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Anon I shall be with you. Thus he said;
Then to the damsel. "Maid of Arc! awhile
Let thou and I withdraw, and by short rest
Renew our strength." So saying he his helm
Unlaced, and in the Loire's near flowing stream
Cool'd his hot face. The Maid her head unhelm'd,
And stooping to the stream, reflected there
Saw her white plumage stain'd with human blood!
Shuddering she saw, but soon her steady soul
Collected: on the banks she laid her down,
Freely awhile respiring, for her breath
Still panted from the fight: silent they lay,
And gratefully the cooling breezes bathed
Their throbbing temples.
                          Eve was drawing on:
The sunbeams on the gently-waving stream
Danced sparkling. Lost in thought the warrior lay;
Then as if wakening from a dream he said,
"Maiden of Arc! at such an hour as this,
Beneath the o'erarching forest's checker'd shade,
With that lost woman have I wander'd on,
Talking of years of happiness to come!
Oh! hours forever fled! delightful hopes
Of the unsuspecting heart! I do believe
If Agnes on a worthier one had fix'd
Her love, that though my heart had nurst till death
Its sorrows, I had never on her choice
Cast one upbraiding — but to stoop to him!
A harlot! — an adulteress!"^[1]
                                 In his eye
Fierce anger flash'd; anon of what she was
Ere the contagious vices of the court
Polluted her, he thought." Oh, happy age!"
He cried, "when all the family of man
Freely enjoy'd their goodly heritage,
And only bow'd the knee in prayer to God!
Calm flow'd the unruffled stream of years along,
Till o'er the peaceful rustic's head the hair
Grew gray in full of time. Then he would sit
Beneath the coetaneous oak, while round,
Sons, grandsons, and their offspring join'd to form
The blameless merriment; and learnt of him
What time to yoke the oxen to the plough,
What hollow moanings of the western wind
Foretell the storm, and in what lurid clouds
The embryo lightning lies. Well pleased, he taught,
A heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek,
Mild as the summer sun's decaying light.
Thus quietly the stream of life flow'd on,
Till in the shoreless ocean lost at length.
Around the bed of death his numerous race
Listen'd, in no unprofitable grief.
His last advice, and caught his latest sigh:
And when he died, as he had fallen asleep,
In his own ground, and underneath the tree
Which, planted at his birth, with him had grown,
And flourish'd in its strength when he decay'd,
They delved the narrow house: where oft at eve
Their children's children gathered round to hear
The example of his life and death impress'd.
Maiden! and such the evening of my days
Fondly I hoped; and would that I had lived
In those old times,^[2] or till some better age
Slumber'd unborn; for this is a hard race,
An evil generation: nor by day
Nor in the night have respite from their cares
And wretchedness. But I shall be at rest
Soon, in that better world of peace and love
Where evil is not: in that better world,
Joan! we shall meet, and he too will be there,
Thy Theodore."
                 Soothed by his words, the Maid
Had listen'd sadly, till at that loved name
She wept. "Nay, Maid!" he cried, "I did not think
To wake a tear; — yet pleasant is thy grief!
Thou know'st not what it is, around thy heart
To have a false one wreathe in viper folds.
But to the battle! in the clang of arms,
We win forgetfulness."
                           Then from the bank
He sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose,
Bidding awhile adieu to gentle thoughts.
On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'd
England's proud capital to the English host,
Now half subdued, anticipating death,
And vainly wishing they from her white cliffs
Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creeps
Through every nerve: already they look round
With haggard eyes, as seeking where to fly,
Though Talbot there presided, with their chief,
The dauntless Salisbury.
                       "Soldiers, tried in arms!"
Thus, hoping to revive with gallant speech
Their courage, Salisbury spake; "Brave countrymen,
Victorious in so many a hard-fought fight,
What — shrink ye now dismay'd? Oh call to mind
The plains of Agincourt, where vanquish'd France
Fled with her thousands from your fathers' arms?
Have ye forgotten how our English swords,
On that illustrious day before Verneuil,
Cut down the flower of all their chivalry?
Then was that noble heart of Douglas pierced,^[3]
Bold Buchan bit the earth, and Narbonne died,
And this Alençon, boaster as he is,
Cried mercy to his conqueror. Shall I speak
Of our victorious banner on the walls
Of Yenville and Baugenci triumphing;
And of that later hour of victory
When Clermont and the Bastard plied their spurs?
Shame! shame! that beaten boy is here in arms,
And ye will fly before the fugitives, —
Fly from a woman! from a frantic girl!
Who with her empty mummeries tries to blast
Your courage; or if miracles she bring,
Aid of the Devil! Who is there among you
False to his country, — to his former fame,
To your old leader who so many a time
Hath led ye on to glory?"
                           From the host
There came a heartless shout; then Talbot's cheek
Grew red with indignation. "Earl!" said he,
Addressing Salisbury, "there is no hope
From these white-liver'd dastards, and this fort
Will fall an easy conquest. We must out
And gain the Tournelles, better fortified,
Fit to endure a siege: that hope in view,
Cow'd as they are, the men from very fear
May gather what will do for this poor turn
The work of courage."

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