Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 7, by ROBERT SOUTHEY


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 7, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Strong were the english forts, by daily toil
Last Line: Betaking them, for now the night drew on.
Subject(s): England; Faith; France; Heroism; History; Joan Of Arc (1412-1431); Missions & Missionaries; Religion; Victory; War; English; Belief; Creed; Heroes; Heroines; Historians; Theology


Description of the English forts. The French troops attack and capture the forts
of St. Loup and St. John. Attack of Fort London. Salisbury encounters the Maid.
Event of that encounter. The Tournelles surrounded by the French, who despatch a
troop to Orleans for provisions, and encamp before it for the night.

STRONG were the English forts, by daily toil
Of thousands rear'd on high, when arrogant
With fancied conquest, Salisbury bade rise
The amazing pile, from succour to include
Besieged Orleans. Round the city walls
Stretched the wide circle, massy as the fence
Erst by the fearful Roman on the bounds
Of Caledonia rais'd, for soul-enslaved,
Her hireling plunderers fear'd the car-borne chiefs
Who rush'd from Morven down.
Strong battlements
Crested the mighty bulwark, on whose top
Secure the charioteer might wheel along.
The frequent buttress at just distance rose,
Declining from its base, and sixty forts
Lifted aloft their turret-crowned heads,
All firm and massy. But of these most firm,
As though of some large castle each the keep,
Stood six square fortresses with turrets flank'd,
Piles of unequall'd strength, though now deem'd weak
'Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely hence
The skilful archer, entering with his eye
The city, might, himself the while unseen,
Through the long opening shower his winged deaths.
Loire's waves diverted, fill the deep-dug moat.
Circling the pile, a bulwark vast, as what
Round their disheartened camp and stranded ships
The Greeks uprear'd, a common sepulchre
Of thousands slaughtered, and the doom'd death-place
Of many a chief, when Priam's patriot son
Rush'd in his wrath, and scattered their pale tribes.
But, cowering now amid their sheltering forts,
Tremble the English host. Their leader's care,
In anxious vigilance, prepares to ward
Assault expected. Nor the Maid's intent
Did he not rightly areed; though vain the attempt
To kindle in their breasts the wonted flame
Of valour, for by prodigies unmann'd,
They wait the morn; the soldiers' pride was gone.
The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay
Unburnish'd and defiled, they sharpened not
Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand
Relaxed not his bent bow. To them, confused
With fears of unknown danger, the long night
Was dreadful; but more dreadful dawn'd the day.
The morning came. The martial Maid arose.
Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gate,
Eager again for conquest, throng the troops.
High towered the Son of Orleans, in his strength
Poising the ponderous spear. His batter'd shield,
Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight,
Hung on his sinewy arm.
"Maiden of Arc,"
So as he spake, approaching, cried the chief,
"Well hast thou prov'd thy mission, as, by words
And miracles attested, when dismayed,
The stern theologists forget their doubts,
So in the field of slaughter now confirm'd.
Yon well-fenced forts protect the fugitives,
And seem as in their strength they mock'd our force.
Yet must they fall."
"And fall they shall!" replied
The Maid of Orleans. "Ere the sun be set
The lily on that shattered wall shall wave
Triumphant.—Men of France! ye have fought well
On that blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foes
Lurk trembling now amid their massy walls;
Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock!
The Shepherd—the great Shepherd is arisen!
Ye fly! yet shall not ye by flight escape
His vengeance. Men of Orleans! it were vain
By words to waken wrath within your breasts.
Look round! Your holy buildings and your homes—
Ruins that choke the way! your populous town—
One open sepulchre! Who is there here
That does not mourn a friend, a brother slain,
A parent famish'd, or his dear loved wife
Torn from his bosom—outcast—broken hearted—
Cast on the mercy of mankind?"
She ceased.
