Classic Poem

The feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went round,
And in the assembled court the minstrel harp'd
A song of other days. Sudden they heard
The horn's loud blast. " This is no time for cares;
Feast ye the messenger without! " cried Charles,
" Enough hath of the wearying day been given
To the public weal. "
Obedient to the King
The guard invites the way-worn messenger.
" Nay, I will see the monarch, " he replied,
" And he must hear my tidings; duty-urged,
I have for many a long league hasten'd on,
Not thus to be repell'd. " Then with strong arm
Removing him who barr'd his onward way,
The hall he enter'd.
" King of France! I come
From Orleans, speedy and effectual aid
Demanding for her gallant garrison,
Faithful to thee, though thinn'd in many a fight,
And now sore pressed by want. Rouse thou thyself,
And with the spirit that becomes a King
Responsive to his people's loyalty,
Bring succor to the brave who in thy cause
Abide the extremity of war. "
He said,
And from the hall departing, in amaze
At his audacious bearing left the court.
The King exclaim'd, " But little need to send
Quick succor to this gallant garrison,
If to the English half so firm a front
They bear in battle! "
" In the field, my liege, "
Dunois replied, " yon Knight hath serv'd thee well.
Him have I seen the foremost of the fight,
Wielding so manfully his battle-axe,
That wheresoe'er he turn'd, the affrighted foe
Let fall their palsied arms with powerless stroke,
Desperate of safety. I do marvel much
That he is here: Orleans must be hard press'd
To send the bravest of her garrison
On such commission. "
Swift the Maid exclaim'd,
" I tell thee, Chief, that there the English wolves
Shall never raise their yells of victory!
The will of God defends those fated walls,
And resting in full faith on that high will,
I mock their efforts. But the night draws on;
Retire we to repose. To-morrow's sun,
Breaking the darkness of the sepulchre,
Shall on that armor gleam, through many an age
There for this great emergency reserved. "
She said, and rising from the board, retired.

Meantime the herald's brazen voice proclaim'd
Coming solemnity, and far and wide
Spread the glad tidings. Then all labor ceased;
The ploughman from the unfinish'd furrow hastes;
The armorer's anvil beats no more the din
Of future slaughter. Through the thronging streets
The buzz of asking wonder hums along.

On to St. Katharine's sacred fane they go;
The holy fathers with the imaged cross
Leading the long procession. Next, as one
Suppliant for mercy to the King of kings,
And grateful for the benefits of Heaven,
The Monarch pass'd, and by his side the Maid;
Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest,
Wistless that every eye on her was bent,
With stately step she moved; her laboring soul
To high thoughts elevate; and gazing round
With a full eye, that of the circling throng
And of the visible world unseeing, seem'd
Fix'd upon objects seen by none beside.
Near her the warlike Son of Orleans came
Preiminent. He, nerving his young frame
With exercise robust, had scaled the cliff,
And plunging in the river's full-swollen stream,
Stemm'd with broad breast its current; so his form,
Sinewy and firm, and fit for deeds of arms,
Tower'd above the throng effeminate.
No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs
Effaced the hauberk's honorable marks;
His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints
Many and deep; upon his pictured shield
A Lion vainly struggled in the toils,
Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage,
Assail'd the huntsman. Tremouille followed them,
Proud of the favor of a Prince who seem'd
Given up to vain delights; conspicuous he
In arms with azure and with gold anneal'd,
Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade
Defaced, nor e'er with hostile blood distain'd;
Trimly accoutred court-habiliments,
Gay lady-dazzling armor, fit to adorn
Tourney, or tilt, the gorgeous pageantry
Of mimic warfare. After him there came
A train of courtiers, summer flies that sport
In the sunbeam of favor, insects sprung
From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers,
The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state.

