Classic Poem

Scarce had the early dawn from Chinon's towers
Made visible the mist that curl'd along
The river's winding way, when from her couch
The martial Maid arose. She mail'd her limbs;
The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head,
She girt the sacred falchion by her side,
And, like a youth who from his mother's arms,
For his first field impatient, breaks away,
Poising the lance went forth.
Twelve hundred men,
Rearing in order'd ranks their glittering spears,
Await her coming. Terrible in arms
Before them tower'd Dunois, his manly face
O'ershadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks.
The assembled court gazed on the marshall'd train,
And at the gate the aged prelate stood
To pour his blessing on the chosen host.
And now a soft and solemn symphony
Was heard, and chanting high the hallow'd hymn,
From the near convent came the vestal maids.
A holy banner, woven by virgin hands,
Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment
Of awe and eager ardor for the fight,
Thrill'd through the army, as the reverend man
Took the white standard, and with heaven-ward eye
Call'd on the God of Justice, blessing it.
The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd,
Her dark hair floating on the morning gale,
Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand
Received the mystic banner. From the host
A loud and universal shout burst forth,
As rising from the ground, upon her brow
She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high
The banner'd lilies. On their way they march,
And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon
Fade from the eye reverted.
The sixth sun,
Purpling the sky with his dilated light,
Sunk westering; when embosom'd in the depth
Of that old forest, which for many a league
Shadow'd the hills and vales of Orleannois,
They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation
Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale
The streamers flutter; and ascending slow
Beneath the foliage of the forest trees,
With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke
Melts in the impurpled air. Leaving her tent,
The martial Maiden wander'd through the wood;
There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank
Reclined, she saw a damsel, her long locks
With willow wreathed; upon her lap there lay
A dark-hair'd man, listening the while she sung
Sad ditties, and enwreathed to bind his brow
The melancholy garland. At the sound
Of one in arms approaching, she had fled;
But Conrade, looking upward, recognized
The Maid of Arc. " Nay, fear not, Isabel, "
Said he, " for this is one of gentle kind,
Whom even the wretched need not fear to love. "

So saying, he arose and took her hand,
And press'd it to his bosom. " My weak heart,
Though school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind,
Will beat, rebellious to its own resolves.
Come hither, outcast one! and call her friend,
And she will be thy friend more readily
Because thou art unhappy. "
Isabel
Saw a tear starting in the virgin's eye,
And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept,
Wailing his wilder'd senses.
" Mission'd Maid! "
The warrior cried, " be happy! for thy power
Can make this sufferer so. From Orleans driven,
Orphan'd by war, and of her only friend
Bereft, I found her wandering in the wilds,
Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, Joan,
Wilt his beloved to the youth restore;
And trust me, Maid! the miserable feel
When they on others bestow happiness,
Their happiest consolation. "
She replied,
Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone
Of equal friendship, solacing her cares.
" Soon shall we enter Orleans, " said the Maid;
A few hours in her dream of victory
England shall triumph, then to be awaked
By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath!
Irksome meantime the busy camp to me
A solitary woman. Isabel,
Wert thou the while companion of my tent,
Lightlier the time would pass. Return with me
I may not long be absent. "
So she spake.
The wanderer in half-utter'd words express'd
Grateful assent. " Art thou astonish'd, then,
That one though powerful is benevolent?
In truth thou well mayst wonder! " Conrade cried.
" But little cause to love the mighty ones
Hath the low cottager; for with its shade
Too oft doth Power , a death-dew-dropping tree,
Blast every herb beneath its baleful boughs!
Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel! Relate
How warr'd the chieftains, and the people died.
The mission'd Virgin hath not heard thy woes;
And pleasant to mine ear the twice-told tale
Of sorrow. "
Gazing on the martial Maid
She read her wish, and spake. " A wanderer now,
Friendless and hopeless, still I love to think
Upon my native home, and call to mind
Each haunt of careless youth; the woodbined wall
The jessamine that round the straw-roof'd cot
Its fragrant branches wreathed, beneath whose shade
I wont to sit and watch the setting sun,
And hear the thrush's song. Nor far remote,
As o'er the subject landscape round I gazed,
The towers of Yenville rose upon the view.
A foreign master holds my father's home!
I, far away, remember the past years,
And weep.
" Two brethren form'd our family;
Humble we were, and happy; honest toil
Procured our homely sustenance; our herds
Duly at morn and evening to my hand
Gave their full stores; the vineyard we had rear'd
Purpled its clusters in the southern sun,
And, plenteous produce of my father's toil,
The yellow harvest billow'd o'er the plain.
How cheerfully around the blazing hearth,
When all the labor of the day was done,
We past the evening hours; for they would sing
Or merry roundelay, or ditty sad
Of maid forsaken and the willow weed,
Or of the doughty Paladins of France
Some warlike fit, the while my spinning-wheel
A fitting music made.
" Thus long we lived,
And happy. To a neighboring youth my hand,
In holy wedlock soon to be consign'd,
Was plighted: my poor Francis! " Here she paused,
And here she wept awhile.
" We did not think
The desolating stream of war would reach
To us; but soon as with the whirlwind's speed
Ruin rush'd round us. Mehun, Clery, fell,
The banner'd Leopard waved on Gergeau's wall;
Baugenci yielded; soon the foe approach'd
The towers of Yenville.
" Fatal was the hour
To me and mine: for from the wall, alas!
The rusty sword was taken, and the shield
Which long had moulder'd on the mouldering nail,
To meet the war repair'd. No more was heard
The ballad, or the merry roundelay;
The clattering hammer's clank, the grating file
Harsh sounded through the day a dismal din;
I never shall forget their mournful sound!

