The Monarch pass'd, and by his side the Maid;
Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest,
Wistless that every eye on her was bent,
With stately step she moved; her laboring soul
To high thoughts elevate; and gazing round
With a full eye, that of the circling throng
And of the visible world unseeing, seem'd
Fix'd upon objects seen by none beside.
Near her the warlike Son of Orleans came
Preëminent. He, nerving his young frame
With exercise robust, had scaled the cliff,
And plunging in the river's full-swollen stream,
Stemm'd with broad breast its current; so his form,
Sinewy and firm, and fit for deeds of arms,
Tower'd above the throng effeminate.
No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs
Effaced the hauberk's honorable marks;[1]
His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints
Many and deep; upon his pictured shield
A Lion vainly struggled in the toils,
Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage,
Assail'd the huntsman. Tremouille followed them,
Proud of the favor of a Prince who seem'd
Given up to vain delights; conspicuous he
In arms with azure and with gold anneal'd,
Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade
Defaced, nor e'er with hostile blood distain'd;
Trimly accoutred court-habiliments,
Gay lady-dazzling armor, fit to adorn
Tourney, or tilt, the gorgeous pageantry
Of mimic warfare. After him there came
A train of courtiers, summer flies, that sport
In the sunbeam of favor, insects sprung
From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers,
The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.
As o'er some flowery field the busy bees
Fill with their happy hum the fragrant air,
A grateful music to the traveller,
Who in the shade of some wide-spreading tree
Rests on his way awhile; or like the sound
Of many waters down some far-off steep
Holding their endless course, the murmur rose
Of admiration. Every gazing eye
Dwelt on the Prophetess; of all beside,
The long procession and the gorgeous train,
Though glittering they with gold and sparkling gems.
And their rich plumes high waving to the air,
Heedless.
The consecrated dome they reach,
Rear'd to St. Katharine's holy memory.
Her tale the altar told; how Maximin,
His raised lip kindled with a savage smile,
In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel
Rend her life piecemeal, that the very face
Of the hard executioner relax'd
With pity; calm she heard, no drop of blood
Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn'd
Heaven-ward, and hope and meekest piety
Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust;
For lo! the Angel of the Lord descends,
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel!
One glance of holy triumph Katharine cast,
Then bow'd her to the sword of martyrdom.[2]
Her eye averting from the pictured tale,
The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd
To Heaven her earnest prayer.
A trophied tomb
Stood near the altar where some warrior slept
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone
And rude-ensculptured effigy o'erlaid
The sepulchre. In silent wonderment
The expectant multitude with eager eye
Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke
Invades the tomb's repose: the heavy stroke
Sounds hollow: over the high-vaulted roof
Roll the repeated echoes: soon the day
Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam
Falls on the arms inshrined, the crested helm,
The bauldrick, and the shield, and sacred sword.[3]
A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment
Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid
Over her robes the hallowed breastplate threw,
Self-fitted to her form; on her helm'd head
The white plumes nod, majestically slow;
She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword,
Gleaming portentous light.
The wondering crowd
Raise their loud shout of transport. "God of Heaven,"
The Maid exclaim'd, "Father all merciful!
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield
The sword of vengeance; go before our host!
All-just avenger of the innocent,
Be thou our Champion! God of Peace, preserve
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms."
She ceased, and with an eager hush the crowd
Still listen'd; a brief while throughout the dome
Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst
Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn,
"Thee Lord we praise, our God!" the throng without
Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy,
And thundering transport peals along the heaven.
As through the parting crowd the Virgin pass'd,
He who from Orleans on the yesternight
Demanded succor, clasp'd with warmth her hand,
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd,
"Ill-omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth,
Devoted for this king-curst realm of France,
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee!" so saying,
He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words
Disturb'd, the warlike Virgin pass'd along,
And much revolving in her troubled mind,
Retrod the court.
And now the horn announced
The ready banquet; they partook the feast,[4]
Then rose and in the cooling water cleansed
Their hands, and seated at the board again
Enjoy'd the bowl, or scented high with spice,
Or flavor'd with the fragrant summer fruit,
Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich.[5]
Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp; he sung
Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest Knight
That ever loved fair Lady; and the youth
Of Cornwall[6] underneath whose maiden sword
The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck
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26
JOAN OF ARC
BOOK IV.
