Exclaim'd, "I, marvel not that the Most High
Hath hid his face from England! Wherefore thus
Quitting the comforts of domestic life,
Came we to desolate this goodly land,
Making the drench'd earth rank with human blood,
Scatter pollution on the winds of Heaven?
Oh! that the sepulchre had closed its jaws
On the proud prelate, that blood-guilty man,
Who, trembling for the church's ill-got wealth,
Bade our Fifth Henry claim the crown of France![1]
Oh! that the grave had swallow'd him, ere he
Stirr'd up the sleeping claim, and sent him forth
To slaughter! Sure that holy hermit spake
The Almighty's bidding,[2] who in his career
Of conquest met the King, and bade him cease
The work of death, before the wrath divine
Fell heavy on his head. — Full soon it fell.
And sunk him to the grave; — and soon that wrath
On us, alike in guilt, alike shall fall;
For thousands and ten thousands, by the sword
Cut off, and sent before the Eternal Judge,
With all their unrepented crimes upon them,
Cry out for vengeance; for the widow's groan,
Though here she groan unpitied or unheard,
Is heard in Heaven against us; o'er this land
For hills of human slain, unsepulchred,
Steam pestilence, and cloud the blessed sun!
The wrath of God is on us, — God hath raised
This Prophetess, and goes before her path; —
Our brethren, vainly valiant, fall beneath them,
Clogging with gore their weapons, or in the flood
Whelm'd like the Egyptian tyrant's impious host,
Mangled and swollen, their blacken'd carcasses
Float on the tainted current! We remain, —
For yet our rulers will pursue the war, —
We still remain to perish by the sword,
Soon to appear before the throne of God,
Conscious, too late, of folly and of guilt,
Uninjured, unprovoked, who dared to risk
The life His goodness gave us, on the chance
Of war, and in obedience to our chiefs
Durst disobey our God."
Then terror seized
The troops and late repentance; and they thought
The spirits of the mothers and their babes
Famish'd at Roan sat on the clouds of night,[3]
Circling the forts, to hail with gloomy joy
The hour of vengeance.
Nor the English chief
Heard these loud murmurs heedless; counselling
They met despondent. Suffolk, now their chief,
Since Salisbury fell, began.
"It now were vain
Lightly of this our more than mortal foe
To speak contemptuous. She hath vanquish'd us,
Aided by Hell's leagued powers, nor aught avails
Man unassisted 'gainst Infernal powers
To dare the conflict.[4] Were it best remain
Waiting the doubtful aid of Burgundy,
Doubtful and still delay'd? or from this place,
Scene of our shame, retreating as we may,
Yet struggle to preserve the guarded towns
Of the Orleannois?"
He ceased, and with a sigh,
Struggling with pride that heaved his gloomy breast,
Talbot replied, "Our council little boots;
For by their numbers now made bold in fear[5]
The soldiers will not fight; they will not heed
Our vain resolves, heart-wither'd by the spells
Of this accursed sorceress. Soon will come
The expected host from England; even now
Perchance the tall bark scuds across the deep
That bears my son: young Talbot comes, — he comes
To find his sire disgraced! But soon mine arm,
By vengeance nerved, and shame of such defeat,
Shall from the crest-fallen courage of yon witch,
Regain its ancient glory. Near the coast
Best is it to retreat, and there expect
The coming succor."
Thus the warrior spake.
Joy ran through all the troops,[6] as though retreat
Were safety. Silently in order'd ranks
They issue forth, favor'd by the thick clouds
Which mantled o'er the moon. With throbbing hearts
Fearful they speeded on; some in sad thoughts
Of distant England, and now wise too late,
Cursing in bitterness the evil hour
That led them from her shores; some in faint hope
Thinking to see their native land again;
Talbot went musing on his former fame,
Sullen and stern, and feeding on dark thoughts,
And meditating vengeance.
In the walls
Of Orleans, though her habitants with joy
Humbly acknowledged the high aid of Heaven,
Of many a heavy ill and bitter loss
Mindful, such mingled sentiments they felt
As one from shipwreck saved, the first warm glow
Of transport past, who contemplates himself
Preserved alone, a solitary wretch,
Possess'd of life indeed, but reft of all
That makes man love to live. The chieftains shared
The social bowl,[7] glad of the town relieved,
And communing of that miraculous Maid,
Who came the savior of the realm of France,
When, vanquish'd in the frequent field of shame,
Her bravest warriors trembled.
Joan the while
Fasting and silent to the convent pass'd,
Conrade with her, and Isabel; both mute,
Yet gazing on her oft with anxious eyes,
Looking the consolation that they fear'd
To give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome:
The glaring torches o'er the house of death
Stream'd a sad splendor. Flowers and funeral herbs
Bedeck'd the bier of Theodore, — the rue,
The dark green rosemary, and the violet,
That pluck'd like him wither'd in its first bloom.
Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief
Pour'd copiously, and Conrade also wept:
Joan only shed no tears; from her fix'd eye
Intelligence was absent; and she seem'd,
Though listening to the dirge of death, to hear
And comprehend it not, till in the grave, —
In his last home, — now Theodore was laid,
And earth to earth upon the coffin thrown;
Then the Maid started at that mortal sound,
Page:Completepoetical1848sout.djvu/58
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
This page needs to be proofread.
50
JOAN OF ARC
BOOK IX.