As o'er some flowery field the busy bees
Fill with their happy hum the fragrant air,
A grateful music to the traveller,
Who in the shade of some wide-spreading tree
Rests on his way awhile; or like the sound
Of many waters down some far-off steep
Holding their endless course, the murmur rose
Of admiration. Every gazing eye
Dwelt on the Prophetess; of all beside,
The long procession and the gorgeous train,
Though glittering they with gold and sparkling gems,
And their rich plumes high waving to the air,
Heedless.
The consecrated dome they reach,
Rear'd to St. Katharine's holy memory.
Her tale the altar told; how Maximin,
His raised lip kindled with a savage smile,
In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel
Rend her life piecemeal, that the very face
Of the hard executioner relax'd
With pity; calm she heard, no drop of blood
Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn'd
Heaven-ward, and hope and meekest piety
Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust;
For lo! the Angel of the Lord descends,
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel!
One glance of holy triumph Katharine cast,
Then bow'd her to the sword of martyrdom.

Her eye averting from the pictured tale,
The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd
To Heaven her earnest prayer.
A trophied tomb
Stood near the altar where some warrior slept
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone
And rude-ensculptured effigy o'erlaid
The sepulchre. In silent wonderment
The expectant multitude with eager eye
Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke
Invades the tomb's repose: the heavy stroke
Sounds hollow: over the high-vaulted roof.
Roll the repeated echoes: soon the day
Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam
Falls on the arms inshrined, the crested helm,
The bauldrick, and the shield, and sacred sword
A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment
Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid
Over her robes the hallowed breastplate threw,
Self-fitted to her form; on her helm'd head
The white plumes nod, majestically slow;
She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword,
Gleaming portentous light.
The wondering crow
Raise their loud shout of transport. " God of Heaven, "
The Maid exclaim'd, " Father all merciful!
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield
The sword of vengeance; go before our host!
All-just avenger of the innocent,
Be thou our Champion! God of Peace, preserve
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms. "

She ceased, and with an eager hush the crowd
Still listen'd; a brief while throughout the dome
Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst
Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn,
" Thee Lord we praise, our G OD ! " the throng without
Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy,
And thundering transport peals along the heaven.

As through the parting crowd the Virgin pass'd,
He who from Orleans on the yesternight
Demanded succor, clasp'd with warmth her hand,
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd,
" Ill-omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth,
Devoted for this king-curst realm of France,
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee! " so saying,
He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words
Disturb'd, the warlike Virgin pass'd along,
And much revolving in her troubled mind,
Retrod the court.
And now the horn announced
The ready banquet; they partook the feast,
Then rose and in the cooling water cleansed
Their hands, and seated at the board again
Enjoy'd the bowl, or scented high with spice,
Or flavor'd with the fragrant summer fruit,
Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich.
Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp; he sung
Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest Knight
That ever loved fair Lady; and the youth
Of Cornwall underneath whose maiden sword
The strength of Ireland fell; and he who struck
The dolorous stroke, the blameless and the brave,
Who died beneath a brother's erring arm.
Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel!
The songs of earlier years embalm your fame
And haply yet some Poet shall arise.
Like that divinest Tuscan, and enwreathe
The immortal garland for himself and you.

The harp still rung beneath the high-arch'd roof,
And listening eager to the favorite lay,
The guests sat silent, when into the hall
The Messenger from that besieged town,
Reinter'd. " It is pleasant, King of France, "
Said he, " to sit and hear the harper's song:
Far other music hear the men of Orleans!
Famine is there; and there the imploring cry
Of Hunger ceases not. "
" Insolent man! "
Exclaim'd the Monarch, " cease to interrupt
Our hour of festival; it is not thine
To instruct me in my duty. "
Of reproof
Careless, the stranger to the minstrel cried,
" Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame
Amid these walls? Virtue and genius love
That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose, lewd tale
To pamper and provoke the appetite?
Such should procure thee worthy recompense!
Or rather sing thou of that wealthy Lord,
Who took the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom,
That was to him even as a daughter! Charles,
This parable would I tell, prophet-like,
And look at thee and say, " Thou art the man!" "

