Classic Poem

And now beneath the horizon westering slow
Had sunk the orb of day: o'er all the vale
A purple softness spread, save where some tree
Its lengthen'd shadow stretch'd, or winding stream
Mirror'd the light of Heaven, still traced distinct
When twilight dimly shrouded all beside.
A grateful coolness freshen'd the calm air,
And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song
Sung shrill and ceaseless, as the dews of night
Descended. On their way the travellers wend,
Cheering the road with converse, till at length
They mark a cottage lamp, whose steady light
Shone though the lattice; thitherward they turn.
There came an old man forth; his thin gray locks
Moved to the breeze, and on his wither'd face
The characters of age were written deep.
Them, louting low with rustic courtesy,
He welcomed in; on the white-ember'd hearth
Heapt up fresh fuel, then with friendly care
Spread out his homely board, and fill'd the bowl
With the red produce of the vine that arch'd
His evening seat; they of the plain repast
Partook, and quaff'd the pure and pleasant draught.

" Strangers, your fare is homely, " said their Host,
" But such it is as we poor countrymen
Earn with our toil: in faith ye are welcome to it!
I too have borne a lance in younger days;
And would that I were young again to meet
These haughty English in the field of fight;
Such as I was when on the fatal plain
Of Agincourt I met them. "
" Wert thou then
A sharer in that dreadful day's defeat? "
Exclaim'd the Bastard. " Didst thou know the Lord
Of Orleans? "
" Know him? " cried the veteran,
" I saw him ere the bloody fight began
Riding from rank to rank, his beaver up,
The long lance quivering in his mighty grasp.
His eye was wrathful to an enemy,
But for his countrymen it had a smile
Would win all hearts. Looking at thee, Sir Knight,
Methinks I see him now; such was his eye,
Gentle in peace, and such his manly brow. "

" No tongue but speaketh honor of that name! "
Exclaim'd Dunois. " Strangers and countrymen
Alike revered the good and gallant Chief.
His vassals like a father loved their Lord;
His gates stood open to the traveller;
The pilgrim when he saw his towers rejoiced,
For he had heard in other lands the fame
Of Orleans. — And he lives a prisoner still!
Losing all hope because my arm so long
Hath fail'd to win his liberty! "
He turn'd
His head away, hiding the burning shame
Which flush'd his face. " But he shall live, Dunois, "
The mission'd Maid replied; " but he shall live
To hear good tidings; hear of liberty,
Of his own liberty, by his brother's arm
Achieved in well-won battle. He shall live
Happy; the memory of his prison'd years
Shall heighten all his joys, and his gray hairs
Go to the grave in peace. "
" I would fain live
To see that day, " replied their aged host:
" How would my heart leap to behold again
The gallant, generous chieftain! I fought by him,
When all our hopes of victory were lost,
And down his batter'd arms the blood stream'd
From many a wound. Like wolves they hemm us in,
Fierce in unhoped for conquest: all around
Our dead and dying countrymen lay heap'd;
Yet still he strove; — I wonder'd at his valor!
There was not one who on that fatal day
Fought bravelier. "
" Fatal was that day to France,
Exclaim'd the Bastard; " there Alençon fell,
Valiant in vain; there D'Albert, whose mad pride
Brought the whole ruin on. There fell Brabant,
Vaudemont, and Marle, and Bar, and Faquenberg,
Our noblest warriors; the determin'd foe
Fought for revenge, not hoping victory,
Desperately brave; ranks fell on ranks before them;
The prisoners of that shameful day out-summ'd
Their conquerors! "
" Yet believe not, " Bertram cried,
" That cowardice disgraced thy countrymen!
They, by their leader's arrogance led on
With heedless fury, found all numbers vain,
All effort fruitless there; and hadst thou seen,
Skilful as brave, how Henry's ready eye
Lost not a thicket, not a hillock's aid;
From his hersed bowmen how the arrows flew
Thick as the snow-flakes and with lightning force;
Thou wouldst have known such soldiers, such a chief,
Could never be subdued.
" But when the field
Was won, and they who had escaped the fight
Had yielded up their arms, it was foul work
To turn on the defenceless prisoners
The cruel sword of conquest. Girt around
I to their mercy had surrender'd me,
When lo! I heard the dreadful cry of death.
Not as amid the fray, when man met man
And in fair combat gave the mortal blow;
Here the poor captives, weaponless and bound,
Saw their stern victors draw again the sword,
And groan'd and strove in vain to free their hands,
And bade them think upon their plighted faith,
And pray'd for mercy in the name of God,
In vain: the King had bade them massacre,
And in their helpless prisoners' naked breasts
They drove the weapon. Then I look'd for death,
And at that moment death was terrible, —
For the heat of fight was over; of my home
I thought, and of my wife and little ones
In bitterness of heart. But the brave man,
To whom the chance of war had made me thrall,
Had pity, loosed my hands, and bade me fly.
It was the will of Heaven that I should live
Childless and old to think upon the past,
And wish that I had perish'd! "
The old man
Wept as he spake. " Ye may perhaps have heard
Of the hard siege that Roan so long endur'd.
I dwelt there, strangers; I had then a wife,
And I had children tenderly beloved,
Who I did hope should cheer me in old age
And close mine eyes. The tale of misery
Mayhap were tedious, or I could relate
Much of that dreadful time. "
The Maid replied,
Wishing of that devoted town to hear.
Thus then the veteran:
" So by Heaven preserved,
From the disastrous plain of Agincourt
I speeded homewards, and abode in peace.
Henry, as wise as brave, had back to England
Led his victorious army; well aware
That France was mighty, that her warlike sons,
Impatient of a foreigner's command,
Might rise impetuous, and with multitudes
Tread down the invaders. Wisely he return'd,
For our proud barons in their private broils
Wasted the strength of France. I dwelt at home,
And with the little I possess'd content,
Lived happily. A pleasant sight it was
To see my children, as at eve I sat
Beneath the vine, come clustering round my knee,
That they might hear again the oft-told tale
Of the dangers I had past: their little eyes
Would with such anxious eagerness attend
The tale of life preserved, as made me feel
Life's value. My poor children! a hard fate
Had they! But oft and bitterly I wish
That God had to his mercy taken me
In childhood, for it is a heavy lot
To linger out old age in loneliness!

