Classic Poem

Now was the noon of night, and all was still,
Save where the sentinel paced on his rounds
Humming a broken song. Along the camp
High flames the frequent fire. The Frenchmen there,
On the bare earth extended, rest their limbs
Fatigued; their spears lay by them, and the shield
Pillow'd the helmed head: secure they slept,
And busy in their dreams they fought again
The fight of yesterday.
But not to Joan,
But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid,
Soother of sorrows, Sleep! no more her pulse,
Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast,
Allow'd no pause for thought. With clasp'd hands now
And with fix'd eyes she sat, and in her mind
The spectres of the days departed rose,
A melancholy train! Upon the gale
The raven's croak was heard; she started then,
And passing through the camp with hasty step,
She sought the field of blood.
The night was calm;
Nor ever clearer welkin canopied
Chaldea, while the watchful shepherd's eye
Survey'd the host of heaven, and mark'd them rise
Successive, and successively decay,
Lost in the stream of light, as lesser springs
Amid Euphrates' current. The high wall
Cast a deep shadow, and the Maiden's feet
Stumbled o'er carcasses and broken arms;
And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan
Of one yet struggling in the pangs of death.
She reach'd the spot where Theodore was slain
Before Fort London's gate; but vainly there
Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold face
Gazing with such a look as though she fear'd
The thing she sought. And much she marvell'd then,
For there the victim of his vengeful arm,
And close beside where he himself had fallen,
Known by the buckler's blazon'd heraldry,
Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stood
Looking around the plain, she mark'd a man
Pass slowly on, as burden'd. Him to aid
She sped, and soon with unencumber'd speed
O'ertaking, thus bespake him: " Dost thou bear
Some slaughter'd friend? or is it one whose wounds
Leave yet a hope of life? oh! if he lives,
I will with earnest prayer petition Heaven
To shed its healing on him! "
So she said,
And as she spake stretch'd forth her careful hands
To ease the burden. " Warrior! " he replied,
" Thanks for thy proffer'd aid: but he hath ceased
To suffer, and my strength may well suffice
To bear him hence for burial. Fare thee well!
The night is far advanced; thou to the camp
Return: it fits not darkling thus to stray. "

" Conrade! " the Maid exclaim'd, for well knew
His voice: — With that she fell upon his neck
And cried, " My Theodore! — But wherefore why
Through the dead midnight dost thou corse? "

" Peace, Maiden! " Conrade cried, " collect the soul!
He is but gone before thee to that world
Whither thou soon must follow! Yestermorn,
Ere yet from Orleans to the war we went,
He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear.
" Lo, Conrade, where she moves! beloved Maid
Devoted for the realm of France she goes,
Abandoning for this the joys of life,
Yea — life itself! Yet on my heart her words
Vibrate. If she must perish in the war,
I will not live to bear the thought that I
Perhaps might have preserved her. I will go
In secret to protect her. If I fall, —
And trust me I have little love of life, —
Do thou in secret bear me from the field,
Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye
A mangled corpse. She must not know my fate
Do this last act of friendship, and in the stream
Cast me, — she then may think of Theodore
Without a pang." Maiden, I vow'd with him
To take our place in battle by thy side,
And make thy safety our peculiar care.
And now I hoped thou hadst not seen him fall.

Saying thus, he laid the body on the ground.
With steady eye the wretched Maiden view'd
That life-left tenement: his batter'd arms
Were with the night-dews damp; his brown hat clung
Gore-clotted in the wound, and one loose lock
Play'd o'er his cheek's black paleness. " Gallant youth! "
She cried, " I would to God the hour were come
When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss!
No, Theodore! the sport of winds and waves,
Thy body shall not float adown the stream!
Bear him with me to Orleans, there to rest
In holy ground, where priests may say their prayer
And hymn the requiem to his parted soul.
So will not Elinor in bitterness
Lament that no dear friend to her dead child
Paid the last office. "
From the earth they lift
Their mournful burden, and along the plain
Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate.
The obedient sentinel, knowing Conrade's voice,
Admits them at that hour, and on they go,
Till in the neighboring abbey's porch arrived
They rest the lifeless load.
Loud rings the bell
The awaken'd porter turns the heavy door.
To him the Virgin: " Father, from the slain
On yonder field, a dear-loved friend we bring
Hither for Christian sepulture chant ye
The requiem to his soul: to-morrow eve
I will return, and in the narrow house
Will see him laid to rest. " The father knew
The Prophetess, and humbly bow'd assent.