He said, and with a quick and troubled step
Withdrew. Astonish'd at his daring guise,
The guests sat heedless of the lay awhile,
Pondering his words mysterious, till at length
The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hall,
Charles and the delegated damsel sought
The inner palace. There the gentle Queen
Awaited them: with her Joan lov'd to pass
Her intervals of rest; for she had won
The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy,
The calm and duteous patience that deplored
A husband's cold half-love. To her she told
With what strange words the messenger from Orleans
Had roused uneasy wonder in her mind;
For on her ear yet vibrated his voice,
When lo! again he came, and at the door
Stood scowling round.
" Why dost thou haunt me thus, "
The monarch cried; " is there no place secure
From thy rude insolence? unmanner'd man!
I know thee not! "
" Then learn to know me, Charles! "
Solemnly he replied; " read well my face,
That thou may'st know it on that dreadful day,
When at the Throne of God I shall demand
His justice on thee! " Turning from the King,
To Agnes as she entered, in a tone
More low, more mournfully severe, he cried,
" Dost thou too know me not! "
She glanced on him,
And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed
In the Maid's bosom.
" King of France! " he said,
" She loved me, and by mutual word and will
We were betroth'd, when, in unhappy hour,
I left her, as in fealty bound, to fight
Thy battles. In mine absence thou didst come
To tempt her then unspotted purity —
For pure she was. — Alas! these courtly robes
Hide not the indelible stain of infamy!
Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on
An honorable name, O lost to me,
And to thyself, forever, ever lost,
My poor polluted Agnes! — Charles, that faith
Almost is shaken, which should be henceforth
My only hope: thou hast thy wicked will,
While I the victim of her guilt and thine,
Though meriting alike from her and thee
Far other guerdon, bear about with me
A wound for which this earth affords no balm,
And doubt Heaven's justice. "
So he said, and frown'd
Austere as he who at Mahommed's door
Knock'd loud and frequent, at whose dreadful mien
Stricken with terror, all beholders fled.
Even the prophet, almost terrified,
Scarcely could bear his presence; for he knew
That this was the Death-Angel A ZRAEL ,
And that his hour was come. Conscious of guilt
The Monarch sate, nor could endure to face
His bosom-probing frown. The Maid of Arc
Meantime had read his features, and she cried
" I know thee, Conrade! " Rising from her seat,
She took his hand, for he stood motionless,
Gazing on Agnes now with steady eye,
Severe though calm: him from the Court she drew,
And to the river side, resisting not,
Both sad and silent, led; till at the last
As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd
Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck,
He wept.
" I know thee, Damsel! " he exclaim'd.
" Dost thou remember that tempestuous night,
When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought
Your hospitable door? Ah me! I then
Was happy! You too sojourn'd then in peace.
Fool that I was! I blamed such happiness,
Arraign'd it as a guilty, selfish sloth,
Unhappily prevailing, so I fear me,
Or why art thou at Chinon? "
Him the Maid
Answering, address'd: " I do remember well,
That night; for then the holy Spirit first,
Waked by thy words, possess'd me. "
Conrade cried,
" Poor Maiden, thou wert happy! thou hadst lived
Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd,
Needlessly rigid, from my peaceful path.
And thou hast left thine home then, and obey'd
The feverish fancies of an ardent brain!
And hast thou left him too, the youth whose eye
Forever glancing on thee, spake so well
Affection's eloquent tale? "
So as he said,
Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek
" I am alone, " she answered, " for this realm
Devoted. " Nor to answer more the Maid
Endured, for many a melancholy thought
Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind s eye
Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc:
Her burden'd heart was full; such grief she felt,