" Ah me! when war the masters of mankind,
Woe to the poor man! if he sow his field,
He shall not reap the harvest; if he see
His offspring rise around, his boding heart
Aches at the thought that they are multiplied
To the sword! Again from England the fierce foe
Came on our ravaged coasts. In battle bold,
Merciless in conquest, their victorious King
Swept like the desolating tempest round.
Dambieres submits; on Caen's subjected wall
The flag of England waved. Roan still remain'd,
Embattled Roan, bulwark of Normandy;
Nor unresisted round her massy walls
Pitch'd they their camp. I need not tell, Sir Knight,
How oft and boldly on the invading host
We burst with fierce assault impetuous forth,
For many were the warlike sons of Roan.
One gallant Citizen was famed o'er all
For daring hardihood preiminent,
Blanchard: He, gathering round his countrymen,
With his own courage kindling every breast,
Had made them vow before Almighty God
Never to yield them to the usurping foe.
Before the God of Hosts we made the vow;
And we had baffled the besieging power,
Had not the patient enemy drawn round
His wide intrenchments. From the watch-tower's top
In vain with fearful hearts along the Seine
We strain'd the eye, and every distant wave
Which in the sunbeam glitter'd, fondly thought
The white sail of supply. Alas! no more
The white sail rose upon our aching sight;
For guarded was the Seine, and our stern foe
Had made a league with Famine. How my heart
Sunk in me when at night I carried home
The scanty pittance of to-morrow's meal!
You know not, strangers, what it is to see
The asking eye of hunger!
" Still we strove,
Expecting aid; nor longer force to force,
Valor to valor, in the fight opposed,
But to the exasperate patience of the foe,
Desperate endurance. Though with Christian zeal
Ursino would have pour'd the balm of peace
Into our wounds, Ambition's ear, best pleased
With the war's clamor and the groan of death,
Was deaf to prayer. Day after day pass'd on;
We heard no voice of comfort. From the walls
Could we behold their savage Irish Kerns,
Ruffians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptized,
Come with their spoil, mingling their hideous shouts
With moan of weary flocks, and piteous low
Of kine sore-laden, in the mirthful camp
Scattering abundance; while the loathliest food
We prized above all price; while in our streets
The dying groan of hunger, and the cries
Of famishing infants echoed, — and we heard,
With the strange selfishness of misery,
We heard, and heeded not.
" Thou wouldst have deem'd
Roan must have fallen an easy sacrifice,
Young warrior! hadst thou seen our meagre limbs.
And pale and shrunken cheeks, and hollow eyes,
Yet still we struggled bravely! Blanchard still
Spake of the obdurate temper of the foe,
Of Harfleur's wretched people driven out
Houseless and destitute, while that stern King
Knelt at the altar, and with impious prayer
Gave God the glory, even while the blood
That he had shed was reeking up to Heaven.
He bade us think what mercy they had found
Who yielded on the plain of Agincourt,
And what the gallant sons of Caen, by him
In cold blood slaughter'd: then his scanty food
Sharing with the most wretched, he would bid us
Bear with our miseries manfully.
" Thus press'd,
Lest all should perish thus, our chiefs decreed
Women and children, the infirm and old,
All who were useless in the work of war,
Should forth and take their fortune. Age, that makes
The joys and sorrows of the distant years
Like a half-remember'd dream, yet on my heart
Leaves deep impress'd the horrors of that hour.