Now from the city, o'er the shadowy plain,
Backward they bend their way. From silent thoughts
The Maid awakening cried, " There was a time,
When thinking on my closing hour of life,
Though with a mind resolved, some natural fears
Shook my weak frame; but now the happy hour,
When this emancipated soul shall burst
The cumbrous fetters of mortality,
I look for wishfully. Conrade! my friend,
This wounded heart would feel another pang
Shouldst thou forsake me. "
" Joan! " the chief replied,
" Along the weary pilgrimage of life
Together will we journey, and beguile
The painful way with hope, — such hope as, fix'd
On heavenly things, brings with it no deceit,
Lays up no food for sorrow, and endures
From disappointment safe. "
Thus communing
They reach'd the camp, yet hush'd; there separating,
Each in the post allotted restless waits
The day-break.
Morning came: dim through the shade
The twilight glimmers; soon the brightening clouds
Imbibe the rays, and o'er the landscape spread
The dewy light. The soldiers from the earth
Arise invigorate, and each his food
Receives, impatient to renew the war.
Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points —
" Soldiers of France! behold, your foes are there! "
As when a band of hunters, round the den
Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate
In hope of conquest and the future feast,
When on the hospitable board their spoil
Shall smoke, and they, as foaming bowls go round,
Tell to their guests their exploits in the chase,
They with their shouts of exultation make
The forest ring; so elevate of heart,
With such loud clamors for the fierce assault
The French prepare. Nor, keeping now the lists
Dare the disheartened English man to man
Meet the close conflict. From the barbican,
Or from the embattled wall at random they
Their arrows and their death-fraught enginery
Discharged; meantime the Frenchmen did not cease
With well-directed shafts their loftier foes
To assail: behind the guardian pavais fenced,
They at the battlements their arrows aim'd,
Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the bayle,
The bayle now levell'd by victorious France,
The assailants pass'd with all their mangonels;
Or tortoises, beneath whose roofing safe,
They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers
Make fit foundation; or with petraries,
War-wolves, and beugles, and that murderous sling
The matafund, from whence the ponderous stone
Made but one wound of him whom in its way
It met; no pious hand might then compose
The crush'd and mangled corpse to be conveyed
To where his fathers slept: a dreadful train
Prepared by Salisbury o'er the town besieged
For hurling ruin; but that dreadful train
Must hurl its ruin on the invader's head;
Such retribution righteous Heaven decreed.

Nor lie the English trembling, for the fort
Was ably garrison'd. Glacidas, the chief,
A gallant man, sped on from place to place
Cheering the brave; or if an archer's hand,
Palsied with fear, shot wide his ill-aim'd shaft,
Driving him from the ramparts with reproach
And shame. He bore an arbalist himself,
A weapon for its sure destructiveness
Abominated once; wherefore of yore
The assembled fathers of the Christian church
Pronounced the man accursed whose impious hand
Should use the murderous engine. Such decrees
Befitted them, as ministers of peace,
To promulgate, and with a warning voice,
To cry aloud and spare not, " Woe to them
Whose hands are full of blood!"
An English king,
The lion-hearted Richard, their decree
First broke, and rightly was he doom'd to fall
By that forbidden weapon; since that day
Frequent in fields of battle, and from far
To many a good knight bearing his death wound
From hands unknown. With such an instrument
Arm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye
Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance
Darts not the hawk when from the feather'd tribe
He marks his prey.
A Frenchman for his aim
He chose, who kneeling by the trebuchet,
Charged its long sling with death. Him Glacidas,
Secure behind the battlements, beheld,
And strung his bow; then bending on one knee,
He in the groove the feather'd quarrel placed,
And levelling with sure eye, his victim mark'd.
The bow-string twang'd, swift on its way the dart
Whizz'd, and it struck, there where the helmet's clasps
Defend the neck; a weak protection now,
For through the tube which draws the breath of life
Pierced the keen shaft; blood down the unwonted way
Gush'd to the lungs, prone fell the dying man
Grasping, convulsed, the earth; a hollow groan
In his throat struggled, and the dews of death
Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth
He had pass'd peaceful, and had known what joys
Domestic love bestows, the father once
Of two fair children; in the city hemm'd
During the siege, he had beheld their cheeks
Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries
For bread. His wife, a broken-hearted one,
Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babes
With hunger pined, and follow'd; he survived
A miserable man, and heard the shouts
Of joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd,
As o'er the corpse of his last little one
He heap'd the unhallowed earth. To him the foe
Perform'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; 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,
Or petrary, or in the espringal
Fix the brass-winged arrows: 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,
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
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.
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 engine there,
And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart
Shot burning through the sky. In vain it flame
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 no 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. 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 dim
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 me
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 us
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
Ceaseless the bow-strings twang: the knights below,
Each by his pavais bulwarked, thither aimed
Their darts, and not a dart fell woundless there;
So thickly thronged they stood, and fell as fast
As when the monarch of the East goes forth
From Gemna's banks and the proud palaces
Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood
Die in the blameless warfare: closed within
The still-contracting circle, their brute force
Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there,
Or by each other's fury lacerate,
The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance
Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain,
Rajah or Omrah, in the war of beasts
Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood.

