Classic Poem

Strong were the English forts, by daily toil
Of thousands rear'd on high, when to insure
His meditated conquest Salisbury
Resolved from Orleans to shut out all means
Of human succor. Round the city stretch'd
Their line continuous, massy as the wall
Erst by the fearful Roman on the bounds
Of Caledonia raised, when soul-enslaved
The race degenerate fear'd the car-borne chiefs
Who moved from Morven down.
Broad battlements
Crested the bulwark, and safe standing place
For archer or for man-at-arms was there.
The frequent buttress at just distance rose
Declining from its base, and sixty forts
Seem'd in their strength to render all secure.
But loftier and massier than the rest,
As though of some large castle each the keep,
Stood six square fortresses with turrets flank'd,
Piles of unequall'd strength, though now deem'd weak
'Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely thence
The skilful bowman, entering with his eye
The city, might, himself the while unseen,
Through the long opening aim his winged deaths
Loire's waves diverted fill'd the deep-dug moat
Circling the whole; a bulwark vast it was
As that which round their camp and stranded ships
The Achaians raised, a common sepulchre
Of thousands slaughter'd, and the doom'd death place
Of many a chief, when Priam's virtuous son
Assail'd them, then in hope, with favoring Jove.

But cowering now amid their sheltering forts
Trembled the invading host. Their leader's care
In anxious vigilance prepares to ward
The assault expected. Rightly he ared
The Maid's intent, but vainly did he seek
To kindle in their breasts the wonted flame.
Of valor, for, by prodigies unmann'd,
They wait the morn. The soldiers' pride was gone;
The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay,
Defiled and unrepair'd, they sharpen'd not
Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand
Relax'd not his bent bow. To them, confused
With fears of unknown danger, the long night
Was dreadful, but more dreadful dawn'd the day.

The morning came; the martial Maid arose;
Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gate,
Eager again for conquest, throng the troops.
High tower'd the Son of Orleans, in his strength
Poising the ponderous spear. His batter'd shield,
Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight,
Hung on his sinewy arm.
" Maiden of Arc, "
So as he spake approaching, cried the chief,
" Well hast thou proved thy mission, as by words
And miracles attested when dismay'd
The grave theologists dismiss'd their doubts,
So in the field of battle now confirm'd,
Yon well-fenced forts protect the fugitives,
And seem as in their strength they mock'd our force.
Yet must they fall. "
" And fall they shall! " replied
The Maid of Orleans. " Ere the sun be set
The lily on that shattered wall shall wave
Triumphant. — Men of France! ye have fought well
On yon blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foes
Lurk trembling now behind their massy walls.
Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock!
The Shepherd — the Great Shepherd is arisen!
Ye fly! yet shall not ye by flight escape
His vengeance. Men of Orleans! it were vain
By words to waken wrath within your breasts.
Look round! Your holy buildings and your homes —
Ruins that choke the way! your populous town —
One open sepulchre! who is there here
That does not mourn a friend, a brother slain,
A parent famished, — or his dear, loved wife
Torn from his bosom — outcast — broken-hearted —
Cast on the mercy of mankind? "
She ceased;
A cry of indignation from the host
Burst forth, and all impatient for the war
Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays
In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war,
Commands the first; Xaintrailles, who oftentimes
Defeated, oft a prisoner, and as oft
Released for ransom, both with friend and foe
Growing repute of active hardihood,
And martial skill obtained; so erst from earth
Antaeus vaunting in his giant bulk,
When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell
Vanquish'd, anon uprose more fierce for war.

Gaucour the second battle led, true friend
And faithful servant of the imprison'd Duke;
In counsel provident, in action prompt,
Collected always, always self-controll'd,
He from the soldiers' confidence and love
Prompter obedience gain'd, than ever fear
Forced from the heart reluctant.
The third band
Alençon leads. On Verneuil's fatal field
The day when Buchan and the Douglas died,
Wounded and senseless with the loss of blood,
He fell, and there being found, was borne away
A prisoner, in the ills of that defeat
Participant, partaking not the shame:
But for his rank and high desert, the King
Had ransom'd him, doom'd now to meet the foe
With better fortune.
O'er the last presides
The bastard son of Orleans, great in arms.
His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame
Acknowledged, since before his stripling arm
Fled Warwick; Warwick, he whose wide renown
Greece knew, and Antioch, and the holy soil
Of Palestine, since there in arms he went
On gallant pilgrimage; yet by Dunois
Baffled, and yielding him the conqueror's praise.
