds,
Pregnant with thunder, rush'd the hostile hosts.
Then man met man, then, on the batter'd shield,
Rung the loud lance, and through the darken'd sky
Fast fell the arrowy storm. Amid his foes
The Bastard's arm sway'd irresistible
The strokes of death; and by his side the Maid
Led the fierce fight—the Maid, though all unused
To the rude conflict, now inspired by Heaven,
Flashing her flamy falchion through the troops,
That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell,
Scattered the trembling ranks; the Saracen,
Though arm'd from Cashbin or Damascus, wields
A weaker sword; nor might that magic blade
Compare with this that Oriana saw
Flame in the brutal Ardan's robber hand,
When, sick and cold as the grave, she turn'd away
Her dizzy eyes, lest they should see the death
Of her own Amadis. Nor plated shield,
Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque,
Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved,
Like as the angel of the Lord went forth
And smote his army, when the Assyrian king,
Haughty of Hamath and Sepharvaim fallen,
Blasphem'd the God of Israel.
Yet the fight
Hung doubtful where, exampling hardiest deeds,
Salisbury mow'd down the foe, and Fastolffe strove,
And in the hottest doings of the war
Towered Talbot. He, remembering the past day
When from his name the affrighted sons of France
Fled trembling, all astonish'd at their force
And wontless valour, rages round the field
Dreadful in fury; yet in every man
Meeting a foe fearless, and in the faith
Of Heaven's assistance firm.
The clang of arms
Reaches the walls of Orleans. For the war
Prepared, and confident of victory,
Speed forth the troops. Not when afar exhaled
The hungry raven snuffs the steam of blood
That from some carcass-cover'd field of fame
Taints the pure air, wings he more eagerly
To riot on the gore, than rush'd the ranks;
Impatient now, for many an ill endured
In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes
Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray;
The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun,
Now quenched in blood their radiance.
O'er the host
Howl'd the deep wind that, ominous of storms,
Roll'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night
Frown'd, and the thunder from the troubled sky
Roar'd hollow. Javelins clash'd and bucklers rang;
Shield prest on shield; loud on the helmet jarr'd
The ponderous battle-axe; the frequent groan
Of death commingling with the storm was heard,
And the shrill shriek of fear.
Even such a storm
Before the walls of Chartres quell'd the pride
Of the third Edward, when the heavy hail
Smote down his soldiers, and the conqueror heard
God in the tempest, and remembered him
Of the widows he had made, and, in the name
Of blessed Mary, vowed the vow of peace.
Lo! where the holy banner waved aloft,
The lambent lightnings play'd. Irradiate round,
As with a blaze of glory, o'er the field
It stream'd miraculous splendour. Then their hearts
Sunk, and the English trembled; with such fear
Possessed, as when the combined host beheld
The sun stand still on Gibeon, at the voice
Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote
The country of the hills, and of the south,
From Baal-gad to Halak, and their kings,
Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fled
From that portentous banner, and the sword
Of France; though Talbot, with vain valiancy,
Yet urged the war, and stemm'd alone the tide
Of conquest. Even their leaders felt dismay;
Fastolffe fled fast, and Salisbury in the rout
Mingles, and, all impatient of defeat,
Borne backward, Talbot turns. Then echoed loud
The cry of conquest; deeper grew the storm;
And darkness, hovering o'er on raven wing,
Brooded the field of death.
Nor in the camp
Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives.
On to the forts they haste. Bewilder'd there
Amid the moats by fear, and the dead gloom
Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops,
Crush'd by fast following numbers, who partake
The death they give. As rushing from the snows
Of winter liquefied, the torrent tide
Resistless down the mountain rolls along,
Till at the brink of giddy precipice
Arrived, with deafening clamour down it falls:
Thus borne along, the affrighted English troops,
Driven by the force behind them, plunge amid
The liquid death. Then rose the dreadful cries
More dreadful, and the dash of breaking waves
That to the passing lightning as they broke
Gleam'd horrible.
Nor of the host so late
Triumphing in the pride of victory,
And swoln with confidence, had now escaped
One wretched remnant, had not Talbot's mind,
Slow as he moved unwilling from the war,
What most might profit the defeated ranks
Pondered. He, reaching safe the massy fort,
By St. John's name made holy, kindled up
The guiding fire. Not unobserved it blazed;
The watchful guards on Tournelles, and the pile
Of that proud city, in remembrance fond
Call'd London, light the beacon. Soon the fires
Flame on the summit of the circling forts
That, firm entrenched with walls and deep-delved moats
Included Orleans. O'er the shadowy plain
They cast a lurid splendour; to the troops
Grateful, as to the way-worn traveller,
Wandering with parched feet o'er the Arabian sands,
The far-seen cistern; he for many a league
Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved
With tempest swell the desert billows round,
Pauses, and shudders at his perils past,
Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave
So long bewail'd.
Swift as the affrighted herd
Scud o'er the plain, when frequent through the sky
Flash the fierce lightnings, speed the routed host
Of England. To the sheltering forts they haste,
Though safe, of safety doubtful, still appall'd
And trembling, as the pilgrim, who by night
On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl
Hears the wood echo, when from the fell beast
Escaped, of some tall tree the topmost branch
He grasps close clinging, still of that keen fang
Fearful, his teeth jar, and the big drops stand
On his cold quivering limbs.
Nor now the Maid,
Greedy of vengeance, urges the pursuit.
She bids the trumpet of retreat resound;
A pleasant music to the routed ranks
Blows the loud blast. Obedient to its voice
The French, though eager on the invaders' heads
To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword.

Loud is the cry of conquest, as they turn
To Orleans. There what few to guard the town,
Unwilling had remained, haste forth to meet
The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held,
That rais'd aloft, amid the midnight storm,
Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced;
Deep through the sky the hollow thunders roll'd;
Innocuous lightnings round the hallowed banner
Wreathed their red radiance.
Through the opened gate
Slow past the laden convoy. Then was heard
The shout of exultation, and such joy
The men of Orleans at that welcome sight
Possess'd, as when from Bactria late subdued,
The Macedonian Madman led his troops
Amid the Sogdian desert where no stream
Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves;
Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed;
Scorch'd by the sun that o'er their morning march
Steam'd his hot vapours, heart-subdued and faint;
Such joy as then they felt, when from the heights
Burst the soul-gladdening sound! for thence was seen
The evening sun silvering the vale below,
Where Oxus roll'd along.
Clamours of joy
Echo along the streets of Orleans, wont
Long time to hear the infant's feeble cry,
The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sound,
When from the cannon burst its stores of death,
Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles,
And high-heap'd carcasses, whence scared away
From his abhorred meal on clattering wing
Rose the night-raven slow.
In the English forts
Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night
Steals in the straggling fugitive; as when
Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky
Serenely shines the sun; with every breeze
The waving branches drop their gather'd rain,
Renewing the remembrance of the storm.





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