Shouts of alarm ring now along the wall,
For now the French their scaling-ladders place,
And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault
Mount fearless: from above the furious troops
Fling down such weapons as inventive care
Or frantic rage supplies: huge stones and beams
Crush the assailants; some, thrust from the height,
Fall living to their death; tormented, some,
And writhing wildly as the liquid lead
Consumes their flesh, leap desperately down,
To end their pain by death. Still others mount,
And by their fellows' fate unterrified,
Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerless
To the English was the fight, though where they stood
The vantage-place was theirs; for them amidst
Fast fled the arrows there; and brass-wing'd darts,
There driven resistless from the espringal,
Keeping their impulse even in the wound,
Whirl as they pierce the victim. Some fall crush'd
Beneath the ponderous fragment that descends
The heavier from its height: some the long lance,
Whizzing impetuous on its viewless way,
Transfix'd. The cannon ever and anon
With thunder rent the air; conflicting shouts
And war-cries French and English rung around,
And Saints and Devils were invoked in prayers
And execrations, Heaven and Hell adjured.

Conrade, meantime, who stood upon the bridge,
With many a well-aim'd javelin dealing death,
Made way upon the rampart, and advanced
With wary valor o'er his slaughter'd foes.
Two youths, the boldest of the English host,
Essay'd to thrust him from that perilous height;
At once they press'd upon him: he, his axe
Dropping, the dagger drew: one through the throat
He pierced, and swinging his broad buckler round,
Struck down his comrade. Even thus unmoved,
Stood Corineus, the sire of Guendolen,
When, grappling with his monstrous enemy,
He the brute vastness held aloft, and bore,
And headlong hurl'd, all shatter'd to the sea,
Down from the rock's high summit, since that day
Him, hugest of the giants, chronicling,
Called Langoemagog.
Behold, the Maid
Bounds o'er the bridge, and to the wind displays
Her hallowed banner. At that welcome sight
A general shout of acclamation rose,
And loud, as when the trumpest-tossing forest
Roars to the roaring wind. Then terror seized
The garrison; and fired anew with hope,
The fierce assailants to their prize rush on
Resistless. Vainly do their English foes
Hurl there their beams, and stones, and javelins,
And firebrands: fearless in the escalade,
The assailants mount, and now upon the wall
Wage equal battle.
Burning at the sight
With indignation, Glacidas beheld
His troops fly scatter'd; fast on every side
The foe up-rushing eager to their spoil;
The holy standard waving; and the Maid
Fierce in pursuit. " Speed but this arrow, Heaven! "
The chief exclaim'd, " and I shall fall content. "
So saying, he his sharpest quarrel chose,
And fix'd the bow-string, and against the Maid
Levelling, let loose: her arm was raised on high
To smite a fugitive; he glanced aside,
Shunning her deadly stroke, and thus received
The chieftain's arrow: through his ribs it pass'd,
And cleft that vessel whence the purer blood
Through many a branching channel o'er the frame
Meanders.
" Fool! " the exasperate knight exclaim'd,
" Would she had slain thee! thou hast lived too long. "
Again he aim'd his arbalist: the string
Struck forceful: swift the erring arrow sped
Guiltless of blood, for lightly o'er the court
Bounded the warrior Virgin. Glacidas
Levell'd his bow again; the fated shaft
Fled true, and difficulty through the mail
Pierced to her neck, and tinged its point with blood
" She bleeds! she bleeds! " exulting cried the chief;
" The sorceress bleeds! nor all her hellish arts
Can charm my arrows from their destin'd course. "
Ill-fated man! in vain with eager hand
Placing thy feather'd quarrel in its groove,
Dream'st thou of Joan subdued! She from her neck
Plucking the shaft unterrified, exclaim'd,
" This is a favor! Frenchmen, let us on!
Escape they cannot from the hand of God

