So in the field of battle now confirm'd.
You well-fenced forts protect the fugitives,
And seem as in their strength they mock'd our force.
Yet must they fall."
"And fall they shall!" replied
The Maid of Orleans. "Ere the sun he set
The lily on that shattered wall shall wave
Triumphant. — Men of France! ye have fought well
On yon blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foes
Lurk trembling now behind their massy walls.
Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock!
The Shepherd — the Great Shepherd is arisen!
Ye fly! yet shall not ye by flight escape
His vengeance. Men of Orleans! it were vain
By words to waken wrath within your breasts.
Look round! Your holy buildings and your homes —
Ruins that choke the way! your populous town —
One open sepulchre! who is there here
That does not mourn a friend, a brother slain,
A parent famished, — or his dear, loved wife
Torn from his bosom — outcast — broken-hearted —
Cast on the mercy of mankind?"
She ceased;
A cry of indignation from the host
Burst forth, and all impatient for the war
Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays
In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war,
Commands the first; Xaintrailles, who oftentimes
Defeated, oft a prisoner, and as oft
Released for ransom, both with friend and foe
Growing repute of active hardihood,
And martial skill obtained; so erst from earth
Antæus vaunting in his giant bulk,
When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell
vanquished, anon uprose more fierce for war.
Gaucour the second battle led, true friend
And faithful servant of the imprison'd Duke;
In counsel provident, in action prompt,
Collected always, always self-controll'd,
He from the soldiers' confidence and love
Prompter obedience gain'd, than ever fear
Forced from the heart reluctant.
The third band
Alençon leads. On Verneuil's fatal field
The day when Buchan and the Douglas died,
Wounded and senseless with the loss of blood,
He fell, and there being found, was borne away
A prisoner, in the ills of that defeat
Participant, partaking not the shame:
But for his rank and high desert, the King
Had ransom'd him, doom'd now to meet the foe
With better fortune.
O'er the last presides
The bastard son of Orleans, great in arms.
His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame
Acknowledged, since before his stripling arm
Fled Warwick; Warwick, he whose wide renown
Greece knew, and Antioch, and the holy soil
Of Palestine, since there in arms he went
On gallant pilgrimage; yet by Dunois
Baffled, and yielding him the conqueror's praise.
And by his side the martial Maiden pass'd,
Lovely in arms, as that Arcadian boy
Parthenopæus,[1] when the war of beasts
Disdaining, lie to cope wilii men went forth,
Bearing the bow and those Dictæan shafts
Diana gave, when she the youth's fair form
Saw, soften'd, and forgave the mother's fault.
Loup's was the nearest fort. Here Gladdisdale[2]
Commands the English, who as the enemy
Moved to the assault, from bow and arbalist
Their shafts and quarrels showered. Nor did they use
Hand-weapons only and hand-engines here,
Nor by the arm alone, or bow-string sped
The missile flew, but driven by the strain'd force
Of the balista,[3] in one body spent
Stay'd not; through arms and men it made its way,
And leaving death behind, still held its course
By many a death unclogg'd. With rapid march
Onward the assailants came; and now they reach'd
Where by the bayle's embattled wall[4] in arms
The knights of England stood. There Poynings shook
His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace,
For the death-blow prepared. Alençon here,
And here the Bastard came, and by the Maid,
That daring man who to the English host,
Then insolent of many a conquest gain'd,
Had borne her bidding. A rude coat of mail,
Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line,[5]
He wore, though here, amid the high-born chiefs
Preeminent for prowess. On his head
A black plume shadow'd the rude-featured helm.[6]
Then was the war of men, when front to front
They rear'd the hostile hand, for low the wall
Where an assailant's upward-driven spear
Might reach his enemy.
As Alençon moved,
On his crown-crested helm[7] with ponderous blow
Fell Gladdisdale's huge mace. Back he recoil'd
Astounded; soon recovering, his sharp lance
Thrust on the warrior's shield: there fast infixed,
Nor could Alençon the deep-driven spear
Recover, nor the foeman from his grasp
Wrench the contended weapon. Fierce again
He lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt
Fell full; it shiver'd, and the Frenchman held
A pointless truncheon. Where the Bastard fought,
The spear of Poynings, through his plated mail
Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath[8]
Blunted its point. Again he thrust the spear;
At once Dunois on his broad buckler met
The unharming stroke, and aim'd with better hap
His javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce
Maugre the mail: hot from the streaming wound
He pluck'd the weapon forth, and in his breast
Clean through the hauberk drove.
But there the war
Raged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved
A minister of wrath; for thither throng'd
The bravest champions of the adverse host.
And on her either side two warriors stood
Protecting her, and aiming at her foes
Watchful their weapons, of themselves the while
Page:Completepoetical1848sout.djvu/47
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BOOK VII.
JOAN OF ARC
39