" My father stood encircling his old limbs
In long-forgotten arms. " Come, boys," he cried;
" I did not think that this gray head again
Should bear the helmet's weight; but in the field
Better to bravely die a soldier's death,
Than here be tamely butcher'd. Isabel,
Go to the abbey! if we should survive,
We soon shall meet again; if not, my child,
There is a better world!"
" In broken words,
Lifting his eyes to Heaven, my father breathed
His blessing on me. As they went away,
My brethren gazed on me, and wrung my hand
In silence, for they loved their sister well.
From the near cottage Francis join'd the troop.
Then did I look on our forsaken home,
And almost sob my very soul away;
For all my hopes of happiness were fled,
Even like a dream! "
" Perish these mighty ones, "
Cried Conrade, " these who let destruction loose,
Who walk elated o'er their fields of fame,
And count the thousands that lie slaughter'd there,
And with the bodies of the innocent, rear
Their pyramid of glory! perish these,
The epitome of all the pestilent plagues
That Egypt knew! who send their locust swarms
O'er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood.
Fear and Destruction go before their path,
And Famine dogs their footsteps. God of Justice,
Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain! "

Thus while he spake, the murmur of the camp
Rose on their ear; first like the distant sound
When the full-foliaged forest to the storm
Shakes its hoarse head; anon with louder din;
And through the opening glade gleam'd many a fire.
The Virgin's tent they enter'd; there the board
Was spread, the wanderer of the fare partook,
Then thus her tale renew'd: —
" Slow o'er the hill
Whose rising head conceal'd our cot I past,
Yet on my journey paused awhile, and gazed
And wept; for often had I cross'd the hill
With cheerful step, and seen the rising smoke
Of hospitable fire; alas! no smoke
Curl'd o'er its melancholy chimneys now!
Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood
The abbey; and ere long I learnt the fall
Of Yenville.
" On a day, a soldier ask'd
For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet
Support me. It was Francis, and alone —
The sole survivor of that company!