The cry of indignation from the host
Burst forth, and all impatient for the war
Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays
In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war,
Commands the first; Xaintrailles, who oft subdued
By adverse fortune to the captive chain,
Still more tremendous to the enemy,
Lifted his death-fraught lance, as erst from earth
Antæus, vaunting in his giant bulk,
When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell
Vanquisht; anon uprose more fierce for war.

Gaucour o'er one presides, the steady friend
To long-imprison'd Orleans; of his town
Beloved guardian; he the dreadful siege
Firmly abiding, prudent still to plan
Irruption, and with youthful vigour swift
To lead the battle; from his soldiers' love
Prompter obedience gained, than ever fear
Forced from the heart reluctant.
The third band
Alencon leads. He on the fatal field
Verneuil, when Buchan and the Douglas died,
Fell senseless. Guiltless he of that day's loss,
Wore undisgraced awhile the captive chain.
The monarch him mindful of his high rank
Had ransom'd, once again to meet the foe
With better fortune.
O'er the last presides
Dunois the Bastard, mighty in the war.
His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame
Confess'd, since when before his stripling arm
Fled Warwick. Warwick, he whose fair renown
Greece knew, and Antioch, and the holy soil
Of Palestine, since there in arms he pass'd
On gallant pilgrimage, yet by Dunois
Baffled, and yielding him the conqueror's praise.
And by his side the martial Maiden pass'd,
Lovely in arms as that Arcadian boy
Parthenopæus, when the war of beasts
Disdaining, he to murder man rush'd forth,
Bearing the bow, and those Dictæan shafts
Diana gave, when she the youth's fair form
Saw softened, and forgave the mother's fault.

Saint Loup's strong fort stood first. Here Gladdisdale
Commands the fearful troops.
As lowering clouds
Swept by the hoarse wind o'er the blacken'd plain
Mov'd on the host of France: they from the fort
Through secret opening, shower their pointed shafts,
Or from the battlements the death-tipt spear
Hurl fierce. Nor from the strong arm only launch'd
The javelin fled, but driven by the strained force
Of the balista, in one carcass spent,
Stay'd not; through arms and men it makes its way,
And leaving death behind, still holds its course,
By many a death unclogg'd. With rapid march
Right onward they advanced, and soon the shafts,
Impell'd by that strong stroke beyond the host,
Wasting their force, fell harmless. Now they reach'd,
Where by the bayle's embattled wall in arms,
The knights of England stood. There Poynings shook
His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace,
For the death-blow prepar'd. Alencon here,
And here the Bastard strode, and by the Maid
That daring man, who to the English host,
Then insolent of many a conquest gain'd,
Bore her bold bidding. A rude coat of mail,
Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line
Arm'd him. Though here amid the high-born chiefs
Pre-eminent for prowess. On his head
A black plume shadowed the rude-featur'd helm.
Then was the war of men, when front to front
They rear'd the hostile hand, for low the wall
Where the bold Frenchman's upward-driven spear
Might pierce the foemen.
As Alencon moved,
On his crown-crested helm, with ponderous blow,
Fell Gladdisdale's huge mace. Back he recoil'd
Astounded; soon recovering, his keen lance
Thrust on the warrior's shield: there fast infix'd,
Nor could Alencon the deep-driven spear
Recover, nor the foeman from his grasp
Wrench the contended weapon. Fierce again
He lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt
Fell full; it shiver'd, and the Frenchman held
A pointless truncheon. Where the Bastard fought,
The spear of Poynings, through his plated mail
Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath,
Blunted its point. Again he speeds the spear;
At once Dunois on his broad buckler bears
The unharming stroke, and aims with better fate,
His javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce
Maugre the mail. Hot from the streaming wound
Again the weapon fell, and in his breast,
Even through the hauberk drove.
But there the war
Raged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved,
The minister of wrath; for thither throng'd
The bravest champions of the adverse host.