Yet such sweet solacing of self-applause,
As cheers a banish'd Patriot's lonely hours
When Fancy pictures to him all he loved,
Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb,
And drowns the soft enchantment.
With a look
That spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed
The silent Maid; nor would the Maid repress
The thoughts that swell'd within her, or from him
Hide her soul's workings. " 'Twas on the last day
Before I left Domremi; eve had closed;
I sat beside the brook; my soul was full,
As if inebriate with Divinity.
Then, Conrade! I beheld a ruffian herd
Circle a flaming pile, where at the stake
A woman stood; the iron bruised her breast,
And round her limbs, half-garmented, the fire
Curl'd its fierce flakes. I saw her countenance,
I knew M YSELF . " Then, in a tone subdued
Of calmness, " There are moments when the soul
From her own impulse with strange dread recoils,
Suspicious of herself; but with a full,
And perfect faith I know this vision sent
From Heaven, and feel of its unerring truth,
As that God liveth, that I live myself,
The feeling that deceives not. "
By the hand
Her Conrade held and cried, " Ill-fated Maid,
That I have torn thee from affection's breast,
My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve,
Like me, the worthless Court, and having served,
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou wilt curse
The duty that deluded. Of the world
Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow-men,
I shall be seen no more. There is a path —
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf
Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod
That path, and found a melancholy den,
Fit place for penitence and hopeless woe,
Where sepulchred, the ghost of what he was,
Conrade may pass his few and evil days,
Waiting the wish'd-for summons to lay down
His weary load of life. "
But then the Maid
Fix'd on the warrior her reproving eye;
" I pass'd the fertile Auxerrois, " she said;
" The vines had spread their interwoven shoots
Over the unpruned vineyards, and the grape
Rotted beneath the leaves; for there was none
To tread the vintage, and the birds of Heaven
Had had their fill. I saw the cattle start
As they did hear the loud alarum-bell,
And with a piteous moaning vainly seek
To fly the coming slaughterers. I look'd back
Upon the cottage where I had partaken
The peasant's meal, — and saw it wrapt in flames.
And then I thank'd my God that I had burst
The ties, strong as they are, which bind us down
To selfish happiness, and on this earth
Was as a pilgrim — Conrade! rouse thyself!
Cast the weak nature off! A time like this
Is not for gentler feelings, for the glow
Of love, the overflowings of the heart.
There is oppression in thy country, Conrade!
There is a cause, a holy cause, that needs
The brave man's aid. Live for it, and enjoy
Earth's noblest recompense, thine own esteem;
Or die in that good cause, and thy reward
Shall sure be found in Heaven. "
He answer'd
But pressing to his heart the virgin's hand,
Hasten'd across the plain. She with dim eyes
For gushing tears obscured them — follow'd him
Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought
Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne
A while she wander'd, then upon the bank
She laid her down, and watch'd the tranquil stream
Flow with a quiet murmuring, by the clouds
Of evening purpled. The perpetual flow,
The ceaseless murmuring, lull'd her to such dream
As memory in her melancholy mood
Loves best. The wonted scenes of Arc arose;
She saw the forest brook, the weed that waved
Its long green tresses in the stream, the crag
Which overbrow'd the spring, and that old yew
Which through the bare and rifted rock had force
Its twisted trunk, the berries cheerful red
Starring its gloomy green. Her pleasant home
She saw, and those who made that home so dear
Her lov'd lost friends. The mingled feelings fill
Her eyes, when from behind a voice was heard
" O Lady! canst thou tell me where to find
The Maid whom Heaven hath sent to reset France? "
Thrill'd by the well-known tones, she started up
And fell upon the neck of Theodore.

