Joan of Arc (Southey)/Book 10
JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE TENTH.
ARGUMENT.
Transactions of the French at Orleans. Arrivals of Du Chastel and Richemont. The English meet their expected succours. Battle of Patay. The King arrives. The Poem concludes with the Coronation of Charles at Rheims.
JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE TENTH.
The morning came, and from the Eastern clouds, Emerging in his glory, the new Sun Pour'd on the Virgin's cheek his startling rays. Serene she rose, her anguish mellowed down Even to that sober sadness that delights 5On other days to dwell. Her issuing forth The Bastard met. "Hail Maid of Orleans! hail Preserver of the French," the Chief exclaim'd. "The hostile host are fled; yet not by flight Shall England's robber sons escape the arm 10Of Retribution. Even now our troops, By battle unfatigued, unsatisfied With conquest, clamor to pursue the foe."
The Delegated Damsel thus replied:"So let them fly Dunois! but other toils 15Than those of battle, these our hallowed troopsAwait. Look yonder to that carnaged plain!Behoves us there to delve the general grave:Then, Chieftain, for pursuit, when we have paidThe rites of burial to our fellow men, 20And hymn'd our gratitude to that All-justWho gave the conquest. Thou, meantime, dispatchTidings to Chinon: bid the King set forth,That crowning him before assembled France,In Rheims delivered from the enemy, 25I may accomplish all."So said the Maid,Then to the gate moved on. The assembled troopsBeheld their coming Chief, and smote their shields,Clamoring their admiration; for they thoughtThat she would lead them to the instant war. 30 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 35To our dead friends!"Nor did she speak in vain;For as she spake the thirst of battle diesIn every breast, such awe and love pervadeThe listening troops. They o'er the corse-strewn plainSpeed to their sad employment: some dig deep 40The house of Death; some bear the lifeless load;One little troop search carefully around,If haply they might find surviving yetSome wounded wretches. As they labour thus,They mark far off the iron-blaze of arms; 45See distant standards waving on the air,And hear the clarion's clang. Then spake the MaidTo Conrade, and she bade him speed to viewThe coming army; or to meet their march With friendly greeting, or if foes they came 50With such array of battle as short spaceAllowed: the Warrior sped across the plain,And soon beheld the bannered lillies wave.
Their Chief was Richemont: he, when as he heardWhat rites employed the Virgin, straightway bade 55His troops assist in burial: they, tho' grievedAt late arrival, and the expected dayOf conquest past, yet give their willing aid:They dig the general grave, and thither bearEnglish or French alike commingled now! 60And heap the mound of Death.Amid the plainThere was a little eminence, of oldPiled o'er some honored Chieftain's narrow house.His praise the song had ceas'd to celebrate,And many an unknown age had the long grass 65Waved o'er the nameless mound, tho' barren nowBeneath the frequent tread of multitudes. There, elevate, the Martial Maiden stood.Her brow unhelmed, and floating on the windHer long dark locks. The silent troops around 70Stood thickly throng'd, as o'er the fertile fieldBillows the ripen'd corn. The passing breezeBore not a murmur from the numerous host,Such deep attention held them. She began.