And on her either side two warriors stood
Of unmatch'd prowess, still with eager eye
Shielding her form, and aiming at her foes
Their deadly weapons, of themselves the while
Little regarding. One was that bold man
Who bade defiance to the English chiefs.
Firmly he stood, untir'd and undismay'd,
Though on his burgonet the frequent spear
Drove fierce, and on his arm the buckler hung
Heavy, thick-bristled with the hostile shafts,
Even like the porcupine, when in his rage
Rous'd, he collects within him all his force,
Himself a quiver. And of loftier port,
On the other hand towered Conrade. Firmly fenced,
A jazerent of double mail he wore,
Beneath whose weight one but of common strength
Had sunk. Untir'd the conflict he endur'd,
Wielding a battle-axe ponderous and keen,
That gave no second stroke; for where it fell,
Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail
Might save, nor crested casque. On Molyn's head,
As at the Maid he aimed his javelin,
Forceful it fell, and shiver'd with the blow
The iron helm, and to his brain-pan drove
The fragments. At their comrade's death amaz'd,
And for a moment fearful shrunk the foes.
That instant, Conrade, with an active bound,
Sprung on the battlements; there firm he stood,
Guarding ascent. The warrior Maid of Arc,
And he the partner of that battle's fame,
Followed, and soon the exulting cry of France
Along the lists was heard, as waved aloft
The holy banner. Gladdisdale beheld,
And hasting from his well-defended post,
Sped to the fiercer conflict. To the Maid
He strode, on her resolved to wreak his rage,
With her to end the war. Nor did not Joan
Areed his purpose: lifting up her shield,
Prepar'd she stood, and pois'd her sparkling spear.
The English chief came on; he raised his mace;
With circling force, the iron weight swung high,
As Gladdisdale with his collected might
Drove the full blow. The man of lowly line,
That instant rush'd between, and rear'd his shield
And met the broken blow, and thrust his lance
Fierce through the gorget of the English knight.
A gallant man, of no ignoble line,
Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace,
They heap'd the hospitable hearth, they spread
The feast, their vassals loved them, and afar
The traveller told their fame. In peace they died;
For them the venerable fathers pour'd
A requiem when they slept, and o'er them rais'd
The sculptured monument. Now far away
Their offspring falls, the last of all his race,
Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share
The common grave.
Then terror seized the host
Their chieftain dead. And lo! where on the wall,
Bulwark'd of late by Gladdisdale so well,
The son of Orleans stood, and swayed around
His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe,
Till on the battlements his comrades sprang,
And rais'd the shout of conquest. Then appall'd
The English fled; nor fled they unpursued,
For mingling with the foremost fugitives,
The gallant Conrade rush'd; and with the throng,
The knights of France together o'er the bridge
Fast speeded. Nor the garrison within
Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall,
For in the entrance of the fort the fight
Raged fiercely, and together through the gate
The vanquish'd English and their eager foes
Pass'd in the flying conflict.
Well I deem
And wisely did that daring Spaniard act
At Vera-Cruz, when he his yet sound ships
Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous fear
Might still with wild and wistful eye look back.
For knowing no retreat, his desperate troops
In conquest sought their safety. Victors hence
At Tlascala, and o'er the Cholulans,
And by Otompan, on that bloody field
When Mexico her patriot thousands pour'd,
Fierce in vain valour on their ruffian foes.
There was a portal to the English fort
That opened on the wall; a speedier path
In the hour of safety, whence the charmed eye
Might linger down the river's pleasant course.
Fierce in the gate-way raged the deadly war;
For there the Maiden strove, and Conrade there,
And he of lowly line, bravelier than whom
Fought not in that day's battle. Of success
Desperate, for from above, the garrison
Could wield no arms, so certain to bestow
Equal destruction, of the portal's aid
The foe bethought them: then with lesser force
Their weapons fell; abandoned was the gate;
And soon from Orleans the glad citizens
Beheld the hallowed banner on the tower
Triumphant. Swift along the lofty wall,
The English haste to St. John's neighbouring fort,
Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuit
The victors ceased, but with the fugitives
Mingled, and waged the war: the combatants,
Lock'd in the hostile grasp, together fall
Precipitate.
