For little less his guilt, who dwells in peace, When every arm is needed for the strife!'
Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat,
By the woods bounded like some little isle. It ever hath been deem'd their favorite tree; They love to lie and rock upon its leaves,17 And bask in moonshine. Here the Woodman leads His boy, and showing him the green-sward mark'd With darker circlets, says their midnight dance Hath traced the rings, and bids him spare the tree. Fancy had cast a spell upon the place Which made it holy; and the villagers Would say that never evil thing approach'd Unpunish'd there. The strange and fearful pleasure -Thoughts like these Which fill'd me by that solitary spring,
"When we had all betaken us to rest, Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolved The high-soul'd warrior's speech. Then Madelon Rose in remembrance; over her the grave Had closed; her sorrows were not register'd In the rolls of fame; but when the tears run down The widow's cheek, shall not her cry be heard In Heaven against the oppressor? Will not God In sunder smite the unmerciful, and break The sceptre of the wicked? 15
Possess'd my soul, till at the break of day I slept; nor did my heated brain repose Even then; for visions, sent, as I believe,
From the Most High, arose. A high-tower'd town Hemm'd in and girt with enemies, I saw, Where Famine on a heap of carcasses, Half envious of the unutterable feast,
Ceased not in riper years; and now it woke Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe.
"A blessed spot! Oh, how my soul enjoy'd Its holy quietness, with what delight Escaping from mankind I hasten'd there To solitude and freedom! Thitherward
Mark'd the gorged raven clog his beak with gore. On a spring eve I had betaken me,
I turn'd me then to the besieger's camp, And there was revelry: a loud, lewd laugh Burst on mine ear, and I beheld the chiefs Sit at their feast, and plan the work of death. My soul grew sick within me; I look'd up, Reproaching Heaven,
And there I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds Gather before the wind-the rising wind, Whose sudden gusts, each wilder than the last, Appear'd to rock my senses. Soon the night Darken'd around, and the large rain-drops fell
lo! from the clouds an arm Heavy; anon tempestuously the gale
As of the avenging Angel was put forth, And from his hand a sword, like lightning, fell.
Swept o'er the wood. Methought the thundershower
Fell with refreshing coolness on my head,
"From that night I could feel my burden'd soul And the hoarse dash of waters, and the rush
Heaving beneath incumbent Deity.
I sate in silence, musing on the days
To come, unheeding and unseeing all
Around me, in that dreaminess of thought When every bodily sense is as it slept, And the mind alone is wakeful. I have heard Strange voices in the evening wind; strange forms Dimly discover'd throng'd the twilight air. The neighbors wonder'd at the sudden change; They call'd me crazed; and my dear Uncle, too, Would sit and gaze upon me wistfully, A heaviness upon his aged brow, And in his eye such sorrow, that my heart Sometimes misgave me. I had told him all The mighty future laboring in my breast, But that the hour, methought, not yet was come.
"At length I heard of Orleans, by the foe Wall'd in from human help: thither all thoughts, All hopes were turn'd; that bulwark beaten down, All were the invaders. Then my troubled soul Grew more disturb'd, and shunning every eye, I loved to wander where the woodland shade Was deepest, there on mightiest deeds to brood Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart Throb loud: anon I paused, and in a state Of half expectance, listen'd to the wind.
"There is a fountain in the forest call'd The Fountain of the Fairies: 16 when a child With a delightful wonder I have heard Tales of the Elfin tribe who on its banks Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak, The goodliest of the forest, grows beside;
A grateful coolness freshen'd the calm air, And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song Sung shrill and ceaseless,20 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, The prisoners of that shameful day out-summ'd "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."
A sharer in that dreadful day's defeat?"
Their "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 23
Exclaim'd the Bastard. "Didst thou know the Lord Thick as the snow-flakes and with lightning force; Of Orleans?" Thou wouldst have known such soldiers, such a
"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. 66 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!"
His head away, hiding the burning shame
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 1 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
Which flush'd his face. "But he shall live, In bitterness of heart. But the brave man,
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 21 Shall heighten all his joys, and his gray hairs Go to the grave in peace."
To see that day," replied their aged host: "How would my heart leap to behold again
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!"
Wept as he spake. "Ye may perhaps have heard Of the hard siege that Roan so long endur'd. 1 dwelt there, strangers; I had then a wife, And I had children tenderly beloved, Who I did hope should cheer me in old age
The gallant, generous chieftain! I fought by him, | 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 25 I speeded homewards, and abode in peace. Henry, as wise as brave, had back to England 26 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.27 One gallant Citizen was famed o'er all For daring hardihood preeminent, Blanchard. He, gathering round his countrymen, With his own courage kindling every breast, Had made them vow before Almighty God 28 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
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.30 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,31 Ruffians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptized,32 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 33 Houseless and destitute, while that stern King Knelt at the altar, and with impious prayer 34 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: 35 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 36 That merciless King. The wretched crowd pass'd My wife - my children— through the gates they pass'd, Then the gates closed- Would I were in my
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 | 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.37
They drove them to the walls; it was the depth Was gone to his account, and blest my God 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!"
"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.39
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 40 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: 41 calmly he died, And as he bow'd beneath the axe, thank'd God That he had done his duty.
