And through his all-in-vain imploring hands
Cleaves the poor suppliant. On that dreadful day
The sword of Talbot, clogg’d with hostile gore,
Made good its vaunt. Amid the heaps his arm 495
Had slain, the chieftain stood and sway’d around
His furious strokes: nor ceased he from the fight,
Though now discomfited the English troops
Fled fast, all panic-struck and spiritless,
And mingling with the routed, Fastolffe fled, 500
Fastolffe, all fierce and haughty as he was,
False to his former fame; for he beheld
The Maiden rushing onward, and such fear
Ran through his frame, as thrills the African,
When, grateful solace in the sultry hour, 505
He rises on the buoyant billow’s breast,
And then beholds the inevitable shark
Close on him, open-mouth’d.
But Talbot now
A moment paused, for bending thitherward
He mark’d a warrior, such as well might ask 510
His utmost force. Of strong and stately port
The onward foeman moved, and bore on high
A battle-axe, in many a field of blood
Known by the English chieftain. Over heaps 514
Of slaughter’d, he made way, and bade the troops
Retire from the bold earl: then Conrade spake.
“Vain is thy valour, Talbot I look around,
See where thy squadrons fly I but thou shalt lose
No honour, by their cowardice subdued,
Performing well thyself the soldier’s part.” 520
“And let them fly!” the indignant Earl exclaim’d,
“And let them fly! and bear thou witness, chief!
That guiltless of this day’s disgrace, I fall.
But, Frenchman! Talbot will not tamely fall,
Nor unrevenged.”
So saying, for the war 525
He stood prepared: nor now with heedless rage
The champions fought, for either knew full well
His foeman’s prowess: now they aim the blow
Insidious, with quick change then drive the steel
Fierce on the side exposed. The unfaithful arms 530
Yield to the strong-driven edge; the blood streams
down
Their batter’d mail. With swift eye Conrade mark’d
The lifted buckler, and beneath impell’d
His battle-axe; that instant on his helm
The sword of Talbot fell, and with the blow 535
It broke. “Yet yield thee, Englishman!” exclaim’d
The generous Frank, “vain is this bloody strife:
Me should’st thou conquer, little would my death
Avail thee, weak and wounded!”
“Long enough
Talbot has lived,” replied the sullen chief: 540
“His hour is come; yet shalt not thou survive
To glory in his fall!” So, as he spake,
He lifted from the ground a massy spear,
And came again to battle.
Now more fierce
The conflict raged, for careless of himself, 545
And desperate, Talbot fought. Collected still
Was Conrade. Whereso’er his foeman aim’d
The well-thrust javelin, there he swung around
His guardian shield: the long and vain assault
Exhausted Talbot now; foredone with toil 550
He bare his buckler low for weariness,
The buckler now splinter’d with many a stroke
Fell piecemeal; from his riven arms the blood
Stream’d fast: and now the Frenchman’s battle-axe
Came unresisted on the shieldless mail. 555
But then he held his hand. “Urge not to death
This fruitless contest!” he exclaim’d: “Oh chief!
Are there not those in England who would feel
Keen anguish at thy loss? a wife perchance
Who trembles for thy safety, or a child 560
Needing a father’s care!”
Then Talbot’s heart
Smote him. “Warrior!” he cried, “if thou dost think
That life is worth preserving, hie thee hence,
And save thyself: I loathe this useless talk.”
So saying, he address’d him to the fight, 565
Impatient of existence: from their arms
Fire flash’d, and quick they panted; but not long
Endured the deadly combat. With full force
Down through his shoulder even to the chest,
Conrade impell’d the ponderous battle-axe; 570
And at that instant underneath his shield
Received the hostile spear. Prone fell the Earl,
Even in his death rejoicing that no foe
Should live to boast his fall.
Then with faint hand
Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his brow 575
Wiping the cold dews ominous of death,
He laid him on the earth, thence to remove,
While the long lance hung heavy in his side,
Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe
He lay, the herald of the English Earl 580
With faltering step drew near, and when he saw
His master’s arms, “Alas! and is it you,
My lord?” he cried. “God pardon you your sins!
I have been forty years your officer,
And time it is I should surrender now 585
The ensigns of my office!” So he said,
And paying thus his rite of sepulture,
Threw o’er the slaughter’d chief his blazon’d coat
Then Conrade thus bespake him: “Englishman,
Do for a dying soldier one kind act! 590
Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her haste
Hither, and thou shalt gain what recompence
It pleaseth thee to ask.”