But foremost of the French,
Dealing destruction, Conrade rush'd along:
Heedless of danger, he to the near fort
Pass'd in the fight; nor did not then the chief
What most might serve bethink him! firm he stood
In the portal, and one moment looking back,
Lifted his loud voice: thrice the warrior cried,
Then to the war addrest him; now assail'd
By numerous foes, who arrogant of power,
Threatened his single valour. He the while
Stood firm, not vainly confident, or rash,
But of his own strength conscious, and the post
Friendly; for narrow was the portal way.
To one alone fit passage, from above,
O'erbrow'd by no out-jutting parapet
Whence death might crush him. He in double mail
Was arm'd; a massy burgonet, well tried
In many a hard-fought field, helming his head;
A buckler broad, and fenced with iron plates,
Bulwark'd his breast. Nor to dislodge the chief
Could the English pour their numbers, for the way
By upward steps, presented from the fort
Narrow ascent, where one alone could meet
The war. Yet were they of their numbers proud,
Though useless numbers were in that strait path,
Save by assault unceasing to outlast
A single warrior, who at length must sink,
Fatigued with conquering, by long victory
Vanquish'd.
There was amid the garrison
A fearless knight, who at Verneuil had fought,
And high renown for his bold chivalry
Acquir'd in that day's conquest. To his fame
The thronging English yield the foremost place.
He his long javelin to transpierce the Frank
Thrust forceful: harmless in his shield it fix'd,
Advantaging the foe, for Conrade lifts
The battle-axe, and smote upon the lance,
And hurl'd its severed point with mighty arm
Fierce on the foe. With wary bend, the foe
Shrunk from the flying death; yet not in vain
From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon fled:
Full on the corselet of a meaner man
It fell, and pierced, there where the heaving lungs,
With purer air distended, to the heart
Roll back their purged tide: from the deep wound
The red blood gush'd: prone on the steps he fell,
And in the strong convulsive grasp of death,
Grasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name
Died the mean man; yet did he leave behind
One who did never say her daily prayers
Of him forgetful; who to every tale
Of the distant war, lending an eager ear,
Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door,
The wretched one shall sit, and with dim eye
Gaze o'er the plain, where on his parting steps,
Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know
Her husband dead, but tortur'd with vain hope,
Gaze on—then heart-sick, turn to her poor babe,
And weep it fatherless!
The enraged knight
Drew his keen falchion, and with dauntless step
Moved to the closer conflict. Then the Frank
Held forth his buckler, and his battle-axe
Uplifted. Where the buckler was below
Rounded, the falchion struck, but impotent
To pierce its plated folds; more forceful driven,
Fierce on his crested helm, the Frenchman's stroke
Fell; the helm shivered; from his eyes the blood
Started; with blood, the chambers of the brain
Were fill'd; his breast-plate, with convulsive throes,
Heaved as he fell; victorious, he the prize,
At many a tournament had borne away
In the mimic war: happy, if so content
With bloodless glory, he had never left
The mansion of his sires.
But terrified
The English stood; nor durst adventure now
Near that death-doing man. Amid their host
Was one who well could from the stubborn bow
Shower his sharp shafts: well skill'd in wood-craft he,
Even as the merry outlaws, who their haunts
In Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouse
The sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven grass
The dew-drops sparkled to the rising sun.
He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd
The feather'd dart; with force he drew the bow;
Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string:
And swift and strong the well-winged arrow fled.
Deep in his shield it hung: then Conrade rais'd
Again his echoing voice, and call'd for aid,
Nor was the call unheard: the troops of France,
From St. Loup's captured fort along the wall
Haste to the portal; cheering was the sound
Of their near footsteps to the chief; he drew
His falchion forth, and down the steps he rush'd.