But Conrade, rolling round his angry eyes,
Beheld the English chieftain as he arm'd
Again the bow: with rapid step he strode;
And Glacidas, perceiving his approach,
At him the quarrel turn'd, which vainly sent,
Fell blunted from his buckler. Conrade came
And lifting high the deadly battle-axe,
Through pouldron and through shoulder deeply driven
Buried it in his bosom: prone he fell;
The cold air rush'd upon his heaving heart.
One whose low lineage gave no second name
Was Glacidas, a gallant man; and still
His memory in the records of the foe
Survives.
And now, dishearten'd at his fall,
The vanquish'd English fly towards the gate,
Seeking the inner court, as yet in hope
To abide a second siege, and with their friends
Find present refuge there. Mistaken men!
The vanquish'd have no friends! defeated thus,
Press'd by pursuit, in vain with eager voice
They call their comrades in the suppliant tones
Of pity now, now with the bitter curse
Of fruitless anger; they indeed within
Fast from the ramparts cast upon the French
Beams, stones, and javelins, — but the gate is barr'd,
The huge portcullis down!
Then terror seized
Their hopeless hearts: some, furious in despair,
Turn on their foes; fear-palsied some await
The coming death; some drop the useless sword,
And cry for mercy.
Then the Maid of Arc
Took pity on the vanquish'd; and she call'd
Aloud, and cried unto the host of France,
And bade them cease from slaughter. They obey'd
The delegated Damsel. Some there were
Apart who communed murmuring, and of those
Graville address'd her. " Prophetess! our troops
Are few in number; and to well secure
These many prisoners such a force demands,
As should we spare might shortly make us need
The mercy we bestow; not mercy then,
Rather to these our soldiers, cruelty.
Justice to them, to France, and to our king,
And that regard wise nature hath in each
Implanted of self-safety, all demand
Their deaths. "
" Foul fall such evil policy! "
The indignant Maid exclaim'd. " I tell thee, chief,
God is with us! but God shall hide his face
From them, short-sighted they, as hard of heart,
Who, disregarding all that mitigates,
All that ennobles dreadful war, shed blood
Like water; who, in the deceitful scales
Of worldly wisdom, dare to counterpoise
The right with the expedient, and resolve
Without compunction, as the beam inclines
Held in a faltering or a faithless hand.
These men shall live to see their homes again,
Some to be welcomed there with tears of joy
By those who to the latest hour of life
Will in their grateful prayers remember us.
And when that hour shall come to us, that comes
To all, how gladly should we then exchange
Renown, however splendid, for the thought
That we have saved one victim from the sword, —
If only one, — who begs for us from Heaven
That mercy which to others we have shown! "

Turning to Conrade, then she said, " Do thou
Appoint an escort for the prisoners.
Thou need'st not be reminded they are men,
Rather by fortune, or by fate, than choice,
Brought hither from their homes to work our bale,
And for their own not less; but yielded thus
Whom we must neither treat as enemies
Nor trust as friends, but in safe-keeping hold,
Both for their own security and ours. "

She said: when Conrade cast his eyes around
And saw from man to man where Francis ran
Bidding them spare the vanquish'd; him he had
" The Maid hath bade me choose a leader forth
To guard the prisoners; thou shalt be the man
For thou wilt guard them with due diligence,
Yet not forgetful of humanity. "

Meantime the garrison of that stronghold,
Who, lest the French should enter, had expose
Their comrades to the sword, sustain'd the siege
In desperate valor. Fast against the walls
The battering-ram was driven; the mangonels
Plied at the ramparts fast; the catapults
Drove there their dreadful darts; the war-wolve there
Hurl'd their huge stones; and, through the kind sky,
The engines shower'd their sheets of liquid fine

" Feel ye not, comrades, how the ramp shake? "
Exclaim'd a daring Englishman. " Our foes,
In woman-like compassion, have dismiss'd
A powerful escort, weakening thus themselves
And giving us fair hope, in equal field,
Of better fortune. Sorely here annoy'd,
And slaughter'd by their engines from afar,
We perish. Vainly may the soldier boast
Undaunted courage and the arm of strength,
If thus pent up, like some wild beast he falls,
Mark'd for the hunter's arrows. Let us out
And meet them in the battle, man to man,
Either to conquer, or at least to die
A soldier's death. "
" Nay, nay — not so, " reply
One of less hopeful courage. " Though they point
Their engines here, our archers not in vain
Discharge their quarrels. Let the walls and won
Still be defended; it will then be time
To meet them in the battle man to man,
When these shall fail us. "
Scarcely had he said
When a huge stone, thrown from some petrary
Smote him upon the breast, and with dismay
Fill'd all around; for as it shattered him,
His blood besprinkled them, and they beheld
His mangled lungs lie quivering.
" Such the far
Of those who trust them to their walls' defence
Again exclaim'd the soldier: " Thus they fall,
Betray'd by their own fears. Courage alone
Can save us. "
Nor to draw them from the fort
Now needed eloquence; with one accord
They bade him lead the onset. Forth they rush
Impetuous. With such fury o'er the plain,
Swollen by the autumnal tempest, Vega rolls
His rapid waters, when the gathered storm,
On the black heights of Hatteril bursting, swell
The tide of desolation.
Then the Maid
Spake to the Son of Orleans, " Let our troops
Fall back, so shall the English in pursuit
Leave this strong fortress, thus an easy prey. "
Time was not for long counsel. From the court,
Obedient to Dunois, the French retire
As if at the irruption of their foes
Dishearten'd; they, with shouts and loud uproar,
Haste to their fancied conquest: Joan, the while
Placing a small but gallant garrison,
Bade them secure the gates; then sallying forth,
With such fierce onset charged them in the rear,
That terror smote the English, and they wish'd
Again that they might hide them in their walls
Rashly abandoned, for now wheeling round
Dunois attack'd their flank. All captainless,
Ill-marshall'd, ill-directed, in vain rage
They waste their furious efforts, falling fast
Before the Maid's good falchion and the arm
Of Conrade: loud was heard the mingled sound
Of arms and men; the soil, that, trampled late
By multitudes, sent up its stifling clouds
Of dust, was miry now with human blood.

