Book >t^ .5 \ 1^ o^^ ^4 K \v- F®ETI€AIL WBWilKB ©IF !E®®IilRT §®fflrTMlY IL.ILID). Collecte.d by Himself. i TH K COMPi.ETE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBEET SOUTHEY, LL. D, (LATE POET LAUREATE.) COLLECTED BY HIMSELF. A NEW EDITION, INCLUDING 'OLIVER NEWMAN, AND OTHER POEMS/' NOV\/' FIRST PUBLISHED. ILLUSTRATED WITH EIGHT FINE STEEL ENGRAVINGS FROM DRAWINGS BY KENNY MEADOWS, CORBOULD, WESTALL, AND MIDDLETON. NEW-YORK: D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY. 1851. CONTENTS. Preface 7 JOAN OF ARC 9 Preface 9 Original Preface 10 Dedication 13 Book 1 13 11 17 in 20 IV 25 / 29 VI 34 VII 38 VIII 44 IX 49 X 53 Notes 59 THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 80 IJook 1 86 II 89 111 92 Notes 9t JUVENILE AND MINOR POEMS, Vol. I. . 9G Preface 9G Dedication 98 Fhe Triumph of Woman 98 Dedication 98 Wat Tvler 101 Poems co«cerning the Slave Trade 110 Si.t Sonnets 110 To the Genius of Africa Ill The Sailor who had served in the Slave Trade Ill Verses spoken in tlie Theatre at 0.xford, upon the Installation of Lord Grenville 112 Botany 15.ay Eclogues 113 Elinor.. . 113 Humphrey and William 114 John, Samuel, and Richard IIG Frederick 117 Sonnets 118 monodramas 121 Sappho 121 Zimalpoca 121 The Wife of Fergus 122 l.ucrctia. . .123 La Caba 123 The Amatory Poems of Abel Shufflebot- tom 124 'jOVE Elegies 12.0 Lyric Poems 127 To Horror 127 To Contemplation 127 To a Friend 128 Remembrance 129 The Soulier's Wife 129 The Widow 129 The Chapel Bell 130 To Hymen 130 Written on the First of December 131 Written- on the First of January , 131 Written on Sunday ftlorning 132 The Race of Banquo 132 Written in .\lentejo 1-32 To Recoverv 133 Youth au.l Age 133 The Oak of our Fathers 134 The Battle of Pultowa 131 The Traveller's Return 134 The Old Man's Comforts 135 Translation of a Greek Ode on Astronomy. . . 135 Gooseberry Pie 136 To a Bee 137 To a Spider 137 The Destruction of Jerusalem 137 The Death of Wallace 138 The Spanish Armada 138 St. Bartholomew's Day 139 The Holly-Tree 139 The Ebb Tide 110 The Complaints of the Poor MO To Mary 141 To a Friend, inquiring if I woula live over my Youth again 341 Tlie Dead Friend Ml Songs of the American Indians 142 . The Huron's Address to the Dead 142 The Peruvian's Dirge over the Body of his FaUier 14.') Song of the Araucans during a Tbundcr-Storrn M3 Songof the Chikkasah Widow Ml The Old Chikkasah to his Grandson Ill Occasional Pieces 1 ! J The Pauper's Funeral ] !.^ The Soldier's Funeral 14-5 On a Landscape of Caspar Ponssin 146 Written on Christmas Day. 1795 146 Written after visiting the Convent of .\rrabida. 147 On my own Miniature Picture 147 On the Death of a favorite old Spaniel 147 Recollections of a Day's Journey in Spain. . . 148 To Margaret Hill 149 Autumn. 149 The Victory 150 CONTENTS. Page. History 130 Written immediately after reading the Speech of Robert Emmet 150 Thaulvsgiving lor Victor}^ 131 Stanzas written in Lady Lonsdale's Album, . . 151 Stanzas addressed to W. R. Turner, Esq., R. A. 132 On a Picture by J. M. Wriglit, Esq 152 Stanzas 153 Imitated from the Persian 153 Thk Rp.rRospECT 134 lli'.ii.N TO THE Penates 153 JUVENILE AND MINOR POEMS, Vol. II. . 158 Preface \oii English Eclogues 159 The Old Mansion House ICO The Grandmother's Tale 161 Hannah K2 The Sailor's Mother 103 The Witch 1C5 Tlie Ruined Cottage 1C6 The Last of the Family 1G7 The Wedding 1G9 The Alderman's Funeral 170 Nondescripts 172 Written the Winter after the Installation at Oxford, 1793 172 Snuff. 172 Cool Reflections during a Midsummer Walk. . 