Then terror seized the English, for their foes
Swarm'd through the open portal, and the sword
Of Conrade was among them. Not more fierce
The injured Turnus swayed his angry arm,
Slaughtering the robber fugitives of Troy;
Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris
Rush'd he, the King of Sarza, Rodomont,
Clad in his dragon mail.
Like some tall rock,
Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves
Waste their wild fury, stood the unshaken man;
Though round him prest his foemen, by despair
Hearten'd. He, mowing through the throng his path,
Call'd on the troops of France, and bade them haste
Where he should lead the way. A daring band
Followed the adventurous chieftain: he moved on
Unterrified, amid the arrowy shower,
Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast,
As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling tree
The autumnal whirlwind shakes.
Nor Conrade paus'd,
Still through the fierce fight urging on his way,
Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand
Seiz'd on the massy bolts. These as he drew,
Full on his helm the weighty English sword
Descended; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath,
When lo! the assailant gasping on the ground,
Cleft by the maiden's falchion: she herself
To the foe opposing with that lowly man,
For they alone following the adventurous steps
Of Conrade, still had equall'd his bold course,
Shielded him, as with eager hand he drew
The bolts: the gate turn'd slow: forth leapt the chief
And shivered with his battle-axe the chains
That hung on high the bridge. The impetuous troops,
By Gaucour led, rush'd o'er to victory.

The banner'd lilies on the captur'd wall
Toss'd to the wind. "On to the neighbouring fort!"
Cried Conrade, "Xaintrailles! ere the night draws on
Once more to conquest lead the troops of France!
Force ye the lists, and fill the deep-dug moat,
And with the ram, shake down their batter'd walls.
Anon I shall be with you." Thus he said;
Then to the damsel. "Maid of Arc! awhile
Cease we from battle, and by short repose
Renew our strength." So saying he his helm
Unlaced, and in the Loire's near-flowing stream
Cool'd his hot face. The Maid her head unhelm'd,
And stooping to the stream, reflected there
Saw her white plumage stain'd with human blood!
Shuddering she saw, but soon her steady soul
Collected: on the banks she laid her down,
Freely awhile respiring, for her breath
Quick panted from the fight: silent they lay,
For gratefully the cooling breezes bathed
Their throbbing temples.
It was now the noon:
The sun-beams on the gently-waving stream
Danced sparkling. Lost in thought the warrior lay,
And softening sadly his stern face, exclaim'd,
"Maiden of Arc! at such an hour as this,
Beneath the o'er-arching forest's chequer'd shade,
With that lost woman have I wandered on,
Talking of years of happiness to come!
Oh hours for ever fled! delightful dreams
Of the unsuspecting heart! I do believe
If Agnes on a worthier one had fix'd
Her love, that though mine aching heart had nurst
Its sorrows, I had never on her choice
Pour'd one upbraiding—but to stoop to him!
A harlot!—an adulteress!"
In his eye
Red anger flash'd; anon of what she was
Ere yet the foul pollution of the Court
Stain'd her fair fame, he thought. "Oh, happy age!"
He cried, "when all the family of man
Freely enjoyed their goodly heritage,
And only bow'd the knee in prayer to God!
Calm flow'd the unruffled stream of years along,
Till o'er the peaceful rustic's head, grew grey
The hairs in full of time. Then he would sit
Beneath the coetaneous oak, whilst round,
Sons, grandsons, and their offspring join'd to form
The blameless merriment; and learnt of him
What time to yoke the oxen to the plough,
What hollow moanings of the western wind
Foretel the storm, and in what lurid clouds
The embryo lightning lies. Well pleas'd, he taught,
The heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek,
Mild as the summer's sun's decaying light.
Thus quietly the stream of life flow'd on
Till in the shoreless ocean lost at length.
