The famish'd pack come round; the affrighted mule
Snorts loud with terror, on his shuddering limbs
The big sweat starts, convulsive pant his sides,
Then on he gallops, wild in desperate speed.
Him dealing death an English knight beheld,
And spurr'd his steed to crush him: Conrade leap'd
Lightly aside, and through the warrior's greaves
Fix'd a deep wound: nor longer could the foe,
Disabled thus, command his mettled horse,
Or his rude plunge endure; headlong he fell,
And perish'd. In his castle hall was hung
On high his father's shield, with many a dint
Graced on the glorious field of Agincourt.
His deeds the son had heard; and when a boy,
Listening delighted to the old man's tale,
His little hand would lift the weighty spear
In warlike pastime: he had left behind
An infant offspring, and had fondly deem'd
He too in age the exploits of his youth
Should tell, and in the stripling's bosom rouse
The fire of glory.
Conrade the next foe
Smote where the heaving membrane separates
The chambers of the trunk. The dying man,
In his lord's castle dwelt, for many a year,
A well-beloved servant: he could sing
Carols for Shrove-tide, or for Candlemas,
Songs for the wassail, and when the boar's head,
Crown'd with gay garlands and with rosemary,
Smoked on the Christmas board:[1] he went to war
Following the lord he loved, and saw him fall
Beneath the arm of Conrade, and expired,
Slain on his master's body.
Nor the fight
Was doubtful long. Fierce on the invading host
Press the French troops impetuous, as of old,
When pouring o'er his legion slaves on Greece,
The eastern despot bridged the Hellespont,
The rushing sea against the mighty pile
Roll'd its full weight of waters; far away
The fearful Satrap mark'd on Asia's coasts
The floating fragments, and with ominous fear
Trembled for the great king.
Still Talbot strove,
His foot firm planted, his uplifted shield
Fencing that breast which never yet had known
The throb of fear. But when the warrior's eye,
Glancing around the fight, beheld the French
Pressing to conquest, and his heartless troops
Striking with feebler force in backward step.
Then o'er his cheek he felt the indignant flush
Of shame, and loud he lifted up his voice,
And cried, "Fly, cravens! leave your aged chief
Here in the front to perish! his old limbs
Are not like yours, so supple in the flight.[2]
Go tell your countrymen how ye escaped
When Talbot fell!"
In vain the warrior spake;
In the uproar of the fight his voice was lost;
And they, the nearest, who had heard, beheld
The Prophetess approach, and every thought
Was overwhelm'd in terror. But the son
Of Talbot mark'd her thus across the plain
Careering fierce in conquest, and the hope
Of glory rose within him. Her to meet
He spurr'd his horse, by one decisive deed
Or to retrieve the battle, or to fall
With honor. Each beneath the other's blow
Bow'd down; their lances shiver'd with the shock:
To earth their coursers fell: at once they rose,
He from the saddle-bow his falchion caught[3]
Rushing to closer combat, and she bared
The lightning of her sword.[4] In vain the youth
Essay 'd to pierce those arms which even the power
Of time was weak to injure: she the while
Througii many a wound beheld her foeman's blood
Ooze fast. "Yet save thyself!" the Maiden cried.
"Me thou canst not destroy: be timely wise,
And live!" He answer'd not, but lifting high
His weapon, smote with fierce and forceful arm
Full on the Virgin's helm: fire from her eyes
Flash'd with the stroke: one step she back recoil'd,
Then in his breast plunged deep the sword of death.
Talbot beheld his fall; on the next foe,
With rage and anguish wild, the warrior turn'd:
His ill-directed weapon to the earth
Drove down the unwounded Frank: he strikes again,
And through his all-in-vain imploring hands
Cleaves the poor suppliant. On that dreadful day
The sword of Talbot,[5] clogg'd with hostile gore,
Made good its vaunt. Amid the heaps his arm
Had slain, the chieftain stood and sway'd around
His furious strokes: nor ceased he from the fight,
Though now, discomfited, the English troops
Fled fast, all panic-struck and spiritless,
And mingling with the routed, Fastolffe fled,
Fastolffe, all fierce and haughty as he was,[6]
False to his former fame; for he beheld
The Maiden rushing onward, and such fear
Ran through his frame, as thrills the African,
When, grateful solace in the sultry hour,
He rises on the buoyant billow's breast,
And then beholds the inevitable shark
Close on him, open-mouth'd.
But Talbot now
A moment paused, for bending thitherward
He mark'd a warrior, such as well might ask
His utmost force. Of strong and stately port
The onward foeman moved, and bore on high
A battle-axe,[7] in many a field of blood
Known by the English chieftain. Over heaps
Of slaughter'd, he made way, and bade the troops
Retire from the bold Earl: then Conrade spake.
"Vain is thy valor, Talbot! look around.
See where thy squadrons fly! but thou shalt lose
No honor, by their cowardice subdued,
Performing well thyself the soldier's part."
"And let them fly!" the indignant Earl exclaim'd,
"And let them fly! and bear thou witness, chief
That guiltless of this day's disgrace, I fall.
But, Frenchman! Talbot will not tamely fall,
Nor unrevenged."
So saying, for the war
Page:Completepoetical1848sout.djvu/65
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BOOK X.
JOAN OF ARC
57