And by his side the martial Maiden pass'd,
Lovely in arms, as that Arcadian boy
Parthenopaeus, when the war of beasts
Disdaining, he to cope with men went forth,
Bearing the bow and those Dictaean shafts
Diana gave, when she the youth's fair form
Saw, soften'd, and forgave the mother's fault.

Loup's was the nearest fort. Here Gladdisdale
Commands the English, who as the enemy
Moved to the assault, from bow and arbalist
Their shafts and quarrels showered. Nor did they use
Hand-weapons only and hand-engines here,
Nor by the arm alone, or bow-string sped
The missile flew, but driven by the strain'd force
Of the balista, in one body spent
Stay'd not; through arms and men it made its way,
And leaving death behind, still held its course
By many a death unclogg'd. With rapid march
Onward the assailants came; and now they reach'd
Where by the bayle's embattled wall in arms
The knights of England stood. There Poynings shook
His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace,
For the death-blow prepared. Alençon here,
And here the Bastard came, and by the Maid,
That daring man who to the English host,
Then insolent of many a conquest gain'd,
Had borne her bidding. A rude coat of mail,
Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line,
He wore, though here, amid the high-born chiefs
Preiminent for prowess. On his head
A black plume shadow'd the rude-featured helm.
Then was the war of men, when front to front
They rear'd the hostile hand, for low the wall
Where an assailant's upward-driven spear
Might reach his enemy.
As Alençon moved,
On his crown-crested helm with ponderous blow
Fell Gladdisdale's huge mace. Back he recoil'd
Astounded; soon recovering, his sharp lance
Thrust on the warrior's shield: there fast infixed,
Nor could Alençon the deep-driven spear
Recover, nor the foeman from his grasp
Wrench the contended weapon. Fierce again
He lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt
Fell full; it shiver'd, and the Frenchman held
A pointless truncheon. Where the Bastard fought,
The spear of Poynings, through his plated mail
Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath
Blunted its point. Again he thrust the spear;
At once Dunois on his broad buckler met
The unharming stroke, and aim'd with better hap
His javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce
Maugre the mail: hot from the streaming wound
He pluck'd the weapon forth, and in his breast
Clean through the hauberk drove.
But there the war
Raged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved
A minister of wrath; for thither throng'd
The bravest champions of the adverse host.
And on her either side two warriors stood
Protecting her, and aiming at her foes
Watchful their weapons, of themselves the while
Little regarding: on the one side he
Who to the English had her bidding borne;
Firmly he stood, untired and undismay'd,
Though many a spear against his burgonet
Was thrust, and on his arm the buckler hung
Heavy, thick-bristled with the hostile shafts,
Even like a porcupine, when in his rage
Roused, he collects within him all his force,
Himself a quiver. On the other hand,
Competing with him to protect the Maid,
Conrade maintain'd the fight; at all points arm'd,
A jazerent of double mail he wore;
Its weight in little time had wearied one
Of common strength; but unencumber'd he,
And unfatigued, alertly moved in it,
And wielded with both hands a battle-axe,
Which gave no second stroke; for where it fell,
Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail
Might save, nor crested casque. On Molyn's head,
As at the Maid he aim'd his javelin,
Forceful it fell, and shiver'd with the blow
The iron helm, and to his brain-pan drove
The fragments. At his fall the enemy,
Stricken with instantaneous fear, gave way.
That instant Conrade, with an active bound,
Sprung on the battlements; and there he stood,
Keeping the ascent. The herald and the Maid
Follow'd, and soon the exulting cry of France
Along the lists was heard, as there they saw
Her banner planted. Gladdisdale beheld,
And hastened from his well-defended post,
That where immediate danger more required
There he might take his stand; against the Maid
He bent his way, and hoped one happy blow
Might end at once the new-raised hopes of France,
And by her death, to the English arms their old
Ascendency restore. Nor did not Joan
Areed his purpose, but with lifted shield
Prepared she stood, and poised her sparkling spear.
The English chief came on; he raised his mace;
With circling force the iron weight swung high,
And Gladdisdale with his collected strength
Impell'd the blow. The man of lowly line
That instant rush'd between, and rear'd his shield,
And met the broken stroke, and thrust his lance
Clean through the gorget of the English knight.