Around the bed of death his numerous race
Listen'd, in no unprofitable grief,
His last advice, and caught his latest sigh:
And when he died, as he had fallen asleep,
Beneath the aged tree that grew with him
They delved the narrow house: there oft at eve
Drew round their children of the after days
And pointing to the turf, told how he lived,
And taught by his example how to die.
Maiden! and such the evening of my days
Fondly I hoped; and would that I had lived
In those old times, or till some better years
Slumber'd unborn; for this is a hard race,
An evil generation! nor by day
Nor in the night have respite from their cares
And wretchedness. But I shall be at rest
Soon, in that better world of peace and love
Where evil is not: in that better world
Joan! we shall meet, and he too will be there,
Thy Theodore."
Sooth'd by his words, the Maid
Had listened sadly, till at that loved name
She wept. "Nay, Maid!" he cried, "I did not think
To wake a tear; but pleasant is thy grief!
Thou knowest not what it is, round thy warm heart
To have a false one wreath in viper folds.
But to the battle! in the clang of arms,
We win forgetfulness."
Then from the bank
He sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose,
Bidding awhile adieu to milder thoughts.
On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'd
England's proud capital to the English host.
Now half subdued, anticipating death,
And vainly wishing they from her white cliffs
Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creeps
Through every vein: already they turn back
Their eager eyes to meditate the flight,
Though Talbot there presided, with their chief,
The gallant Salisbury.
"Soldiers famed in arms"
Thus, in vain hope to renovate the strength
Of England, spake the chief: "Victorious friends,
So oft victorious in the hard-fought fight,
What—shrink ye now dismay'd? have ye forgot
The plains of Azincour, when vanquish'd France
Fled with her thousands from your fathers' arms,
Though worn with sickness? or your own exploits,
When on Verneuil, the flower of chivalry
Fell by your daring prowess? when the Scot
Bit the red earth in death, and Narbonne died;
And the young boaster this Alencon felt
The weight of English fetters? then we broke
The plated shield, and cleft the warrior's helm,
For ever victors. On Baugenci's wall
Ye placed the English flag; beneath your force
Fell Jenville and Gergeau, the neighbouring towns
Of well-nigh captured Orleans. I omit
To speak of Caen subdued, and vanquish'd Roan,
And that late day when Clermont fled the fight,
And the young Bastard of that prison'd duke.
Shame! shame! that beaten boy is here in arms,
And ye will fly before the fugitives;
Fly from a woman! from a frenzied girl!
That with her empty mummeries, would blast
Your courage; or if miracles she brings,
Aid of the devil! who is there among you
False to his country—to his former fame—
To me—your leader in the frequent field,
The field of glory?"
From the heartless host
A timid shout arose; then Talbot's cheek
Grew red with indignation. "Earl!" he cried,
Addressing him the chief: "there is no hope
From these white-liver'd dastards; and this fort
Will fall an easy conquest: it were well
To reach the Tournelles, better fortified,
Fit to endure long siege: the hope in view
To reach a safer fortress, these our troops
Shall better dare the battle."
So he spake,
Wisely advising. Him the chief replied:
"Well hast thou said: and, Talbot, if our swords
Could through the thickest ranks this sorceress reach
The hopes of France were blasted. I have strove
In many a field, yet never to a foe
Stoop'd my proud crest: nor difficult to meet
This wizard girl, for, from the battlements,
Her have I mark'd the foremost in attack,
Playing right valiantly the soldier's part;
Yet shall not all her witcheries avail
To blunt my good sword's edge."
Thus communed they,
And through the host the gladdening tidings ran,
That they should seek the Tournelles. Then their hearts
Gathered new strength, placing on those strong walls
Dependence; empty hope! nor the strong wall,
Nor the deep moat can save, if fear within
Palsy the soldier's arm.
Them issuing forth,
As from the river's banks they past along,
The Maid beheld! "Lo! Conrade!" she exclaim'd,
"The foes advance to meet us—look! they lower
The bridge—and now they rush upon the troops:
A gallant onset! Dost thou mark that man
Who all the day has by our side endur'd
The hottest conflict? I did then behold
His force, and wonder: now his deeds of death
Make all the actions of the former fight
Seem as of no account: know'st thou the man?