"Glory to those who in their country's cause 75Fall in the field of battle! Citizens,I stand not here to mourn these gallant men,Our comrades, nor with vain and idle phraseOf pity and compassion, to consoleThe friends who loved them. They, indeed, who fall 80Beneath Oppression's banner, merit wellOur pity; may the God of Peace and LoveBe merciful to those blood-guilty menWho came to desolate the realm of France,To make us bow the knee, and crouch like slaves, 85Before 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 90By Need and Hunger to the trade of blood; Or, if with free and willing mind they came, Most wretched—for before the eternal throne They stand, as hireling murderers arraign'd. But our dead comrades for their freedom fought; 95No 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 100Save 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, 105They 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 atchieved, and bid them learn Like them to love their country, and like them 110Should wild Oppression pour again it's 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, 115Who bade the angels harbinger his word With "Peace on Earth," rewards them. We survive, Honoring their memories to avenge their fall On England's ruffian hordes; in vain her chiefs Madly will drain her wealth and waste her blood 120To conquer this vast realm! for, easier were it To hurl the rooted mountain from it's 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, 125 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 ocean—she shall wieldThe thunderbolt of vengeance—she shall blast 130The Despots that assail her."As she ceas'd,Such murmur from the multitude arose,As when at twilight hour the summer breezeMoves o'er the elmy vale: there was not oneWho mourn'd with feeble sorrow for his friend, 135Slain in the fight of Freedom; or if chanceRemembrance with a tear suffus'd the eyeThe Patriot's joy flash'd thro'.And now the ritesOf sepulture perform'd, the hymn to HeavenThey chaunted. To the town the Maid return'd, 140Dunois with her, and Richemont, and the man,Conrade, whose converse most the Virgin loved.They of pursuit and of the future warSat communing; when loud the trumpet's voice Proclaim'd approaching herald."To the Maid, 145Exclaim'd the Messenger, "and thee, Dunois,Son of the Chief he loved! Du Chastel sendsGreeting. The aged warrior has not sparedAll active efforts to partake your toil,And serve his country; and tho' late arrived, 150He share not in the fame your arms acquire;His heart is glad that he is late arrived,And France preserved thus early. He were hereTo join your host, and follow on their flight,But Richemont is his foe. To that high Lord 155Thus says my Master: We, tho' each to eachBe hostile, are alike the embattled sonsOf this our common country. Do thou joinThe conquering troops, and prosecute success;I will the while assault what guarded towns 160Bedford yet holds in Orleannois: one day,Perhaps the Constable of France may learnHe wrong'd Du Chastel." As the Herald spake,The crimson current rush'd to Richemont's cheek."Tell to thy Master," eager he replied, 165"I am the foe of those Court ParasitesWho poison the King's ear. Him who shall serveOur country in the field, I hold my friend:Such may Du Chastel prove."So said the Chief,And pausing as the Herald went his way, 170Gaz'd on the Virgin. "Maiden! if arightI deem, thou dost not with a friendly eyeScan my past deeds."Then o'er the Damsel's cheekA faint glow spread. "True Chieftain!" she replied,Report bespeaks thee haughty, of thy power 175Jealous, and to the shedding human bloodRevengeful.""Maid of Orleans!" he exclaim'd,"Should the Wolf slaughter thy defenceless flock,Were it a crime if thy more mighty force Destroyed the fell destroyer? if thy hand 180Had pierced the Ruffian as he burst thy doorPrepar'd for midnight murder, would'st thou feelThe weight of blood press heavy on thy soul?I slew the Wolves of State, the MurderersOf thousands. JOAN! when rusted in its sheath, 185The sword of Justice hung, blam'st thou the manThat lent his weapon for the virtuous deed?"
Conrade replied. "Nay, Richemont, it were wellTo pierce the ruffian as he burst thy doors;But if he bear the plunder safely thence, 190And thou should'st meet him on the future day;Vengeance must not be thine: there is the LawTo punish; and if thy impatient hand,Unheard and uncondemn'd, should executeDeath on that man, Justice will not allow 195The Judge in the Accuser!""Thou hast saidRight wisely, Warrior!" cried the Constable; But there are guilty ones above the law,Men whose black crimes exceed the utmost boundOf private guilt; court vermin that buz round, 200And fly-blow the King's ear, and make him waste,In this most perilous time, his people's wealth,And blood: immers'd one while in crimson sloth,Heedless tho' ruin threat the realm they rule;And now projecting some mad enterprize, 205To certain slaughter send their wretched troops.These are the men that make the King suspectHis wisest, faithfullest, best Counsellors;And for themselves and their dependants, seizeAll places, and all profits; and they wrest 210To their own ends the Statutes of the land,Or safely break them: thus, or indolent,Or active, ruinous alike to France.Wisely thou sayest, Warrior! that the LawShould strike the guilty; but the voice of Justice 215Cries out, and brings conviction as it cries; Whom the Laws cannot reach the Dagger should.