A gallant man, of no ignoble line,
Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace;
They heap'd the hospitable hearth, they spread
The feast, their vassals loved them, and afar
The traveller told their fame. In peace they died,
And to their ancient burial-place were borne
With book and bell, torches, and funeral chant;
And duly for their souls the neighboring monks
The solemn office sung. Now far away
Their offspring falls, the last of all his race,
Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share
A common grave.
Then terror seized the host,
Their chieftain dead. And lo! where on the wall
Maintain'd of late by Gladdisdale so well,
The Son of Orleans stands, and sways around
His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe,
Till on the battlements his comrades climb
And raise the shout of conquest. Then appall'd
The English fled: nor fled they unpursued,
For mingling with the foremost fugitives,
The gallant Conrade rush'd; and with the throng
The knights of France together o'er the bridge
Press'd forward. Nor the garrison within
Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall,
For in the entrance of the fort the fight
Raged fiercely, and together through the gate
The vanquish'd English and their eager foes
Pass'd in the flying conflict.
Well I deem
And wisely did the heroic Spaniard act
At Vera Cruz, when he his yet sound ships
Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous fear
Might still with wild and wistful eye look back
For knowing no retreat, his desperate troops
In conquest sought their safety; victors hence
At Tlascala, and o'er the Cholulans,
And by Otompan, on that bloody field
When Mexico her patriot thousands pour'd,
Fierce in vain valor, on their dreadful foes.
There was a portal in the English fort
Which open'd on the wall; a speedier path
In the hour of safety, whence the soldier's eye
Might overlook the river's pleasant course.
Fierce in the gate-way raged the deadly war;
For there the Maiden strove, and Conrade there,
And he of lowly line, bravelier than whom
Fought not in that day's battle. Of success
Desperate, for from above the garrison
(Lest upon friend and enemy alike
The indiscriminating blow should light)
Could give no aid, the English of that way
Bethought them; by that egress they forsook
St. Loup's, and the Orleanites with shouts of joy
Beheld the Virgin's banner on its height
In triumph planted. Swift along the wall
The English haste to St. John's neighboring fort,
Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuit
The victors ceased, but with the fugitives
Mingled and waged the war; and combatants,
Lock'd in each other's grasp, together fell
Precipitate.
But foremost of the French,
Dealing destruction, Conrade made his way
Along the wall, and to the nearest fort
Came in pursuit; nor did not then the chief
What most might serve bethink him; but he took
His stand in the portal, and first looking back,
Lifted his voice aloud; three times he raised,
Cheering and calling on his countrymen,
That voice o'er all the uproar heard afar,
Then to the strife addrest himself, assail'd
By numerous foes, who clamorously now
Menaced his single person. He the while
Stood firm, not vainly confident, or rash,
But in his vantage more than his own strength
Trusting; for narrow was the portal way,
To one alone fit passage, from above
Not overbrow'd by jutting parapet,
Whence aught might crush him. He in double mail
Was arm'd; a massy burgonet, well tried
In many a hard-fought field, helming his head
And fenced with iron plates, a buckler broad
Hung from his neck. Nor to dislodge the chief
Could the English bring their numbers, for the way
By upward steps presented from the fort
A narrow ascent, where one alone could meet
The war. Yet were they of their numbers proud,
Though useless numbers were in that strait path,
Save by assault unceasing to outlast
A single warrior, who at length must sink
Fatigued with slaughter, and by toil foredone
Succumb.
There was amid the garrison
A gallant knight who at Verneuil had fought,
And good renown for feats of arms achieved
Had gain'd in that day's victory. For him
His countrymen made way, and he his lance
Thrust upward against Conrade, who perceived
The intent, and, as the weapon touch'd his shield,
Smote with his battle-axe the ashen shaft;
Then plucking from the shield the severed head,
He threw it back. With wary bend the foe
Shrunk from the flying death; yet not in vain
From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon flew:
Full on the corselet of a meaner man
It fell, and pierced him where the heaving lungs,
In vital play distended, to the heart
Roll back their brighten'd tide: from the deep wound
The red blood gush'd; prone on the steps he fell,
And in the strong, convulsive grasp of death
Grasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name
The soldier died; and yet he left behind
One who then never said her daily prayers
Of him forgetful; who to every tale
Of the distant war lending an eager ear,
Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door
The wretched one shall sit, and with fix'd eye
Gaze on the path, where on his parting steps
Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know
Her husband dead, but cherishing a hope,
Whose falsehood inwardly she knows too well,
Feel life itself with that false hope decay;
And wake at night from miserable dreams
Of his return, and weeping o'er her babe,
Too surely think that soon that fatherless child
Must of its mother also be bereft.