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 42 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
I was not such as he!" So spake the old man, And then his guests betook them to repose.
FAIR dawn'd the morning, and the early sun Pour'd on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam, And up the travellers rose, and on their way Hasten'd, their dangerous way, through fertile
Laid waste by war. They pass'd the Auxerrois; The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth 46 The unreap'd harvest; from the village church No even-song bell was heard; the shepherd's dog Prey'd on the scatter'd flock, for there was now No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth Where he had slumber'd at his master's feet Weeds grew and reptiles crawl'd. Or if they found Sometimes a welcome, those who welcomed them Were old and helpless creatures, lingering there Where they were born, and where they wish'd to die,
The place being all that they had left to love. They pass'd the Yonne, they pass'd the rapid Loire, Still urging on their way with cautious speed, Shunning Auxerre, and Bar's embattled wall, And Romorantin's towers.
Fast by a spring, which welling at his feet With many a winding crept along the mead, A Knight they saw, who there at his repast Let the west wind play round his ungirt brow. Approaching near, the Bastard recognized That faithful friend of Orleans, the brave chief Du Chastel; and their mutual greeting pass'd, They on the streamlet's mossy bank reclined Beside him, and his frugal fare partook, And drank the running waters.
"Art thou bound For the Court, Dunois?" exclaim'd the aged Knight;
"I thought thou hadst been far away, shut up In Orleans, where her valiant sons the siege Right loyally endure!"
"I left the town," Dunois replied, "thinking that my prompt speed Might seize the enemy's stores, and with fresh force Reënter. Fastolffe's better fate prevail'd,47 And from the field of shame my maddening horse Bore me, an arrow having pierced his flank.
Worn out and faint with that day's dangerous toil, My deep wounds bleeding, vainly with weak hand I check'd the powerless rein. Nor aught avail'd When heal'd at length, defeated and alone Again to enter Orleans. In Lorraine
I sought to raise new powers, and now return'd With strangest and most unexpected aid. Sent by high Heaven, I seek the Court, and thence To that beleaguer'd town shall lead such force, That the proud English in their fields of blood Shall perish."
"I too," Tanneguy reply'd, In the field of battle once again perchance May serve my royal Master; in his cause My youth adventur'd much, nor can my age Find better close than in the clang of arms To die for him whom I have lived to serve.48 Thou art for the Court. Son of the Chief I loved! Be wise by my experience. He who seeks Court-favor, ventures like a boy who leans Over the brink of some high precipice
To reach the o'erhanging fruit.49 Thou seest me His strong holds taken, and his bravest Chiefs
A banish'd man, Dunois ! 50 so to appease Richemont, who, jealous of the royal ear, With midnight murder leagues, and down the Loire Sends the black carcass of his strangled foe,51 Now confident of strength, at the King's feet He stabs the King's best friends, and then demands, As with a conqueror's imperious tone, The post of honor. Son of that good Duke Whose death my arm avenged,52 may all thy days Be happy; serve thy country in the field, But in the hour of peace amid thy friends Dwell thou without ambition."
So he spake. But when the Bastard told his wondrous tale, How interposing Heaven had its high aid Vouchsafed to France, the old man's eyes flash'd fire,
And rising from the bank, his ready steed
That grazed beside he mounted. "Farewell, friend, And thou, the Delegate of Heaven!" he cried. "I go to do my part, and we shall meet At Orleans." Saying thus, he spurr'd away. They journey on their way till Chinon's towers Rose on the distant view; the royal seat Of Charles, while Paris with her servile sons, A headstrong, mutable, ferocious race, Bow'd to the invader's yoke; City even then Above all Cities noted for dire deeds! Yet doom'd to be the scene of blacker guilt, Opprobry more enduring, crimes that call'd For heavier vengeance, than in those dark days When the Burgundian faction fill'd thy streets With carnage. 53 Twice hast thou since then been
Or slain or captured, and the hopes of youth All blasted, have subdued the royal mind Undisciplined in Fortitude's stern school. So may thy voice arouse his sleeping virtue!"
The mission'd Maid replied, "Do thou, Dunois, Announce my mission to the royal ear. 1 on the river's winding bank the while Will roam, collecting for the interview My thoughts, though firm, yet troubled. Who essays
Achievements of great import will perforce Feel the heart heave; and in my breast I own Such perturbation."
On the banks of Vienne Devious the Damsel turn'd, while through the gate The Son of Orleans press'd with hasty step To seek the King. Him from the public view He found secluded with his blameless Queen, And his partaker of the unlawful bed, The lofty-minded Agnes.
So as he enter'd cried the haughty fair, "Thou art well come to witness the disgrace, The weak, unmanly, base despondency Of this thy Sovereign Liege. He will retreat To distant Dauphiny and fly the war! Go then, unworthy of thy rank! retreat To distant Dauphiny, and fly the war, Recreant from battle! I will not partake A fugitive's fate; when thou hast lost thy crown Thou losest Agnes. - Do'st not blush, Dunois! To bleed in combat for a Prince like this, Fit only, like the Merovingian race On a May morning deck'd with flowers,55 to mount His gay-bedizen'd car, and ride abroad And make the multitude a holiday.
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