The Maid replied, "I blame thee not, O Chief!If, reasoning to thine own conviction thus,Thou didst, well-satisfied, destroy these men 220Above the Law: but if a meaner one,Self-constituting him the MinisterOf Justice, to the death of these bad menHad wrought the deed, him would the Laws have seized,And doom'd a Murderer: thee, thy power preserved! 225And what hast thou exampled? thou hast taughtAll men to execute what deeds of bloodTheir will or passion sentence: right and wrongConfounding thus, and making Power, of all,Sole arbiter. Thy acts were criminal, 230Yet Richemont, for thou didst them self-approved,I may not blame the agent. Trust me, Chief!That when a People sorely are opprest,The hour of violence will come too soon,And he does wrong who hastens it. He best 235 Performs the Patriot's and the Good Man's part,Who, in the ear of Rage and Faction, breathesThe healing words of Love."Thus communed they:Meantime, all panic struck and terrified,The English urge their flight; by other thoughts 240Possess'd than when, elate with arrogance,They dreamt of conquest, and the crown of FranceAt their disposal. Of their hard-fought fields,Of glory hardly-earn'd, and lost with shame,Of friends and brethren slaughter'd, and the fate 245Threatening themselves, they brooded sadly; nowRepentant, late, and vainly. They whom fearErst made obedient to their conquering march,At their defeat exultant, wreak what illsTheir power allow'd. Thus many a league they fled, 250Marking their path with ruin, day by dayLeaving the weak and wounded, destituteTo the foe's mercy; thinking of their home,Tho' to that far-off prospect scarcely Hope Could raise her sickly eye. Oh then what joy 255Inspired anew their bosoms, when, like cloudsMoving in shadows down the distant hill,They mark'd their coining succours! in each heartDoubt rais'd a busy tumult; soon they knewThe friendly standard, and a general shout 260Burst from the joyful ranks; yet came no joyTo Talbot: he, with dark and downward brow,Mus'd sternly, till at length arous'd to hopeOf vengeance, welcoming his warrior son,He brake a sullen smile.[1]"Son of my age! 265Welcome young Talbot to thy first of fields.Thy father bids thee welcome, tho' disgraced, Baffled, and flying from a Woman's arm!Yes, by my former glories, from a Woman!The scourge of France! the conqueror of Men! 270Flying before a Woman! Son of Talbot, Had the winds wafted thee a few days sooner, Thou hadst seen me high in honor, and thy name Alone had scattered armies; yet, my Child, I bid thee welcome! rest we here our flight, 275And lift again the sword." So spake the Chief; And well he counsell'd: for not yet the sun Had reach'd Meridian height, when, o'er the plain Of Patay they beheld the troops of France Speed in pursuit. Collected in himself 280Appear'd the might of Talbot. Thro' the ranks He stalks, reminds them of their former fame, Their native land, their homes, the friends they loved, All the rewards of this day's victory. But awe had fill'd the English, and they struck 285Faintly their shields; for they who had beheld The hallowed banner with celestial light Irradiate, and the Mission'd Maiden's deeds, Felt their hearts sink within them, at the thought Of her near vengeance ; and the tale they told 290 Rous'd such a tumult in the new-come troops,As fitted them for fear. The aged ChiefBeheld their drooping valor: his stern brow,Wrinkled with thought, bewray'd his inward doubts:Still he was firm, tho' all might fly, resolved 295That Talbot should retrieve his old renown,And period Life with Glory. Yet some hopeInspir'd the Veteran, as across the plainCasting his eye, he mark'd the embattled strengthOf thousands; Archers of unequall'd skill, 300Brigans, and Pikemen, from whose lifted pointsA fearful radiance flashed, and young Esquires,And high-born Warriors, bright in