Dropping his broken spear, the exasperate knight
Drew forth the sword, and up the steps advanced,
Like one who disregarded in his strength
The enemy's vantage, destined to abide
That rashness dearly. Conrade stood prepared,
Held forth his buckler, and his battle-axe
Uplifted. Where the buckler was beneath
Rounded, the falchion struck, a bootless blow
To pierce its plated folds; more forcefully
Full on his crested helm the battle-axe
Descended, driving in both crest and crown;
From the knight's eyes, at that death-stroke, the blood
Started; with blood the chambers of the brain
Were fill'd; his breastplate with convulsive throes
Heaved as he fell. Victorious, he the prize
At many a tournament had borne away
In mimic war; happy, if so content
With bloodless glory, he had never left
The mansion of his sires.
But terrified
The English stood, nor durst adventure now
Near that death-doing foe. Amid their host
Was one who well could from the stubborn yew
Send his sharp shafts; well skill'd in wood-craft he,
Even as the merry outlaws who their haunts
In Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouse
The sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven grass
The dew-drops sparkled to the rising sun.
He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd
The feather'd dart; with force he drew the bow;
Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string,
And swift and strong the well-fledged arrow flew.
It pierced the shield, and reach'd, but reach'd in vain,
The breastplate: while he fitted to the bow
A second arrow, Conrade raised his voice,
Shouting for timely succor to secure
The entrance he had gain'd. Nor was the call
Unheard, nor unobey'd; responsive shouts
Announced assistance nigh; the Orleanites
From St. Loup's captured fort along the wall
Sped to support him; cheering was the sound
Of their near footsteps to the chief; he drew
His falchion forth, and down the steps he went.
Then terror seized the English, for their foes
Press'd through the open portal, and the sword
Of Conrade was among them making way.
Not to the Trojans when their ships were lost
More dreadful the Rutilian hero seem'd,
Then hoping well to right himself in arms;
Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris
Rush'd the fierce king of Sarza, Rodomont,
Clad in his dragon mail.
Like some tall rock,
Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves
Spend their vain force, unshaken Conrade stood,
When, drawing courage from despair, the foe
Renew'd the contest. Through the throng he hew'd
His way unhurt amid the arrowy shower,
Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast,
As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling tree
The autumnal whirlwind shakes. Nor did he pause
Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand
Seized on the massy bolts. These as he drew,
Full on his helm a weighty English sword
Descended; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath,
When lo! the assailant gasping on the ground,
Cleft by the Maiden's falchion: she herself
To the foe opposing with her herald's aid,
For they alone, following the adventurous steps
Of Conrade, still kept pace as he advanced,
Shielded him while with eager hand he drew
The bolts: the gate turn'd slow; forth leapt the chief,
And shiver'd with his battle-axe the chains
That held on high the bridge: down fell the bridge
Rebounding; the victorious troops rush'd in;
And from their walls the Orleanites with shouts
And tears of joy beheld on Fort St. John
The lilies wave.
" On to Fort London! on! "
Cried Conrade; " Xaintrailles! while the day endures
Once more advance to certain victory!
Force ye the lists, and fill the moat, and bring
The battering-ram against their gates and walls
Anon I shall be with you. Thus he said;
Then to the damsel. " Maid of Arc! awhile
Let thou and I withdraw, and by short rest
Renew our strength. " So saying he his helm
Unlaced, and in the Loire's near flowing stream
Cool'd his hot face. The Maid her head unhelm'd,
And stooping to the stream, reflected there
Saw her white plumage stain'd with human blood!
Shudaering she saw, but soon her steady soul
Collected: on the banks she laid her down,
Freely awhile respiring, for her breath
Still panted from the fight: silent they lay,
And gratefully the cooling breezes bathed
Their throbbing temples.
Eve was drawing on:
The sunbeams on the gently-waving stream
Danced sparkling. Lost in thought the warrior lay;
Then as if wakening from a dream he said,
" Maiden of Arc! at such an hour as this,
Beneath the o'erarching forest's checker'd shade,
With that lost woman have I wander'd on,
Talking of years of happiness to come!
Oh! hours forever fled! delightful hopes
Of the unsuspecting heart! I do believe
If Agnes on a worthier one had fix'd
Her love, that though my heart had nurst till death
Its sorrows, I had never on her choice
Cast one upbraiding — but to stoop to him!
