Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave
So long bewail'd.
Swift as the affrighted herd
Scud o'er the plain, when rattling thunder-cracks
Upon the bolted lightning follow close,
The English hasten to their sheltering forts,
Even there of safety doubtful, still appall'd
And trembling, as the pilgrim who by night
On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl
Hears the wood echo, when from close pursuit
Escaped, the topmost branch of some tall tree
He grasps close clinging, still of the wild beast
Fearful, his teeth jar, and the cold sweat stands
Upon his clammy limbs.
Nor now the Maid
Greedy of vengeance presses the pursuit.
She bids the trumpet of retreat resound;
A welcome note to the affrighted foe
Blew that loud blast, whereat obediently
The French, though eager on the invaders' heads
To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword.
Loud is the cry of conquest as they turn
To Orleans. There what few to guard the town
Unwilling had remain'd, haste forth to meet
The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held,
Which raised aloft amid the midnight storm
Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced;
Deep through the sky the hollow thunders roll'd;111
Innocuous lightnings round the hallowed banner
Wreath'd their red radiance.
Through the city gate
Then, as the laden convoy pass'd, was heard
The shout of exultation; and such joy
The men of Orleans at that welcome sight
Possess'd, as when from Bactria late subdued,
The mighty Macedonian led his troops
Amid the Sogdian desert, where no stream
Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves,
Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed;
Scorch'd by the sun, that o'er their morning march
Steam'd his hot vapors, heart-subdued and faint;
Such joy as then they felt, when from the heights
Burst the soul-gladdening sound, for thence was seen
The evening sun silvering the fertile vale,
Where Oxus roll'd below.
Clamors of joy
Echo along the streets of Orleans, wont
Long time to hear the infant's feeble cry,
The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sound,
When from the cannon burst its stores of death.
Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles
And high heap'd carcasses, whence scared away
From his abhorred meal, on clattering wing
Rose the night-raven slow.
In the English forts
Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night
Steal in the straggling fugitives; as when
Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky
Serenely shines the sun, with every breeze
The waving branches drop their gather'd rain,
Renewing the remembrance of the storm.
THE SEVENTH BOOK.
Strong were the English forts,112 by daily toil
Of thousands rear'd on high, when to insure
His meditated conquest Salisbury
Resolved from Orleans to shut out all means
Of human succor. Round the city stretch'd
Their line continuous, massy as the wall
Erst by the fearful Roman on the bounds
Of Caledonia raised, when soul-enslaved
The race degenerate fear'd the car-borne chiefs
Who moved from Morven down.
Broad battlements
Crested the bulwark, and safe standing place
For archer or for man-at-arms was there.
The frequent buttress at just distance rose
Declining from its base, and sixty forts
Seem'd in their strength to render all secure.
But loftier and massier than the rest,
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 thence
The skilful bowman, entering with his eye113
The city, might, himself the while unseen,
Through the long opening aim his winged deaths.
Loire's waves diverted fill'd the deep-dug moat
Circling the whole; a bulwark vast it was
As that which round their camp and stranded ships
The Achaians raised, a common sepulchre
Of thousands slaughter'd, and the doom'd death-place
Of many a chief, when Priam's virtuous son
Assail'd them, then in hope, with favoring Jove
But cowering now amid their sheltering forts
Trembled the invading host. Their leader's care
In anxious vigilance prepares to ward
The assault expected. Rightly he ared
The Maid's intent, but vainly did he seek
To kindle in their breasts the wonted flame
Of valor, for, by prodigies unmann'd,
They wait the morn. The soldiers' pride was gone;
The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay
Defiled and unrepair'd,114 they sharpen'd not
Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand
Relax'd 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 tower'd 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 proved thy mission, as by words
And miracles attested when dismay'd
The grave theologists dismiss'd their doubts,