blazon'd arms.Nor few, nor fameless were the English Chiefs:In many a field victorious, he was there, 305The garter'd Fastolffe; Hungerford, and Scales,Men who had seen the hostile squadrons flyBefore the arms of England. Suffolk there,The haughty Chieftain tower'd; blest had he fallen,Ere yet a Courtly Minion he was mark'd 310 By public hatred, and the murderer's name!There too the Son of Talbot, young in arms,Moved eager he, at many a tournament,With matchless force, had pointed his strong lance,O'er all opponents, victor: confident 315In strength, and jealous of his future fame,His heart beat high for battle. Such arrayOf marshall'd numbers fought not on the fieldOf Crecy, nor at Poictiers; nor such forceLed Henry to the fight of Azincour, 320When thousands fell before him.Onward moveThe host of France: and now their venturous KnightsDismount; their safety, and their country's weal,Trusting to their own strength. The Maid alone,Conspicuous on a coal-black courser, meets 325The war. They moved to battle with such soundAs rushes o'er the vaulted firmament,When from his seat, on the utmost verge of HeavenThat overhangs the Void, Father of Winds! Hræsvelger starting, rears his giant bulk, 330And from his Eagle pinions shakes the storm.
High on her stately steed the Martial MaidRode foremost of the war: her burnish'd armsShone like the brook that o'er its pebbled courseRuns glittering gayly to the noon-tide sun. 335Her foaming courser, of the guiding handImpatient, smote the earth, and toss'd his mane,And rear'd aloft with many a froward bound,As tho' the Maiden's skill, and his own strengthProud to display. The light gale with her plumes 340Wantoned. Even such a fair and warlike formPelides moved from Scyros, where, conceal'dHe lay obedient to his mother's fearsA seemly Virgin; thus the Youth appear'dTerribly graceful, when upon his neck 345Deidameia hung; and with a lookThat spake the tumult of her troubled breast,Fear, anguish, and upbraiding tenderness, Gazed on the father of her unborn babe.
An English Knight, who eager for renown 350Late left his peaceful mansion, mark'd the Maid.Her power miraculous, and fearful deedsHe from the troops had heard incredulous,And scoff'd their easy fears, and vow'd that he,Proving the magic of this dreaded Girl 355In equal battle, would dissolve the spell,Powerless oppos'd to valor. Forth he spurr'dBefore the ranks; she mark'd the coming foe,And fix'd her lance in rest, and rush'd along.Midway they met; full on her buckler driv'n, 360Shiver'd the English spear: her better forceDrove the brave foeman senseless from his seat.Headlong he fell, nor ever to the senseOf shame awoke, for rushing multitudesSoon crush'd the helpless Warrior.Then the Maid 365Rode thro' the thickest battle: fast they fell, Pierced by her forceful spear. Amid the troopsPlunged her strong war-horse, by the noise of armsElate, and rous'd to rage, he tramples o'er,Or with the lance protended from his front, 370Thrusts down the thronging squadrons. Where she turnsThe foe tremble and die. Such ominous fearSeizes the Traveller o'er the trackless sands,Who marks the dread Simoom across the waste,Sweep its swift pestilence: to earth he falls, 375Nor dares give utterance to the inward prayer,Deeming the Genius of the Desart breathesThe purple blast of Death.Such was the sound As when the tempest, mingling air and sea, Flies o'er the uptorn ocean: dashing high 380Their foamy heads amid the incumbent clouds, The madden'd billows, with their deafening roar, Drown the loud thunder's peal. In every form Of horror, Death was there. They fall, transfix'd By the random arrow's point, or fierce-thrust lance, 385 Or sink, all battered by the ponderous mace:Some from their coursers thrown, lie on the earth,Unwieldy in their arms, that weak to save,Protracted all the agonies of Death.