" And soon the foes approach'd: impending war
Soon sadden'd Orleans. There the bravest chiefs
Assembled: Thouars, Coarase, Chabannes,
And the Sire Chapelle, in successful war
Since wounded to the death; and that good Knight
Giresme of Rhodes, who in a better cause
Can never wield the crucifix that hilts
His hallowed sword; and Xaintrailles ransom'd now,
And Fayette late released, and that young Duke
Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound
Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest man
That ever yet did win his soldiers' love;
And over all for hardihood renown'd
The Bastard Orleans.
" These within the town
Expect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen men,
Well tried in war, uprear the guardian shield
Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight
Of preparation. The wide suburbs stretch'd
Along the pleasant borders of the Loire,
Late throng'd with multitudes, now feel the hand
Of ruin. These preventive care destroys,
Lest England, shelter'd by the friendly walls,
Securely should approach. The monasteries
Fell in the general waste. The holy monks
Unwillingly their long-accustom'd haunts
Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook
Call'd to awaken'd memory some trace
Of vision seen, or sound miraculous.
Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells,
For the rude uproar of a world unknown,
The nuns desert: their abbess, more composed,
Collects her maids around, and tells her beads,
And pours the timid prayer of piety.
The pioneers, by day and night employ'd,
Throw up the violated earth, to impede
The foe: the hollow chambers of the dead
Echo'd beneath their stroke. The brazen tomb
Which late recorded death, in the furnace cast
Is made to inflict it now. Sad sight it was
To see so wide a waste; the aged ones
Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went
O'er the fallen dwellings of their happier years;
The stern and sullen silence of the men
Musing on vengeance: and but ill represt,
The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd
Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay
One ample ruin; whence the stones were borne
Within the town to serve in its defence.

" And now without the walls the desolate space
Appear'd, a rough and melancholy waste,
With uptorn pavements and foundations deep
Of many a ruin'd dwelling. Nor within
Less dreary was the scene; at evening hour
No more the merry viol's note was heard;
No more the aged matron at her door
Humm'd cheery to her spinning-wheel, and saw
Her children dancing to the roundelay.
The chieftains strengthening still the ancient walls,
Survey them every where with prying eye;
The eager youth, in anxious preparation,
Practise the arts of war; silent and stern,
With the hurrying restlessness of fear, they urge
Their gloomy labors. In the city dwelt
An utter silence of all pleasant sounds;
But all day long the armorer's beat was heard,
And all night long it echoed.
" Soon the foe
Led to our walls the siege: as on they move
The clarions clangor, and the cheerful fife,
Accordant to the thundering drum's deep sound,
Direct their measured march. Before the ranks
Salisbury was seen, Salisbury, so long the scourge
Of France; and Talbot towered by his side,
Talbot, at whose dread name the froward child
Clings mute and trembling to his nurse's breast.
Suffolk was there, and Hungerford, and Scales,
And Fastolffe, victor in the frequent fight.
Dark as the autumnal storm they roll'd along,
A countless host! From the high tower I mark'd
The dreadful scene; I saw the iron gleam
Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun,
Their banners tossing to the troubled gale,
And — fearful music — heard upon the wind
The modulated step of multitudes.

" There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I saw
The dreadful stores of death; tremendous roll'd
Over rough roads the harsh wheels; the brazen tubes
Flash'd in the sun their fearful splendor far,
And, last, the loaded wagons creak'd along.

" Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care procured
Human defence, neglectful to implore
That heavenly aid, deprived of which the strength
Of man is weakness. Bearing through our streets
The precious relics of the holy dead,
The monks and nuns pour'd many an earnest prayer,
Devoutly join'd by all. Saint Aignan's shrine
Was throng'd by supplicants, the general voice
Call'd on Saint Aignan's name again to save
His people, as of yore, before he past
Into the fulness of eternal rest;
When by the Spirit to the lingering camp
Of Ætius borne, he brought the timely aid,
And Attila, with all his multitudes,
Far off retreated to their field of shame. "