On the fort's summit Talbot mark'd the fight,
And calling for his arms impatiently,
Eager to issue forth, was scarce withheld;
For now, dishearten'd and discomfited,
The troops took flight.
Upon the bridge there stood
A strong-built tower, commanding o'er the Loire.
The traveller sometimes linger'd on his way,
Marking the playful tenants of the stream,
Seen in its shadow, stem the sea-ward tide;
This had the invaders won in hard assault,
Before the delegate of Heaven came forth
And made them fear who never fear'd till then.
Thither the English troops with hasty steps
Retired, not utterly defeated yet,
But mindful of defence: the garrison
Them thus retreating saw, and open threw
Their guarded gates, and on the Gallic host,
Covering their vanquish'd fellows, pour'd their shafts.
Check'd in pursuit they stop. Then Graville cried,
" Ill, Maiden, hast thou done! those valiant troops
Thy womanish pity has dismiss'd, with us
Conjoin'd, might press upon the vanquish'd foe,
Though aided thus, and plant the lilied flag
Victorious on yon tower. "
" Dark-minded man! "
The Maid of Orleans answer'd; " to act well
Brings with itself an ample recompense.
I have not rear'd the Oriflamme of death —
Now God forbid! The banner of the Lord
Is this, and come what will, me it behoves,
Mindful of Him whose minister I am,
To spare the fallen foe: that gracious God
Sends me a messenger of mercy forth,
Sends me to save this ravaged realm of France,
To England friendly as to all the world,
Only to those an enemy, whose lust
Of sway makes them the enemies of man. "

She said, and suddenly threw off her helm;
Her bosom heaved, — her cheek grew red, — her eyes
Beam'd with a wilder lustre. " Thou dost deem
That I have illy spared so large a band,
Disabling from pursuit our weaken'd troops; —
God is with us! " she cried — " God is with us!
Our Champion manifest! "
Even as she spake,
The tower, the bridge, and all its multitudes,
Sunk with a mighty crash.
Astonishment
Seized on the French; an universal cry
Of terror burst from them. Crush'd in the fall.
Or by their armor hopelessly weigh'd down,
Or while they plied their unencumber'd arms,
Caught by some sinking wretch, who grasp'd them fast,
Shrieking they sunk, while frequent fragments huge
Fell in the foaming current. From the fort
Talbot beheld and gnash'd his teeth, and cursed
The more than mortal Virgin; whilst the towers
Of Orleans echoed to the loud uproar,
And all who heard trembled, and cross'd their breasts,
And as they hasten'd to the city walls,
Told fearfully their beads.
'T was now the hour
When o'er the plain the fading rays of eve
Their sober light effuse; when the lowing herd,
Slow as they move to shelter, draw behind
Their lengthening shadows; and toward his nest,
As heavily he flaps the dewy air,
The hoarse rook breathes his melancholy note.
" Now then, Dunois, for Orleans! " cried the Maid
" And give we to the flames these monuments
Of sorrow and disgrace. The ascending flames
Will to the dwellers of yon rescued town
Rise with a joyful splendor, while the foe
Behold and tremble. "
As she spake, they ran
To burn the forts; they shower their wild fire there,
And high amid the gloom the ascending flames
Blaze up; then joyful of their finish'd toil
The host retire. Hush'd is the field of fight
As the calm'd ocean, when its gentle waves
Heave slow and silent, wafting tranquilly
The shatter'd fragments of some midnight wreck