But most the English fell, by their own fears 390Betrayed, for Fear the evil that it dreadsIncreases. Even the Chiefs, who many a dayHad met the war and conquered, trembled now,Appall'd by her, the Maid miraculous.Thus the blood-nurtured Monarch of the wood, 395That o'er the wilds of Afric, in his strengthResistless ranges, when the mutinous cloudsBurst, and the lightnings thro' the midnight sky,Dart their red fires, lies fearful in his den,And howls in terror to the passing storm. 400
But Talbot, fearless where the bravest fear'd,Mowed down the hostile ranks. The Chieftain stoodLike the strong oak, amid the tempest's rage, That stands unharm'd; and whilst the forest fallsUprooted round, lifts his high head aloft, 405And nods majestic to the warring wind.Him, present danger but magnanimates:He fought resolved to snatch the shield of DeathAnd shelter him from Shame. The very herdWho fought near Talbot, tho' the Virgin's name 410Made their cheeks pale, and drove the curdling bloodBack to their hearts, caught from his daring deedsNew force, and went like Eaglets to the preyBeneath their mother's wing. Nor his high birthDisgraced the Son of Talbot; by his sire 415Emulous he strove, like the young LionetWhen first he bathes his murderous jaws in blood.They fought intrepid, tho' amid their ranksFear and Confusion triumph'd; for such awePossess'd the English, as the Etruscans felt, 420When self-devoted to the Infernal GodsThe gallant Decius stood before the troops,Robed in the victim garb of sacrifice, And spake aloud, and call'd the Shadowy PowersTo give to Rome the conquest, and receive 425Their willing prey; then rush'd amid the foe,And died upon the hecatombs he slew.
But Hope inspir'd the assailants. Xaintrailles there Spread fear and death; and Orleans' valiant Son Fought as when Warwick fled before his arm. 430O'er all præeminent for hardiest deeds Was Conrade. Where he drove his battle-axe, Weak was the buckler or the helm's defence, Hauberk, or plated mail; thro' all it pierced, Resistless as the forked flash of Heaven. 435The death-doom'd foe, who mark'd the coming Chief, Felt such a chill run thro' his shivering frame, As the night traveller of the Pyrenees, Lone and bewildered on his wint'ry way, When from the mountains round reverberates 440The hungry Wolves' deep yell: on every side, Their fierce eyes gleaming as with meteor fires, The famish'd troop come round: the affrighted muleSnorts loud with terror: on his shuddering limbsThe big sweat starts; convulsive pant his sides; 445Then on he rushes, wild in desperate speed.
Him dealing death an English Knight beheld,And spurr'd his steed to crush him: Conrade leap'dLightly aside, and thro' the Warrior's greevesFix'd a deep wound: nor longer could the foe, 450Tortur'd with anguish, guide his mettled horse,Or his rude plunge endure; headlong he fell,And perish'd. In his castle-hall was hungOn high his father's shield, with many a dintGraced on the blood-drenched plain of Azincour: 455His deeds the son had heard; and when a boy,Listening delighted to the old man's tale,His little hand would lift the weighty spearIn warlike pastime: he had left behindAn infant offspring, and did fondly deem 460He too in age the exploits of his youth Should tell, and in the Stripling's bosom rouseThe fire of glory.Conrade the next foeSmote where the heaving membrane separatesThe chambers of the trunk. The dying man, 465In his Lord's castle dwelt, for many a year,A well-beloved servant: he could singCarols for Shrove-tide, or for Candlemas,Songs for the Wassel, and when the Boar's head,Crown'd with gay garlands, and with Rosemary, 470Smoaked on the Christmas board: he went to warFollowing the Lord he loved, and saw him fallBeneath the arm of Conrade, and expir'd,Slain on his Master's body.Nor the fightWas doubtful long. Fierce on the invading host 475Press the French troops impetuous, as of old,When, pouring o'er his legion slaves on Greece,The Eastern Despot bridged the Hellespont,The rushing sea against the mighty pile Roll'd its full weight of waters; far away 480The fearful Satrap mark'd on Asia's coastsThe floating fragments, and with ominous fearTrembled for the Great King.Still Talbot strove,Tho' with vain valor, as when Ali rear'dIn the midnight war the warrior-withering cry! 485The aged Hero rear'd his two-edged sword,And ever as he smote a foe, exclaim'd,"God is victorious!" in the battle's clangFour hundred times from Ali's powerful voiceThat sound of Death was heard: but vainly strove 490The blameless Chieftain, by the Assassin's handDestin'd to end a life of frustrate hopes.