The herald soon
Meeting the mission’d Virgin, told his tale.
Trembling she hasten’d on, and when she knew 595
The death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could Joan
Lift up the expiring warrior’s heavy hand,
And press it to her heart.
“I sent for thee,
My friend!” with interrupted voice he cried,
That I might comfort this my dying hour 600
With one good deed. A fair domain is mine,
Let Francis and his Isabel possess
That, mine inheritance.” He paused awhile,
Struggling for utterance; then with breathless speed,
And pale as him he mourn’d for, Francis came, 605
And hung in silence o’er the blameless man,
Even with a brother’s sorrow: he pursued,
“This Joan will be thy care. I have at home
An aged mother — Francis, do thou soothe
Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus:
Sweet to the wretched is the tomb’s repose!” 611
So saying, Conrade drew the javelin forth,
And died without a groan.
By this the scouts,
Forerunning the king’s march, upon the plain
Of Patay had arrived, of late so gay 615
With marshall’d thousands in their radiant arms,
And streamers glittering in the noon-tide sun,
And blazon’d shields and gay accoutrements,
The pageantry of war: but now defiled
With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms,
And mangled bodies. Soon the monarch joins 621
His victor army. Round the royal flag,
Uprear’d in conquest now, the chieftains flock
Proffering their eager service. To his arms,
Or wisely fearful, or by speedy force 625
Compell’d, the embattled towns submit
and own
Their rightful king. Baugenci strives in vain:
Yenville and Mehun yield; from Sully’s wall
Hurl’d is the banner’d lion: on they pass, 629
Auxerre, and Troyes, and Chalons, ope their gates,
And by the mission’d Maiden’s rumour’d deeds
Inspirited, the citizens of Rheims
Feel their own strength; against the English troops
With patriot valour, irresistible,
They rise, they conquer, and to their liege lord 635
Present the city keys.
The morn was fair
When Rheims re-echoed to the busy hum
Of multitudes, for high solemnity
Assembled. To the holy fabric moves 639
The long procession, through the streets bestrewn
With flowers and laurel boughs. The courtier throng
Were there, and they in Orleans, who endured
The siege right bravely; Gaucour, and La Hire,
The gallant Xaintrailles, Boussac, and Chabannes,
Alenson, and the bravest of the brave, 645
The Bastard Orleans, now in hope elate,
Soon to release from hard captivity
His dear-beloved brother; gallant men,
And worthy of eternal memory,
For they, in the most perilous times of France, 650
Despair’d not of their country. By the king
The delegated Damsel pass’d along
Clad in her batter’d arms. She bore on high
Her hallow’d banner to the sacred pile,
And fix’d it on the altar, whilst her hand 655
Pour’d on the monarch’s head the mystic oil,
Wafted of yore by milk-white dove from heaven,
(So legends say) to Clovis when he stood
At Rheims for baptism; dubious since that day,
When Tolbiac plain reek’d with his warrior’s blood,
And fierce upon their flight the Almanni prest, 661
And rear’d the shout of triumph; in that hour
Clovis invoked aloud the Christian God
And conquer’d: waked to wonder thus, the chief
Became love’s convert, and Clotilda led 665
Her husband to the font.
The mission’d Maid
Then placed on Charles’s brow the crown of France,
And back retiring, gazed upon the king
One moment, quickly scanning all the past,
Till in a tumult of wild wonderment 670
She wept aloud. The assembled multitude
In awful stillness witness’d: then at once,
As with a tempest-rushing noise of winds,
Lifted their mingled clamours. Now the Maid
Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand, 675
And instant silence followed.
“King of France!”
She cried, “At Chinon, when my gifted eye
Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit
Prompted, I promised, with the sword of God,
To drive from Orleans far the English wolves, 680
And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims.
All is accomplish’d. I have here this day
Fulfill’d my mission, and anointed thee
King over this great nation. Of this charge,
Or well perform’d or carelessly, that God 685
Of Whom thou holdest thine authority
Will take account; from Him all power derives.
Thy duty is to fear the Lord, and rule,
According to His word and to the laws,
The people thus committed to thy charge: 690
Theirs is to fear Him and to honour Thee.
And with that fear and honour to obey
In all things lawful; both being thus alike
By duty bound, alike restricted both
From wilful license. If thy heart be set 695
To do His will and in His ways to walk,
I know no limit to the happiness
Thou may’st create. I do beseech thee, King!”