And now Dunois — for he had seen the camp
Well-order'd — enter'd. " One night more in peace
England shall rest, " he cried, " ere yet the storm
Burst on her guilty head! then their proud vaunts
Forgotten, or remember'd to their shame,
Vainly her chiefs shall curse the hour when first
They pitch'd their tents round Orleans. "
" Of that siege, "
The Maid of Arc replied, " gladly I hear
The detail. Isabel, proceed! for soon
Destined to rescue this devoted town,
The tale of all the ills she hath endured
I listen, sorrowing for the past, and feel
Joy and contentment in the merciful task
For which I am sent forth. "
Thus spake the maid,
And Isabel pursued. " And now more near
The hostile host advancing pitch their tents.
Unnumber'd streamers wave, and clamorous shouts,
Anticipating conquest, rend the air
With universal uproar. From their camp
A herald came; his garb emblazon'd o'er
With leopards and the lilies of our realm —
Foul shame to France! The summons of the foe,
He brought. "
The Bastard interrupting cried,
" I was with Gaucour and the assembled chiefs,
When by his office privileged and proud
That herald spake, as certain of success
As he had made a league with Victory.
" Nobles of France rebellious! from the chief
Of yon victorious host, the mighty Earl
Of Salisbury, now there in place of him
Your Regent John of Bedford: in his name
I come, and in our sovereign Lord the King's,
Henry. Ye know full well our master's claim,
Incontrovertible to this good realm,
By right descent, and solemnly confirm'd
By your great monarch and our mighty king
Fifth Henry, in the treaty ratified
At Troyes, wherein your monarch did disclaim
All future right and title to this crown,
His own exempted, for his son and heirs
Down to the end of time. This sign'd and seal'd
At the holy altar, and by nuptial knot
Of Henry and your princess, gives the realm,
Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son
Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose
My master's title, in the face of God,
Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime,
Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion 'gainst
The Lord's anointed. He, at Paris crown'd
With loud acclaim of duteous multitudes,
Thus speaks by me. Deliver up your town
To Salisbury, and yield yourselves and arms,
So shall your lives be safe: and such his grace,
If of your free accord to him you pay
Due homage as your sovereign Lord and King,
Your rich estates, your houses shall be safe,
And you in favor stand, as is the Duke,
Philip of Burgundy. But — mark me well!
If, obstinately wilful, you persist
To scorn his proffer'd mercy, not one stone
Upon another of this wretched town
Shall then be left; and when the English host
Triumphant in the dust have trod the towers
Of Orleans, who survive the dreadful war
Shall die like traitors by the hangman's hand.
Ye men of France, remember Caen and Roan!"

" He ceased: nor Gaucour for a moment paused
To form reply.
" " Herald! to all thy vaunts
Of English sovereignty let this suffice
For answer: France will only own as King
Her own legitimate Lord. On Charles's brow,
Transmitted through a long and good descent,
The crown remains. We know no homage due
To English robbers, and disclaim the peace
Inglorious made at Troyes by factious men
Hostile to France. Thy master's proffer'd grace
Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, yes,
Be sure we shall remember Caen and Roan
Go tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury,
That as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power,
Like Blanchard, he can brave his cruelty,
And triumph by enduring. Speak I well,
Ye men of Orleans?"
" Never did I hear
A shout so universal as ensued
Of approbation. The assembled host
As with one voice pour'd forth their loyalty,
And struck their sounding shields; and walls and towers
Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went.
The work of war began. "
" A fearful scene, "
Cried Isabel. " The iron storm of death
Clash'd in the sky; the mighty engines hurl'd
Huge stones, which shook the ground where'er they fell.
Then was there heard at once the clang of arms,
The thundering cannons, and the soldier's shout,
The female's shriek, the affrighted infant's cry,
The groan of death, — discord of dreadful sounds
That jarr'd the soul.
" Nor while the encircling foe
Leaguer'd the walls of Orleans, idly slept
Our friends: for winning down the Loire its way
The frequent vessel with provision fraught,
And men, and all the artillery of death,
Cheer'd us with welcome succor. At the bridge
These safely landed mock'd the foeman's force."
This to prevent, Salisbury, their watchful chief,
A mighty work prepares. Around our walls,
Encircling walls he builds, surrounding thus
The city. Firm'd with massiest buttresses,
At equal distance, sixty forts protect
The English lines. But chief where in the town
The six great avenues meet in the midst,
Six castles there he rear'd impregnable,
With deep-dug moats and bridges drawn aloft,
Where over the strong gate suspended hung
The dread portcullis. Thence the gunner's eye
From his safe shelter could with ease survey
Intended sally, or approaching aid,
And point destruction.
" It were long to tell,
And tedious, how in many a bold assault
The men of Orleans sallied on their foes;
How after difficult fight the enemy
Possess'd the Tournelles, and the embattled tower
That shadows from the bridge the subject Loire;
Though numbering now three thousand daring men,
Frequent and fierce the garrison repell'd
Their far outnumbering foes. From every aid
Included, they in Orleans groan'd beneath
All ills accumulate. The shatter'd roofs
Allow'd the dews of night free passage there;
And ever and anon the ponderous stone,
Ruining where'er it fell, with hideous crash
Came like an earthquake, startling from his sleep
The affrighted soldier. From the brazen slings
The wild-fire balls hiss'd through the midnight sky;
And often their huge engines cast among us
The dead and loathsome cattle of their camp,
As though our enemies, to their deadly league
Forcing the common air, would make us breathe
Poisonous pollution. Through the streets were seen
The frequent fire, and heaps of dead, in haste
Piled up and streaming to infected Heaven.
For ever the incessant storm of death
Pours down, and crowded in unwholesome vaults
The wretched females hide, not idle there,
Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ'd,
Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal,
Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds:
A sad equality of wretchedness!