Young Talbot mark'd the Maid across the plain,Careering fierce in conquest. Her to meetHe spurr'd his horse, by one decisive deed 495Or to retrieve the battle, or to fallWith glory. Each beneath the other's blow Bow'd down; their lances shiver'd with the shock;To earth their coursers fell at once they rose,At once unsheath'd their falchions, and rush'd on 500To closer combat. But in vain the YouthEssay'd to pierce those arms that even the powerOf Time was weak to injure: she the whileThro' many a wound beheld her foeman's bloodOoze fast. "Yet save thee Warrior!" cried the Maid, 505"Me canst thou not destroy: be timely wise,And live!" He answered not, but lifting highHis weapon, drove with fierce and forceful armFull on the Virgin's helm: fire from her eyesFlash'd with the stroke: one step she back recoil'd, 510Then in his breast plunged deep the sword of Death.
Him falling Talbot saw. On the next foe,With rage and anguish wild, the Warrior turn'd;His ill-directed weapon to the earthDrove down the unwounded Frank: he lifts the sword 515And thro' his all-in-vain imploring hands Cleaves the poor suppliant. On that dreadful dayThe sword of Talbot,[2] clogg'd with hostile gore,Made good its vaunt. Amid the heaps his armHad slain, the Chieftain stood and sway'd around 520His furious strokes: nor ceas'd he from the fight,Tho' now discomfited the English troopsFled fast, all panic-struck and spiritless;And mingling with the routed, Fastolffe fledFalse to his former fame; for he beheld 525The Maiden rushing onward, and such fearRan thro' his frame, as thrills the AfricanWhen, grateful solace in the sultry hour,He rises on the buoyant billow's breastIf then his eye behold the monster Shark 530Gape eager to devour.But Talbot nowA moment paus'd, for bending thitherwardsHe mark'd a warrior, such as well might ask His utmost force. Of strong and stately portThe onward foeman moved, and bore on high 535A battle-axe, in many a field of bloodKnown by the English Chieftain. Over heapsOf slaughter'd, strode the Frank, and bade the troopsRetire from the bold Earl: then Conrade spake."Vain is thy valor Talbot! look around, 540See where thy squadrons fly! but thou shalt loseNo glory, by their cowardice subdued,Performing well thyself the soldier's part."