The Maid exclaim’d, and fell upon the ground
And clasp’d his knees, “I do beseech thee, King!
By all the thousands that depend on thee, 701
For weal or woe,.. consider what thou art,
By Whom appointed! If thou dost oppress
Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself
Thou tear st them from their homes, and sendest them
To slaughter, prodigal of misery; 706
If when the widow and the orphan groan
In want and wretchedness, thou turnest thee
To hear the music of the flatterer’s tongue;
If when thou hear’st of thousands who have fallen.
Thou say’st, ‘I am a King I and fit it is 711
That these should perish for me;’.. if thy realm
Should, through the counsels of thy government,
Be fill’d with woe, and in thy streets be heard
The voice of mourning and the feeble cry 715
Of asking hunger; if in place of Law
Iniquity prevail; if Avarice grind
The poor; if discipline be utterly
Relax’d, Vice charter’d, Wickedness let loose;
Though in the general ruin all must share, 720
Each answer for his own peculiar guilt,
Yet at the Judgement-day, from those to whom
The power was given, the Giver of all power
Will call for righteous and severe account.
Chuse thou the better part, and rule the land 725
In righteousness; in righteousness thy throne
Shall then be stablish’d, not by foreign foes
Shaken, nor by domestic enemies,
But guarded then by loyalty and love, 729
True hearts, Good Angels, and All-seeing Heaven.”
Thus spake the Maid of Orleans, solemnly
Accomplishing her marvellous mission here.
THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS
This poem was originally printed as the ninth Book of Joan of Arc, but Southey later chose to adapt the work in an improved edition and then chose to publish The Vision of the Maid of Orleans separately as an individual poem, divided into three books. Composed as a Spenserian allegory of life, the poem narrates Joan’s epic dream voyage to the Underworld. The poem owes much in content and composition to Edmund Spenser, with the first book forming a compound of the Despair episode in the first book of the Faerie Queene, where the heroine beholds the Fates and is given a vision of her future. In the second Book, Joan is reunited with the spirit of her lover Theodroe and led through Purgatory, imitating Guyon’s adventures in the Cave of Mammon. The poem culminates in Book III with Joan obtaining a glimpse of heaven in an innocent Bower of Bliss.
CONTENTS
THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. THE FIRST BOOK.
THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. THE SECOND BOOK.
THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. THE THIRD BOOK.
THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. THE FIRST BOOK.
Orleans was hush’d in sleep. Stretch’d on her couch
The delegated Maiden lay: with toil
Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed
Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then,
For busy Phantasy, in other scenes
Awakened. Whether that superior powers,
By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream,
Instructing so the passive faculty;
Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog,
Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world,
And all things ‘are’ that ‘seem’.
Along a moor,
Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate,
She roam’d a wanderer thro’ the cheerless night.
Far thro’ the silence of the unbroken plain
The bittern’s boom was heard, hoarse, he
avy, deep,
It made most fitting music to the scene.
Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind,
Swept shadowing; thro’ their broken folds the moon
Struggled sometimes with transitory ray,
And made the moving darkness visible.
And now arrived beside a fenny lake
She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse
The long sedge rustled to the gales of night.
An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell’d
By powers unseen; then did the moon display
Where thro’ the crazy vessel’s yawning side
The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides,
And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan’d
As melancholy mournful to her ear,
As ever by the dungeon’d wretch was heard
Howling at evening round the embattled towers
Of that hell-house of France, ere yet sublime
The almighty people from their tyrant’s hand
Dash’d down the iron rod.
Intent the Maid
Gazed on the pilot’s form, and as she gazed
Shiver’d, for wan her face was, and her eyes
Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep,
Channell’d by tears; a few grey locks hung down
Beneath her hood: then thro’ the Maiden’s veins
Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass’d,
Lifting her tattcr’d mantle, coil’d around
She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart.
The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by,
And the night-raven’s scream came fitfully,
Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid
Look’d to the shore, and now upon the bank
Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still
In recollection.
There, a mouldering pile
Stretch’d its wide ruins, o’er the plain below
Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon
Shone thro’ its fretted windows: the dark Yew,
Withering with age, branched there its naked roots,
And there the melancholy Cypress rear’d
Its head; the earth was heav’d with many a mound,
And here and there a half-demolish’d tomb.
And now, amid the ruin’s darkest shade,
The Virgin’s eye beheld where pale blue flames
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 19