173 The Pig 173 The Dancing Bear, 17-1' Tlie Filbert 171- The Cataract of Lodore 175 Robert the Rltymer's true and particular Ac- count of Himself. The Devil's Walk. LnSCKII'TIONS For a CoIumnjLl„j\«wt5trry. ^Of -e C'avern that overlooks the River Avon. . "" For a Tablet at Silbury Hill For a Monument in the New Forest For a Tablet on the Banks of a Stream For the Cenotaph at Ermenonville For a Monument at O-xford For a Monument in the Vale of Ewias Epitaph on Algernon Sydney Epitaph on King John. In a Forest For a Monument at Tordesilias For a Column at Tru.xillo Fo 'lie Ceil of Honorius, at the Cork Convent, wear Cintra For a Monument at Taunton For a Tablet at Pcnshurst Two Epitaphs For a Monument at Rolissa For a Monument at Vimeiro At Coruiia Epitaph To the IVIemory of Paul Burrara For the Banks of the Douro Talavera. For the Field of Battle For the Deserto de Busaco For the Lines of Torres Vedras At Santarem At Fuentes d'Onoro ■. . At Barossa For a Monument at .\Ibuhera ISO 180 180 180 181 181 181 181 181 182 182 182 182 182 182 183 183 183 181 184. 184 184 185 185 186 186 186 187 187 187 188 Past. To the Memory of Sir William Myers 188 Epitaph 188 For the Walls of Ciudad Rodrigo 189 To the Memory of Major-General Mackinnou. 189 For the Ailair at Arroyo Molinos 190 Written in an unpublished Volume of Letters, &c. by Barre Charles Roberts 190 Two Epitaphs 190 Inscriptions for the Caledonian Canal 191 1. At Clachnacharry 191 2. At Fort Augustus 191 3. At Banavie 192 Epitaph in Budeigh Church 192 Epitaph 192 Dedication of the Author's Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society 193 Carme.v Tp.iumphale, for the Commence- ment OF THE Year 1814 194 Notes 197 Odes 201 Written during the Negotiations with Bona- parte, in January, 1814 201 Written during the War with America 202 Carmina Aulica: written in 1814, on THE jVrKIVAL of THE ALLIED SOVE- REIGNS IN England 204 Ode to His Royal Highness the Prince Regent of the United Kingdom 201 Ode to His Imperial Majesty, Alexander the First, Emperor of all the Russias. . 206 Ode to His Majesty, Frederick William the Fourth, King of Prussia 207 On the Battle of ,\lgiers 209 On the Death of Queen Charlotte 209 Ode for St. George's Day 210 Ode written after the King's Visit to Ireland. . 211 Ode written after the King's Visit to Scotland. 213 The Warning Voice 214 Ode I 214 Ode II 215 On the Portrait of Bishop Heber 217 Epistle to Allan Cunningham 219 Op eene Verzameling van mijne Afbeel- DINGEN 223 THALABA the DESTROYER 224 Preface 224 Book 1 225 Notes 231 Book II 236 Notes 240 Book HI 243 Notes 248 Book IV 255 Notes 261 Book V 265 Notes 270 Book VI J74 Notes Book VII Notes Book VIII Notes Book IX 295 Notes .300 Book X 304 Notes 308 278 281 285 287 291 CONTENTS. Book XI 313 Notes 318 Book XII 319 Noles 324 lADOC 325 Preface 325 Part I. — Madoc in Wales 327 I. The Return to Wales 327 II. The Marriage Feast 32!) III. Cadwallon. . . . ; 331 IV. The Voyage 333 V. Lincoya 335 VI. Erillyab 337 VII. The Battle 339 VIII. The Peace tUi IX. Emma 3-13 X. Malhraval *14 XI. The Gorsedd 3K3 XII. Dinevawr 3i7 XIU. Llewelyn 3i9 XIV. Llaiaji 351 XV. The Excommuuicalion 353 XVI. David 355 XVII. The Departure 356 XVIII. Rodri 358 Notes to Pakt 1 359 I'iRT II. — Madoc is Aztlan 374 I. Tlie Return to Aztlan 374 II. The Tidings 375 III. Neoliii 378 IV. Amalahta 379 V. War denounced 380 VI. The Festival of tlie Dead 381 VII. The Snake-God 384 VIII. The Conversion of the Hoamen 38G IX. Tlalala 387 X. The Arrival of the Gods 389 XI. The Capture 391 XII. Hoel 392 XIII. Coatel 394 XIV. The Stone of Sacrifice 395 XV. Tlie Battle 398 XVI. The Women 399 XVII. The Dpliverance 402 XVIII. The Victory 401 XIX. The Funeral 406 XX. The Death of Coatel '107 XXI. The Sports 408 XXII. The Death of Lincoya 409 XXIII. Caradoc and Sencna 410 XXIV. The Embassy 411 XXV. The Lalce Fight 412 XXVI. The Close of the Century 413 XXVII. The Migration of the Aztecas 416 Notes to Part II 420 The Pious Painter : Pan 1 44S Part II . 