"What is man
That he can hear the groan of wretchedness
And feel no fleshly pang! Why did the All-Good
Create these warrior scourges of mankind,
These who delight in slaughter? I did think
There was not on this earth a heart so hard
Could hear a famish'd woman ask for food,
And feel no pity. As the outcast train
Drew near, relentless Henry bade his troops
Drive back the miserable multitude.[1]
They drove them to the walls; — it was the depth
Of winter, — we had no relief to grant.
The aged ones groan'd to our foe in vain,
The mother pleaded for her dying child,
And they felt no remorse!"
The mission'd Maid
Rose from her seat, — "The old and the infirm,
The mother and her babes! — and yet no lightning
Blasted this man!"
"Aye, Lady," Bertram cried,
" And when we sent the herald to implore
His mercy[2] on the helpless, his stern face
Assum'd a sterner smile of callous scorn,
And he replied in mockery. On the wall
I stood and watch'd the miserable outcasts,
And every moment thought that Henry's heart,
Hard as it was, would melt. All night I stood, —
Their deep groans came upon the midnight gale;
Fainter they grew, for the cold wintry wind
Blew bleak; fainter they grew, and at the last
All was still, save that ever and anon
Some mother raised o'er her expiring child
A cry of frenzying anguish.[3]
"From that hour
On all the busy turmoil of the world
I look'd with strange indifference; bearing want
With the sick patience of a mind worn out.
Nor when the traitor yielded up our town[4]
Aught heeded I as through our ruin'd streets,
Through putrid heaps of famish'd carcasses,
The pomp of triumph pass'd. One pang alone
1 felt, when by that cruel King's command
The gallant Blanchard died :[5] calmly he died,
And as he bow'd beneath the axe, thank'd God
That he had done his duty.
"I survive,
A solitary, friendless, wretched one,
Knowing no joy save in the certain hope
That I shall soon be gather'd to my sires,
And soon repose, there where the wicked cease[6]
From troubling, and the weary arc at rest."
"And happy," cried the delegated Maid,
"And happy they who in that holy faith
Bow meekly to the rod! A little while
Shall they endure the proud man's contumely,
The injustice of the great: a little while
Though shelterless they feel the wintry wind,
The wind shall whistle o'er their turf-grown grave,
And all be peace below. But woe to those,
Woe to the Mighty Ones who send abroad
Their ministers of death, and give to Fury
The flaming firebrand; these indeed shall live
The heroes of the wandering minstrel's song;
But they have their reward; the innocent blood
Steams up to Heaven against them: God shall hear
The widow's groan."
"I saw him," Bertram cried,
"Henry of Agincourt, this mighty King,
Go to his grave. The long procession pass'd
Slowly from town to town, and when I heard
The deep-toned dirge, and saw the banners wave
A pompous shade,[7] and the tall torches cast
In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light,[8]
I thought what he had been on earth who now
Was gone to his account, and blest my God
I was not such as he!"
So spake the old man,
And then his guests betook them to repose.
THE THIRD BOOK.
Fair dawn'd the morning, and the early sun
Pour'd on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam,
And up the travellers rose, and on their way
Hasten'd, their dangerous way,[9] through fertile tracts
Laid waste by war. They pass'd the Auxerrois;
The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth[10]
The unreap'd harvest; from the village church
No even-song bell was heard; the shepherd's dog
Prey'd on the scatter'd flock, for there was now
No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth
Where he had slumber'd at his master's feet
Weeds grew and reptiles crawl'd. Or if they found
Sometimes a welcome, those who welcomed them
Were old and helpless creatures, lingering there
Where they were born, and where they wish'd to die,
The place being all that they had left to love.
They pass'd the Yonne, they pass'd the rapid Loire,
Still urging on their way with cautious speed,
Shunning Auxerre, and Bar's embattled wall,
And Romorantin's towers.
So journeying on,
Fast by a spring, which welling at his feet
With many a winding crept along the mead,
A Knight they saw, who there at his repast
Let the west wind play round his ungirt brow.
Approaching near, the Bastard recognized
That faithful friend of Orleans, the brave chief
Du Chastel; and their mutual greeting pass'd,
They on the streamlet's mossy bank reclined
Beside him, and his frugal fare partook,
And drank the running waters.
"Art thou bound
For the Court, Dunois?" exclaim'd the aged Knight;
"I thought thou hadst been far away, shut up
In Orleans, where her valiant sons the siege
Right loyally endure!"
"I left the town,"
Dunois replied, "thinking that my prompt speed
Might seize the enemy's stores, and with fresh force
Reënter. Fastolffe's better fate prevail'd,[11]
And from the field of shame my maddening horse
Bore me, an arrow having pierced his flank.
