Was plighted: my poor Francis!" Here she paused,
And here she wept awhile.
"We did not think
The desolating stream of war would reach
To us; but soon as with the whirlwind's speed
Ruin rush'd round us.[1] Mehun, Clery, fell,
The banner'd Leopard waved on Gergeau's wall;
Bangenei yielded; soon the foe approach'd
The towers of Yenville.
"Fatal was the hour
To me and mine: for from the wall, alas!
The rusty sword was taken, and the shield
Which long had moulder'd on the mouldering nail,
To meet the war repair'd. No more was heard
The ballad, or the merry roundelay;
The clattering hammer's clank, the grating file
Harsh sounded through the day a dismal din;
I never shall forget their mournful sound!
"My father stood encircling his old limbs
In long-forgotten arms. 'Come, boys,' he cried;
'I did not think that this gray head again
Should bear the helmet's weight; but in the field
Better to bravely die a soldier's death,
Than here be tamely butcher'd. Isabel,
Go to the abbey! if we should survive,
We soon shall meet again; if not, my child,
There is a better world!'
In broken words,
Lifting his eyes to Heaven, my father breathed
His blessing on me. As they went away,
My brethren gazed on me, and wrung my hand
In silence, for they loved their sister well.
From the near cottage Francis join'd the troop.
Then did I look on our forsaken home,
And almost sob my very soul away;
For all my hopes of happiness were fled,
Even like a dream!"
"Perish these mighty ones,"
Cried Conrade, "these who let destruction loose,
Who walk elated o'er their fields of fame,
And count the thousands that lie slaughter'd there,
And with the bodies of the innocent, rear
Their pyramid of glory! perish these,
The epitome of all the pestilent plagues
That Egypt knew! who send their locust swarms
O'er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood.
Fear and Destruction go before their path,
And Famine dogs their footsteps. God of Justice,
Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain!"
Thus while he spake, the murmur of the camp
Rose on their ear; first like the distant sound
When the full-foliaged forest to the storm
Shakes its hoarse head; anon with louder din;
And through the opening glade gleam'd many a fire.
The Virgin's tent they enter'd; there the board
Was spread, the wanderer of the fare partook,
Then thus her tale renew'd: —
"Slow o'er the hill
Whose rising head conceal'd our cot I past,
Yet on my journey paused awhile, and gazed
And wept; for often had I cross'd the hill
With cheerful step, and seen the rising smoke
Of hospitable fire; alas! no smoke
Curl'd o'er its melancholy chimneys now!
Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood
The abbey; and ere long I learnt the fall
Of Yenville.
"On a day, a soldier ask'd
For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet
Support me. It was Francis, and alone —
The sole survivor of that company!
"And soon the foes approach'd: impending war
Soon sadden'd Orleans.[2] There the bravest chiefs
Assembled: Thouars, Coarase, Chabannes,
And the Sire Chapelle,[3] in successful war
Since wounded to the death; and that good Knight
Giresme of Rhodes, who in a better cause
Can never wield the crucifix that hilts
His hallowed sword;[4] and Xaintrailles ransom'd now,
And Fayette late released, and that young Duke[5]
Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound
Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest man[6]
That ever yet did win his soldiers' love;
And over all for hardihood renown'd
The Bastard Orleans.
"These within the town
Expect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen men,
Well tried in war, uprear the guardian shield
Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight
Of preparation. The wide suburbs stretch'd
Along the pleasant borders of the Loire,
Late throng'd with multitudes, now feel the hand
Of ruin. These preventive care destroys,
Lest England, shelter'd by the friendly walls,
Securely should approach. The monasteries
Fell in the general waste. The holy monks
Unwillingly their long-accustom'd haunts
Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook
Call'd to awaken'd memory some trace
Of vision seen, or sound miraculous.
Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells,
For the rude uproar of a world unknown,
The nuns desert: their abbess, more composed,
Collects her maids around, and tells her beads.
And pours the timid prayer of piety.
The pioneers, by day and night employ'd,
Throw up the violated earth, to impede
The foe: the hollow chambers of the dead
Echo'd beneath their stroke. The brazen tomb
Which late recorded death, in the furnace cast
Is made to inflict it now. Sad sight it was
To see so wide a waste; the aged ones
Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went
O'er the fallen dwellings of their happier years;
The stern and sullen silence of the men
Musing on vengeance: and but ill represt,
The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd
Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay
One ample ruin;[7] whence the stones were borne
Within the town to serve in its defence.
"And now without the walls the desolate space
Appear'd, a rough and melancholy waste,
With uptorn pavements and foundations deep
Of many a ruin'd dwelling. Nor within
Less dreary was the scene; at evening hour
Page:Completepoetical1848sout.djvu/39
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
This page needs to be proofread.
BOOK V.
JOAN OF ARC
31