"And let them fly!" the indignant Earl exclaim'd,"And let them fly! but bear thou witness, Chief! 545That guiltless of this day's disgrace, I fall.But Frenchman! Talbot will not tamely fall,Or unrevenged."So saying, for the warHe stood prepar'd: nor now with heedless rageThe Champions fought, for either knew full well 550His foemen's prowess: now they aim the blow Insidious, with quick change then drive the steelFierce on the side expos'd. The unfaithful armsYield to the strong-driven edge; the blood streams downTheir batter'd mails. With swift eye Conrade mark'd 555The lifted buckler, and beneath impell'dHis battle-axe; that instant on his helmThe sword of Talbot fell, and with the blowShiver'd. "Yet yield thee Englishman!" exclaim'dThe generous Frank———"vain is this bloody strife: 560Me shouldst thou conquer, little would my deathAvail thee, weak and wounded!""Long enoughTalbot has lived," replied the sullen Chief:"His hour is come; yet shalt not thou surviveTo glory in his fall!" So, as he spake, 565He lifted from the ground a massy spear,And rush'd again to battle.Now more fierceThe conflict raged, for careless of himself,And desperate, Talbot fought. Collected still Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his foeman aim'd 570His barbed javelin, there he swung aroundThe guardian shield: now pierced with many a stroke,The Earl's emblazon'd buckler to the earthFell sever'd: from his riven arms the bloodStream'd fast; and now the Frenchman's battle-axe 575Drove unresisted thro the shieldless mail.Backward the Frank recoil'd. "Urge not to deathThis fruitless contest," cried he; "live, oh Chief!Are there not those in England who would feelKeen anguish at thy loss? a wife perchance 580Who trembles for thy safety, or a childNeeding a Father's care!"Then Talbot's heartSmote him. "Warrior! he cried, "if thou dost thinkThat life is worth preserving, hie thee hence,And save thyself: I loath this useless talk." 585
So saying, he address'd him to the fight,Impatient of existence; from their arms Flash'd fire, and quick they panted; but not longEndured the deadly combat. With full forceDown thro' his shoulder even to the chest, 590Conrade impell'd the ponderous battle-axe;And at that inftant underneath his shieldReceived the hostile spear. Prone fell the Earl,Even in his death rejoicing that no foeShould live to boaft his fall.Then with faint hand 595Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his browWiping the cold dews, ominous of death,He laid him on the earth, thence to remove,While the long lance hung heavy in his side,Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe 600He lay, the Herald of the English EarlWith faltering step drew near, and when he sawHis master's arms, "Alas! and is it you,My Lord?" he cried. "God pardon you your sins!I have been forty years your officer, 605And time it is I should surrender now The ensigns of my office!" So he said,And paying thus his rite of sepulture,Threw o'er the slaughter'd chief his blazon'd coat.
Then Conrade thus bespake him: "Englishman, 610Do for a dying soldier one kind act!Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her hasteHither, and thou shalt gain what recompenceIt pleases thee to ask."The herald soon,Meeting the mission'd Virgin, told his tale. 615Trembling she hasten'd on, and when she knewThe death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could JOANLift up the expiring warrior's heavy hand,And press it to her heart."I sent for thee,My friend!" with interrupted voice he cried, 620"That I might comfort this my dying hourWith one good deed. A fair domain is mine;Let Francis and his Isabel possess That, mine inheritance." He paus'd awhile,Struggling for utterance; then with breathless speed, 625And pale as him he mourn'd for, Francis came,And hung in silence o'er the blameless man,Even with a brother's sorrow: he pursued,"This JOAN will be thy care. I have at homeAn aged mother—Francis, do thou soothe 630Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus:Sweet to the wretched is the Tomb's repose!"