4-19 St. Michael's Chair 4.50 King Henry V. and the Hermit of Dreux. . . .451 Old Christoval's .\dvice -151 Cornelius .\grippa 452 King Cliarlemain 4.^3 St. Komuald 455 The King of the Crocodiles : Parti 4,% Part II I.')7 The Rose 457 The Lover's Rock 458 Garci Ferrandez : Part 1 459 Part II 460 flALLADS AND METRICAL TALES, Vol. I. 434 Preface 434 Mary, the Slaid of the Inn 435 Donica 436 Rudiger 438 Jaspar 440 Lord William 442 St. Patrick's Purgatory 443 The Cross Roads 44-4 God's Judgcnont on a wicked Bishop 447 King Ramiro 451 The Inclirape Rock 464 The Well of St. Keync 465 Bishop Briuio 4^36 The Baltic of Blenheim 467 A true Ballad of St. Antidius, the Pope, and the Devil 468 Gonzalo Hermiguez 470 Queen Orraca, and the Five Martyrs of Jlo- rocco 470 The Old Woman of Berkeley 472 The Surgeon's Warning 475 Henry the Hennit 476 St. Gualbcrto 477 Notes 480 The March to Moscow 483 Brough Bells 484 Queoii .Mary's Christening 486 Roprccht the Robber : Part 1 488 Part II. 489 Part III 489 Part IV 490 The Young Dragon : Part 1 492 Part 11 493 Part III 494 Part IV 495 Epilogue 10 the Voung Dragon 497 BALLADS AND JIETRIC.AL TALES, Vol. II. 498 Advertisement 498 ^A Tale of Paraguay 498 Preface 493 Dedication 500 Proem 501 Canto 1 502 Canto 11. 506 Canto III 611 ^ Canto IV 516 Notes 522 All for Love 533 Dedication 533 Notes 517 The Pilorim to Compostella 554 Prelude 551 Introduction 554 The Legend : Part 1 555 ^ Part II 556 Part HI 557 Part IV 657 Notes 559 THE CURSE OF KEHA.MA 565 Preface 665 Original Preface 567 C (J N T E N T S . I. Tlie Funeral oG7 II. The Curse 569 III. The Recovery 571 IV. The Departure 572 V. The Separation 574 VI. Casyapa 576 VII. Tlic Swerga. 578 VIII. The Sacrifice 581 IX. The Home Scene 582 X. Blount Mcru 584 .XI. The Enchantress 687 XII. The Sacrifice completed 530 XIII. The Retreat 51.11 XIV. Jaga-Xaut 593 XV. The City of Baly 595 XVI. The Ancient Sepulchres 598 XVII. Baly 601 XVIII. Kehama's Descent G02 XIX. Jlount Calasay bOi XX. The Embarkation 606 XXI. The World's End 607 XXII. The Gate of Padalon 608 XXIII. Padalon 610 XXIV. The Amreela 613 Notes 616 RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. CA6 Preface 646 Original Preface G49 I. Roderick and Romano 649 II. Roderick in Solitude 652 III. .\dosinda 654 IV. The Monastery of St. Feli.x 657 V. Roderick and Siverian 660 VI. Roderick in Times past 663 VII. Roderick and Pelayo 665 VIII. Alphonso .' 666 rX. Florinda 668 X. Roderick and Florinda 669 XI. Count Pedro's Castle 673 XII. The Vow 674 XIII. Count Eudon 676 XIV. The Rescue 678 XV. Roderick at Cangas 680 XVI. Covadonga G82 XVII. Roderick and Siverian 635 XVIIl. The Acclamation 687 XIX. Roderick and Rusilla 690 XX. The Moorish Camp 691 XXI. The Fountain in the Forest 694 XXII. The Moorish Council 698 XXIII. The Vale of Covadonga 700 P«8e. XXIV. Roderick and Count Julian 702 XXV. Roderick in Battle 704 Notes 709 THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE TO WATER- LOO 747 Argument 747 Proem 747 Part I. — The Journey 749 I. Flanders . . 749 II. Brussels 752 III. The Field of BatUe 753 IV. The Scene of War 757 P.tRT II. — The Vision 759 I. The Tower 759 II. The Evil Prophet 762 III. Tl'.e Sacred ftlounlain 764 IV. Tiie Hopes of Man 767 Notes 771 CARMEN NUPTIALE. — The Lay of the LAURE.4TE 777 Proem 777 The Dream 779 Epilogue 784 L'Euvoy 785 Notes 785 FUNERAL SONG, for the Princess Char- lotte OF Wales 786 A VISION OF JUDGME!?