" Have I then found thee! " cried the impassioned youth;
" Henceforth we part no more; but where tho goest
Thither go I. Beloved! in the front
Of battle thou shalt find me at thy side;
And in the breach this breast shall be thy shield
And rampart. Oh, ungenerous! Why from me
Conceal the inspiration? why from me
Hide thy miraculous purpose? Am I then
So all-unworthy that thou shouldst set forth
Beneath another's guidance? "
Thus he cried,
Mingling reproach with tenderness, yet still
Clasping in warm embrace the maid beloved.
She of her bidding and futurity
Awhile forgetful, patient of the embrace,
With silent tears of joy bedew'd his neck.
At length, " I hope, " she cried, " thou art not come
With heavier fault and breach of nearer tie!
How did thy mother spare thee, — thou alone
The stay and comfort of her widowed age?
Did she upon thy parting steps bestow
Her free-will blessing? or hast thou set forth,
Which Heaven forbid, unlicensed and unblest? "

" Oh, surely not unblest! " the youth replied;
Yet conscious of his unrepented fault,
With countenance flush'd, and faltering in reply:
" She wept at my departure; she would fain
Have turned me from my purpose, and my heart
Perhaps had fail'd me, if it had not glow'd
With ardor like thine own; the sacred fire
With which thy bosom burns had kindled me;
High in prophetic hope, I bade her place
Her trust in Heaven; I bade her look to hear
Good tidings soon of glorious victory;
I told her I should soon return, — return
With thee, and thou wouldst be to her old age
What Madelon had been. "
As thus he spake,
Warm with the imaginary bliss, he clasp'd
The dear one closer to his yearning heart.
But the devoted Virgin in his arms
Started and shudder'd, for the flaming pile
Flashed on remembrance now, and on her soul
The whole terrific vision rose again.
A death-like paleness at the dreadful thought
Wither'd her cheek; cold damps suffused her brow,
And falling on the neck of Theodore,
Feeble and faint she hung. His eager eye
Concentring all the anguish of the soul,
And strain'd in anxious love, gazed fearfully
With wondering anguish; till ennobling thoughts
Of her high mission roused her, and her soul
Collected, and she spake.
" My Theodore,
Thou hast done ill to quit thy mother's home!
Alone and aged she will weep for thee,
Wasting her little that is left of life
In anguish. Now go back again to Arc,
And cheer her wintry hours of widowhood,
And love my memory there. "
Swift he exclaim'd,
" Nay, Maid! the pang of parting is o'erpast,
And my dear mother looks for the glad hour
When we shall both return. Amid the war
How many an arm will seek thy single life,
How many a sword and spear! I will go with thee
And spread the guardian shield. "
" Nay, " she replied,
" I shall not need thy succor in the war.
Me, Heaven, if so seem good to its high will,
Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore,
Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home,
And make thy mother happy. "
The youth's cheek
A rapid blush disorder'd. " Oh! the court
Is pleasant then, and thou wouldst fain forget
A humble villager, who only boasts
The treasure of the heart! "
She look'd at him
With a reproaching eye of tenderness:
" Injurious man! devoted for this realm,
I go a willing victim. The dark veil
Hath been withdrawn for me, and I have seen
The fearful features of Futurity.
Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country,
Abandoning for it the joys of life,
Yea, life itself! " Then on his neck she fell,
And with a faltering voice, " Return to Arc!
I do not tell thee there are other maids
As fair; for thou wilt love my memory,
Hallowing to me the temple of thy heart.
Worthy a happier, not a better love,
My Theodore! " — Then, pressing his pale lips,
A last and holy kiss the virgin fix'd,
And fled across the plain.
She reach'd the court
Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind
Shook every fibre. Sad and sick at heart,
Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude
The Maiden had retired; but her the King
Met on the threshold. He of the late scene
Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem'd
As though there had not been a God in Heaven!
" Enter the hall, " he said, " the maskers there
Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad?
Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame
With his strange speeches? "
Ere the Maid replied,
The Son of Orleans came with joyful speed,
Poising his massy javelin. " Thou hast roused
The sleeping virtue of the sons of France;
They crowd around the standard, " cried the chief.
" Our brethren, pent in Orleans, every moment
Gaze from the watch-tower with the sickening eye
Of expectation. "
Then the King exclaim'd,
" O chosen by Heaven! defer one day thy march,
That humbled at the altar we may join
The general prayer. Be these our holy rites
To-morrow's task; — to-night for merriment! "

The Maid replied, " The wretched ones in Orleans,
In fear and hunger and expiring hope,
Await my succor, and my prayers would plead
In Heaven against me, did they waste one hour
When active duty calls. For this night's mirth
Hold me excused; in truth I am not fit
For merriment; a heavy charge is on me,
And I must put away all mortal thoughts. "
Her heart was full, and pausing, she repress'd
The unbidden anguish. " Lo! they crowd around
The standard! Thou, Dunois, the chosen troops
Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn
We march to rescue Orleans from the foe. "