A harlot! — an adulteress! "
In his eye
Fierce anger flash'd; anon of what she was
Ere the contagious vices of the court
Polluted her, he thought. " Oh, happy age! "
He cried, " when all the family of man
Freely enjoy'd their goodly heritage,
And only bow'd the knee in prayer to God!
Calm flow'd the unruffled stream of years along,
Till o'er the peaceful rustic's head the hair
Grew gray in full of time. Then he would sit
Beneath the coetaneous oak, while round,
Sons, grandsons, and their offspring join'd to form
The blameless merriment; and learnt of him
What time to yoke the oxen to the plough,
What hollow moanings of the western wind
Foretell the storm, and in what lurid clouds
The embryo lightning lies. Well pleased, he taught,
A heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek,
Mild as the summer sun's decaying light.
Thus quietly the stream of life flow'd on,
Till in the shoreless ocean lost at length.
Around the bed of death his numerous race
Listen'd, in no unprofitable grief,
His last advice, and caught his latest sigh:
And when he died, as he had fallen asleep,
In his own ground, and underneath the tree
Which, planted at his birth, with him had grown,
And flourish'd in its strength when he decay'd,
They delved the narrow house: where oft at eve
Their children's children gathered round to hear
The example of his life and death impress'd.
Maiden! and such the evening of my days
Fondly I hoped; and would that I had lived
In those old times, or till some better age
Slumber'd unborn; for this is a hard race,
An evil generation nor by day
Nor in the night have respite from their cares
And wretchedness. But I shall be at rest
Soon, in that better world of peace and love
Where evil is not: in that better world,
Joan! we shall meet, and he too will be there,
Thy Theodore. "
Soothed by his words, the Man
Had listen'd sadly, till at that loved name
She wept. " Nay, Maid! " he cried, " I did not think
To wake a tear; — yet pleasant is thy grief!
Thou know'st not what it is, around thy heart
To have a false one wreathe in viper folds.
But to the battle! in the clang of arms,
We win forgetfulness. "
Then from the bank
He sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose
Bidding awhile adieu to gentle thoughts.
On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'd
England's proud capital to the English host,
Now half subdued, anticipating death,
And vainly wishing they from her white cliffs
Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creeps
Through every nerve: already they look round
With haggard eyes, as seeking where to fly,
Though Talbot there presided, with their chief,
The dauntless Salisbury.
" Soldiers, tried in arms!
Thus, hoping to revive with gallant speech
Their courage, Salisbury spake; " Brave country men,
Victorious in so many a hard-fought fight,
What — shrink ye now dismay'd? Oh call to mine
The plains of Agincourt, where vanquish'd France
Fled with her thousands from your fathers' arms
Have ye forgotten how our English swords,
On that illustrious day before Verneuil,
Cut down the flower of all their chiyalry?
Then was that noble heart of Douglas pierced,
Bold Buchan bit the earth, and Narbonne died,
And this Alençon, boaster as he is,
Cried mercy to his conqueror. Shall I speak
Of our victorious banner on the walls
Of Yenville and Baugenci triumphing;
And of that later hour of victory
When Clermont and the Bastard plied their spurs
Shame! shame! that beaten boy is here in arms
And ye will fly before the fugitives, —
Fly from a woman! from a frantic girl!
Who with her empty mummeries tries to blast
Your courage; or if miracles she bring,
Aid of the Devil! Who is there among you
False to his country, — to his former fame,
To your old leader who so many a time
Hath led ye on to glory?
From the host
There came a heartless shout; then Talbot's cheek
Grew red with indignation. " Earl! " said he,
Addressing Salisbury, " there is no hope
From these white-liver'd dastards, and this fort
Will fall an easy conquest. We must out
And gain the Tournelles, better fortified,
Fit to endure a siege: that hope in view,
Cow'd as they are, the men from very fear
May gather what will do for this poor turn
The work of courage. "
Bravely thus he spake,
Advising well, and Salisbury replied:
" Rightly thou say'st. But, Talbot, could we reach
The sorceress in the battle, one sure blow
Might give us back, this hour, the mastery
So marvellously lost: nor difficult
To meet the wench, for from the battlements
I have beheld her foremost in attack,
Playing right valiantly the soldier's part.
In her the enemy have their strength; with her
Their strength would fall. And had we her but once
Within arm-stroke, witch though she be, methinks
Her devilry could neither blunt the edge
Of thy good sword, or mine. "
Thus communed they,
And through the host the gladdening tidings ran,
That they should seek the Tournelles. Then their hearts
Gather'd new strength, placing on those strong walls
Dependence; oh vain hope! for neither wall,
Nor moat, nor fort can save, if fear within
Palsy the soldier's arm.