So saying Conrade drew the javelin forth,And died without a groan.By this the Scouts,Forerunning the King's march, upon the plain 635Of Patay had arrived, of late so gayWith marshall'd thousands in their radiant arms,And streamer glittering in the noon-tide sun,And blazon'd shields, and gay accoutrements,The pageantry of murder: now defiled 640With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms, And mangled bodies. Soon the Monarch joinsHis victor army. Round the royal flag,Uprear'd in conquest now, the Chieftains flockProffering their eager service. To his arms, 645Or wisely fearful, or by speedy forceCompell'd, the embattled towns submit and ownTheir rightful King. Baugenci strives in vain:Jenville and Mehun yield; from Sully's wallHurl'd is the banner'd Lion: on they pass. 650Auxerre, and Troyes, and Chalons, ope their gates,And by the Mission'd Maiden's rumour'd deedsInspirited, the Citizens of RheimsFeel their own strength; against the English troopsWith patriot valor, irresistible, 655They rise, they conquer, and to their liege LordPresent the city keys.The morn was fairWhen Rheims re-echoed to the busy humOf multitudes, for high solemnityAssembled. To the holy fabric moves 660 The long procession, thro' the streets bestrewnWith flowers and laurel boughs. The Courtier throngWere there, and they in Orleans, who endur'dThe siege right bravely: D'Orval, and La Hire,The gallant Xaintrailles, Boussac, and Chabannes, 665La Fayette, name that Freedom still shall love;Alencon, and the bravest of the brave,The Bastard Orleans, now in hope elate,Soon to release from hard captivityA dear-beloved brother. He was there, 670Regnier of Sicily, the Sire of her,That great unfortunate, whose various woesSt. Alban's knew, and Hexham's fatal field,And the dark forest, where the Robber metThe midnight Wanderer and her child, and vow'd, 675Aw'd by the Majesty of Fortitude,His sword to serve them. By the Monarch's sideThe Delegated Damsel pass'd alongClad in her batter'd arms. She bore on highHer hallowed banner to the sacred pile, 680 And fix'd it on the altar, whilst her handPour'd on the Monarch's head the mystic oil,Wafted of yore by milk-white Dove from Heaven,(So legends say) to Clovis, when he stoodAt Rheims for baptism; dubious since that day, 685When Tolbiac plain reek'd with his warrior's blood,And fierce upon their flight the Alemanni prest,And rear'd the shout of triumph; in that hourClovis invok'd aloud the Christian God,And conquer'd: wak'd to wonder thus, the Chief 690Became Love's convert, and Clotilda ledHer husband to the font.The Mission'd MaidThen placed on Charles's brow the Crown of France,And back retiring, gazed upon the KingOne moment, quickly scanning all the past, 695Till in a tumult of wild wondermentShe wept aloud. The assembled multitudeIn awful stillness witness'd: then at once,As with a tempest-rushing noise of winds, Lifted their mingled clamors. Now the Maid 700Stood as prepar'd to speak, and waved her hand,And instant silence followed."King of France!"She cried—"At Chinon, when my gifted eyeKnew thee disguis'd, what inwardly the SpiritPrompted, I spake—arm'd with the sword of God 705To drive from Orleans far the English Wolves,And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims.All is accomplish'd. I have here this dayFulfill'd my mission, and anointed theeChief Servant of the People. Of this charge, 710Or well perform'd or wickedly, High HeavenShall take account. If that thine heart be good,I know no limit to the happinessThou mayest create. I do beseech thee King!"(The Maid exclaim'd, and fell upon the ground 715And clasp'd his knees) "I do beseech thee King!By all the millions that depend on thee,For weal or woe—consider what thou art, And know thy duty! if thou dost oppressThy people, if to aggrandize thyself 720Thou tear'st them from their homes, and send'st them forthTo slaughter, prodigal of misery!If when the Widow and the Orphan groanIn want and wretchedness, thou turnest theeTo hear the music of the flatterer's tongue; 725If when thou hear'st of thousands massacred,Thou sayest, "I am a King! and fit it isThat these should perish for me." If thy realmShould, thro' the counsels of thy government,Be filled with woe, and in thy streets be heard 730The voice of mourning and the feeble cryOf asking Hunger; if at such a timeThou dost behold thy plenty-covered board,And shroud thee in thy robes of Royalty,And say that all is well—Oh gracious God! 735Be merciful to such a monstrous man,When the Spirits of the murdered innocentCry at the throne for justice!
King of France!
Protect the lowly, feed the hungry ones,
And be the Orphan's father! thus shalt thou740
Become the Representative of Heaven,
And Gratitude and Love establish thus
Thy reign. Believe me, King! that hireling guards,
Tho' flesh'd in slaughter, would be weak to save
A tyrant on the blood-cemented Throne745
That totters underneath him."
Thus the Maid
Redeem'd her country. Ever may the All-Just
Give to the arms of Freedom such success.
FINIS.