" Now came the worst of ills, for Famine came:
The provident hand deals out its scanty dole,
Yielding so little a supply to life
As but protracted death. The loathliest food
Hunted with eager eye and dainty deem'd,
The dog is slain, that at his master's feet
Howling with hunger lay; with jealous fear,
Hating a rival's look, the husband hides
His miserable meal; the famish'd babe
Clings closely to his dying mother's breast;
And — horrible to tell! — where, thrown aside,
There lay unburied in the open streets
Huge heaps of carcasses, the soldier stands
Eager to mark the carrion crow for food.

" O peaceful scenes of childhood! pleasant fields!
Haunts of mine infancy, where I have stray'd
Tracing the brook along its winding way,
Or pluck'd the primrose, or with giddy speed
Chased the gay butterfly from flower to flower!
O days in vain remember'd! how my soul,
Sick with calamity, and the sore ills
Of hunger, dwelt on you and on my home!
Thinking of you amid the waste of war,
I could in bitterness have cursed the great
Who made me what I was, a helpless one,
Orphan'd, and wanting bread! "
" And be they curst! "
Conrade exclaim'd, his dark eye flashing rage;
" And be they curst! O groves and woodland shades,
How blest indeed were you, if the iron rod
Should one day from Oppression's hand be wrench'd
By everlasting Justice! Come that hour,
When in the Sun the Angel of the Lord
Shall stand and cry to all the fowls of Heaven,
" Gather ye to the supper of your God,
That ye may eat the flesh of mighty men,
Of captains, and of kings!" Then shall be peace. "

" And now lest all should perish, " she pursued
The women and the infirm must from the town
Go forth and seek their fate.
" I will not now
Recall the moment, when on my poor Francis
With a long look I hung. At dead of night,
Made mute by fear, we mount the secret bark,
And glide adown the stream with silent oars:
Thus thrown upon the mercy of mankind,
I wandered reckless where, till wearied out,
And cold at heart, I laid me down to die;
So by this warrior found. Him I had known
And loved, for all loved Conrade who had known him;
Nor did I feel so pressing the hard hand
Of want in Orleans, ere he parted thence
On perilous envoy. For of his small fare — "

" Of this enough, " said Conrade. " Holy Maid!
One duty yet awaits me to perform.
Orleans her envoy sent me, to demand
Aid from her idle sovereign. Willingly
Did I achieve the hazardous enterprise,
For rumor had already made me fear
The ill that hath fallen on me. It remains,
Ere I do banish me from human kind,
That I reinter Orleans, and announce
Thy march. 'Tis night, and hark! how dead a silence!
Fit hour to tread so perilous a path! "

So saying, Conrade from the tent went forth.