Them issuing forth,
As from the river's banks they pass'd along,
The Maid beheld " Lo! Conrade! " she exclaim'd,
" The foe advance to meet us — look! they lower
The bridge! and now they rush upon the troops: —
A gallant onset! Dost thou mark the man
Who all this day has by our side endured
The hottest conflict? Often I beheld
His feats with wonder, but his prowess now
Makes all his actions in the former fight
Seem as of no account: knowest thou him?
There is not one, amid the host of France,
Of fairer promise. "
" He, " the chief replied,
" Wretched and prodigal of life, achieves
The exploits of despair; a gallant youth,
Widow'd like me of hope, and but for whom
I had been seen among mankind no more.
Maiden! with me thy comrade in the war,
His arm is vow'd to heaven. Lo! where he stands
Bearing the battle's brunt! "
Nor paused they now
In further converse, to the perilous fray
Speeding, not unobserved; for Salisbury saw
And call'd on Talbot. Six, the bravest knights,
And sworn with them, against the Virgin's life
Address'd their course. She by the herald's side
Now urged the war, when on her white-plumed helm
The hostile falchion fell. On high she lifts
That hallowed sword, which in the tomb for her
Age after age, by miracle reserved,
Had lain, which time itself could not corrode,
How then might shield, or breastplate, or close mail
Retund its edge? Beneath that edge her foe
Fell; and the knight who to avenge him came,
Smitten by Conrade's battle-axe, was fell'd
Upon his dying friend. With Talbot here
The daring herald urged unequal fight;
For, like some oak that in its rooted strength
Defies the storm, the undaunted Earl endured
His quick assault. The herald round him wheels
Rapidly, now on this side, now on that,
With many a feign'd and many a frustrate aim
Flashing his falchion; now, as he perceives
With wary eye the Earl's intended stroke,
Bending, or leaping, lithe of limb, aside,
Then quick and agile in assault again.
Ill-fated man! one deed of glory more
Shall with the short-lived lightning's splendor grace
This thy death-day; for Slaughter even now
Stands o'er thy loom of life, and lifts his sword

Upon her shield the martial Maid received
An English warrior's blow, and in his side,
Beneath the arm upraised, in prompt return
Pierced him: that instant Salisbury sped his sword.
Which, glancing from her helm, fell on the folds
That arm'd her neck, and making there its way,
Stain'd with her blood its edge. The herald saw
And turn'd from Talbot, heedless of himself,
And lifting up his falchion, all his force
Concentred. On the breast of Salisbury
It fell, and cleft his mail, and through the plate
Beneath it drove, and in his heart's blood plunged.
Lo! as he struck, the mighty Talbot came,
And smote his helmet: slant the weapon fell;
The strings gave way, the helmet dropt, the Earl
Repeated on that head disarm'd his blow:
Too late to interpose the Maiden saw,
And in that miserable moment knew
Her Theodore.
Him Conrade too had seen,
And from a foe whom he had beaten down
Turn'd terrible in vengeance. Front to front
They stood, and each for the death-blow prepared
His angry might. At once their weapons fell,
The Frenchman's battle-axe and the good sword
Of Talbot. He, stunn'd by the weighty blow,
Sunk senseless, by his followers from the field
Convey'd with timely speed: nor had his blade
Fallen vainly on the Frenchman's crested helm,
Though weak to wound; for from his eyes the fire
Sparkled, and back recoiling with the blow,
He in the Maiden's arms astounded fell.

But now their troops, all captainless, confused,
Fear seized the English. Not with more dismay,
When over wild Caffraria's wooded hills
Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herd
Fly the death-boding sound. The forts they seek,
Now reckless which, so from that battle's rage
A present refuge. On their flying ranks
The victors press, and mark their course with blood.

But loud the trumpet of retreat resounds,
For now the westering sun with many a hue
Streak'd the gay clouds.
" Dunois! " the Maiden cried,
" Form now around yon stronger pile the siege,
There for the night encamping. " So she said.
The chiefs to Orleans for their needful food,
And enginery to batter that huge pile,
Dismiss'd a troop, and round the Tournelles led
The host beleaguering. There they pitch their tents,
And plant their engines for the morrow's war,
Then, to their meal, and o'er the cheerful bowl
Recount the tale of danger; soon to rest
Betaking them; for now the night drew on.