There is not one amid the host of France,
Of fairer promise."
"He," the chief replied,
"Wretched and prodigal of life, achieves
The exploits of despair: a gallant youth
Widowed like me of hope, and but for whom,
I had been seen among mankind no more.
Maiden! with me thy comrade in the war,
His arm is vowed to Heaven! Lo! where he stands
Bearing the battle's brunt in unmoved strength.
Firm as the mountain round whose misty head,
The unharming tempest breaks!"
Nor paus'd they now
In farther converse, to the perilous fray
Speeding, not unobserved; them Salisbury saw
And call'd on Talbot. Six, the bravest knights
And vow'd with them against the Virgin's life,
Bent their fierce course. She by that unknown man
Now urged the war, when on her plumed helm
The hostile falchion fell. On high she lifts
Her hallowed sword, the tenant of the tomb,
And drench'd it in his bosom. On the front
Of one, his comrade, fell the battle-axe
Of him, the dark-brow'd chief; the ponderous blow
Shattered his brain. With Talbot's giant force
The daring herald urged unequal fight;
For like some oak that firm with deep-fix'd roots
Mocks at the storm, the undaunted earl endur'd
His rude assault. Warding with wary eye
The angry sword, the Frank around his foe
Wheels rapid, flashing his keen weapon fast;
Now as he marks the earl's descending stroke
Bending, anon more fierce in swift attack.
Ill-fated man! one deed of glory more
Shall with the short-lived lightning's splendour grace
This thy death-day; for slaughter even now
Stands o'er the loom of life, and lifts his sword.

Upon her shield the martial maiden bore
An English warrior's blow, and in his side
Pierced him: that instant Salisbury speeds his sword
That glancing from her helm fell on the folds
That arm'd her neck, and making there its way,
Stain'd with her blood its edge. The herald saw,
He saw her red blood gushing from the wound,
And turn'd from Talbot heedless of himself,
And lifting up his falchion, all his force
Concenter'd. On the breast of Salisbury
It fell, and pierced his mail, and through the plate
Beneath drove fierce, and in his heart's-blood plunged.
Lo! as he struck the strength of Talbot came:
Full on his treacherous helm he smote: it burst,
And the stern earl against his fenceless head
Drives with strong arm the murderous sword. She saw,
Nor could the Maiden save her Theodore.

Conrade beheld, and from his vanquish'd foe
Strode terrible in vengeance. Front to front
They stood, and each for the death-blow prepar'd
His angry might. At once their weapons fell,
The Frank's huge battle-axe, and the keen sword
Of Talbot. He, stunn'd by the weighty blow,
Sunk senseless; by his followers from the field
Conveyed with fearful speed: nor did his stroke
Fall vainly on the Frenchman's crested helm,
Though weak to wound, for from his eyes the fire
Sparkled, and back recoiling with the blow,
He in the Maiden's arms astounded fell.

But now their troops all captainless confus'd,
Fear seized the English. Not with more dismay,
When over wild Caffraria's wooded hills,
Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herd
Fly the death-boding sound. The forts they seek,
Now reckless which, so from that battle's rage
A present refuge. On their flying ranks
The victors press, and mark their course with blood.

But loud the trumpet of retreat resounds,
For now the westering sun with many a hue
Streak'd the gay clouds.
"Dunois!" the Maiden cried,
"Form we around yon stronger pile the siege,
There for the night encamping." So she said.
The chief to Orleans for their needful food,
And enginery to batter that huge pile,
Dismiss'd a troop, and round the Tournelles led
The host beleaguering. There they pitch their tents,
And plant their engines for the morrow's war,
Then to their meal, and o'er the cheerful bowl,
Recount the tale of danger; soon to rest
Betaking them, for now the night drew on.





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