Perfom'd a friendly part, hastening the hour
Grief else had soon brought on.
The English chief,
Pointing again his arbalist, let loose
The string; the quarrel, by that impact driven,
True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struck
Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd
Deep in his liver; blood and mingled gall
Flow'd from the wound, and writhing with keen pangs,
Headlong he fell. He for the wintry hour
Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale,
A man in his small circle well beloved.
None better knew with prudent hand to guide
The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time
To press the full-swollen clusters; he, heart-glad,
Taught his young boys the little all he knew,
Enough for happiness. The English host
Laid waste his fertile fields: he, to the war,
By want compelled, adventured, in his gore
Now weltering.
Nor the Gallic host remit
Their eager efforts; some, the watery fence,
Beneath the tortoise roofed, with engines apt
Drain painful;[1] part, laden with wood, throw there
Their buoyant burdens, laboring so to gain
Firm footing: some the mangonels supply,
Or charging with huge stones the murderous sling,[2]
Or petrary, or in the espringal
Fix the brass-winged arrows:[3] hoarse around
The uproar and the din of multitudes
Arose. Along the ramparts Gargrave went,
Cheering the English troops; a bow he bore;
The quiver rattled as he moved along.
He knew aright to aim his feathered shafts,
Well skilled to pierce the mottled roebuck's side,
O'ertaken in his speed. Him passing on,
A ponderous stone from some huge martinet,[4]
Struck: on his breastplate falling, the huge weight
Shattered the bone, and to his mangled lungs
Drove in the fragments. On the gentle brow
Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home,
A stately mansion, far and wide from whence
The sight ranged unimpeded, and surveyed
Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety!
The traveller knew its hospitable towers,
For open were the gates, and blazed for all
The friendly fire. By glory lured, the youth
Went forth; and he had bathed his falchion's edge
In many a Frenchman's blood; now crush'd beneath
The ponderous fragments' force, his lifeless limbs
Lie quivering.
Lo! towards the levelled moat,
A moving tower, the men of Orleans wheel[5]
Four stages elevate. Above was hung,
Equalling the walls, a bridge; in the lower stage
A battering-ram: within a chosen troop
Of archers, through the opening, shot their shafts.[6]
In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepared
To mount the rampart; for, no hunter he,
He loved to see the dappled foresters
Browze fearless on their lair, with friendly eye,
And happy in beholding happiness,
Not meditating death: the bowman's art
Therefore he little knew, nor was he wont
To aim the arrow at the distant foe,
But uprear in close conflict, front to front,
His battle-axe, and break the shield and helm,
First in the war of men. There too the Maid
Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield
Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower,
Slow o'er the moat and steady, though the foe
Showered there their javelins, aimed their engines there,
And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart
Shot burning through the sky.[7] In vain it flamed
For well with many a reeking hide secured,
Passed on the dreadful pile, and now it reached
The wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven,
The iron headed engine swings its stroke,
Then back recoils; while they within who guide,
In backward step collecting all their strength,
Anon the massy beam with stronger arm
Drive full and fierce. So rolls the swelling sea
Its curly billows to the unmoved foot
Of some huge promontory, whose broad base
Breaks the rough wave; the shivered surge rolls back,
Till, by the coming billow borne, it bursts
Again, and foams with ceaseless violence:
The wanderer, on the sunny clift outstretched,
Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock
His weary senses to forgetfulness.
But nearer danger threats the invaders now,
For on the ramparts, lowered from above
The bridge reclines.[8] A universal shout
Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant French
Break out in loud rejoicing, whilst the foe
Raise a responsive cry, and call aloud
For speedy succor there, with deafening shout
Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din
The mountain torrent flings precipitate
Its bulk of waters, though amid the fall
Shattered, and dashing silvery from the rock.
Lo! on the bridge forth comes the undaunted man,
Conrade! the gathered foes along the wall
Throng opposite, and on him point their pikes,
Cresting with armed men the battlements.
He undismayed, though on that perilous height,
Stood firm, and hurled his javelin; the keen point
Pierced through the destined victim, where his arm
Joined the broad breast: a wound which skilful care
Haply had healed; but, him disabled now
For further service, the unpitying throng
Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall
Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to throw
His deadly javelins fast, for well within
The tower was stored with weapons, to his hand
Quickly supplied. Nor did the missioned Maid
Rest idle from the combat; she, secure,
Aimed the keen quarrel; taught the crossbow's use
By the willing mind that what it well desires
Gains aptly: nor amid the numerous throng,
Though haply erring from their destined mark,
Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower
Page:Completepoetical1848sout.djvu/54
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46
JOAN OF ARC
BOOK VIII.