Then as our widow-wives clung round our necks,
And the deep sob of anguish interrupted
The prayer of parting, even the pious priest
As he implored his God to strengthen us,
And told us we should meet again in Heaven,
He groan'd and curs'd in bitterness of heart
That merciless King. The wretched crowd pass'd on;
My wife — my children — through the gates they pass'd,
Then the gates closed — Would I were in my grave,
That I might lose remembrance!
" What is man
That he can hear the groan of wretchedness
And feel no fleshly pang! Why did the All-Good
Create these warrior scourges of mankind,
These who delight in slaughter? I did think
There was not on this earth a heart so hard
Could hear a famish'd woman ask for food,
And feel no pity. As the outcast train
Drew near, relentless Henry bade his troops
Drive back the miserable multitude.
They drove them to the walls; — it was the depth
Of winter, — we had no relief to grant.
The aged ones groan'd to our foe in vain,
The mother pleaded for her dying child,
And they felt no remorse! "
The mission'd Maid
Rose from her seat, — " The old and the infirm,
The mother and her babes! — and yet no lightning
Blasted this man! "
" Aye, Lady, " Bertram cried,
" And when we sent the herald to implore
His mercy on the helpless, his stern face
Assum'd a sterner smile of callous scorn,
And he replied in mockery. On the wall
I stood and watch'd the miserable outcasts,
And every moment thought that Henry's heart,
Hard as it was, would melt. All night I stood, —
Their deep groans came upon the midnight gale;
Fainter they grew, for the cold wintry wind
Blew bleak; fainter they grew, and at the last
All was still, save that ever and anon
Some mother raised o'er her expiring child
A cry of frenzying anguish.
" From that hour
On all the busy turmoil of the world
I look'd with strange indifference; bearing want
With the sick patience of a mind worn out.
Nor when the traitor yielded up our town
Aught heeded I as through our ruin'd streets,
Through putrid heaps of famish'd carcasses,
The pomp of triumph pass'd. One pang alone
I felt, when by that cruel King's command
The gallant Blanchard died: calmly he died,
And as he bow'd beneath the axe, thank'd God
That he had done his duty.
" I survive,
A solitary, friendless, wretched one,
Knowing no joy save in the certain hope
That I shall soon be gather'd to my sires,
And soon repose, there where the wicked cease
From troubling, and the weary are at rest. "

" And happy, " cried the delegated Maid,
" And happy they who in that holy faith
Bow meekly to the rod! A little while
Shall they endure the proud man's contumely,
The injustice of the great: a little while
Though shelterless they feel the wintry wind,
The wind shall whistle o'er their turf-grown grave,
And all be peace below. But woe to those,
Woe to the Mighty Ones who send abroad
Their ministers of death, and give to Fury
The flaming firebrand; these indeed shall live
The heroes of the wandering minstrel's song;
But they have their reward; the innocent blood
Steams up to Heaven against them: God shall hear
The widow's groan. "
" I saw him, " Bertram cried,
" Henry of Agincourt, this mighty King,
Go to his grave. The long procession pass'd
Slowly from town to town, and when I heard
The deep-toned dirge, and saw the banners wave
A pompous shade, and the tall torches cast
In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light,
I thought what he had been on earth who now
Was gone to his account, and blest my God
I was not such as he! "
So spake the old man,
And then his guests betook them to repose.