}3V-^-r-r;r7 . . . 788 Dedication , 783 New Preface 788 Original Preface 791 I. The Trance 795 II. The Vault 796 HI. The Awakening 797 IV. The Gate of Heaven 798 V. The .Accusers 799 VI. The .\bsolvers 800 VII. The Beatification SOI VIII. The Sovereigns 802 IX. The Elder Worthies 803 X. The Worthies of the Georgian Age. . . 803 XI. The Young Spirits 804 XII. The Meeting 805 Notes . .806 Specimens, &c 809 OLIVER NEWMAN, A NEW ENGLAND TALE. Page. Preface 811 I. Funeral at Sea 812 II. The Voyage 813 III. Cape Cod 816 IV. The Captives Ransometl 818 V. The Portrait 821 VI. Future Prospects 822 VII. The Indian War 825 VIII. Parting Words 829 IX. Journey through the Forest 830 X 832 Page. Appendix to Oliver Newman 832 Miscellaneous Poetical Remains : Fragmentary Thoughts occasioned by his Son's Death 835 Short Passages of Scripture, rhythmically arranged or paraphrased 835 Little Book, in Green and Gold 838 Lines written in the Album of Rotha Q. . . . 838 Imagination and Reality 839 Madrigal, from Luis Martin 839 Mohammed j a Fragment 839 THE POETICAL WORKS ROBERT SOUTHEY PREFACE At the age of sixty-three I have undertaken to collect and edite my Poetical Works, with the last corrections that I can expect to bestow upon them. They have obtained a reputation equal to my wishes ; and I have this ground for hoping it may not be deemed hereafter more than commensurate with their deserts, that it has been gained without ever accommodating myself to the taste or fashion of the times. Thus to collect and revise them is a duty which I owe to that part of the Public by whom they have been auspiciously received, and to those who will take a lively concern in my good name when I shall have departed. The arrangement was the first thing to be con- sidered. In this the order wherein the respective poems were written has been observed, so far as was compatible with a convenient classification. Such order is useful to those who read critjcally, and desire to trace the progress of an author's mind in his writings; and by affixmg dates to the minor pieces, under whatever head they are disposed, the object is sufficiently attained. Next came the question of correction. There was no difficulty with those poems which were composed after the author had acquired his art, (so far as he has acquired it,) and after his opinions were matured. It was only necessary to bear in mind the risk there must ever be of injuring a poem by verbal alterations made long after it was written ; inasmuch as it must be impossible to recall the precise train of thought in which any passage was conceived, and the considerations upon which not the single verse alone, but the whole sentence, or paragraph, had been con- structed : but with regard to more important changes, there could be no danger of introducing any discrepance in style. With juvenile pieces the case is different. From these the faults of diction have been weeded, wherever it could be done without more trouble than the composition originally cost, and than the piece itself was worth. But inherent faults of conception and structure are incurable ; and it would have been mere waste of time to recompose what it was im- possible otherwise to amend. If these poems had been now for the first time to be made public, there are some among them which, instead of being committed to the press, would have been consigned to the flames ; not for any disgrace which could be reflected upon me by the crude compositions of my youth, nor for any harm which they could possibly do the reader, but merely that they might not cumber the col- lection. Hut " 7iescit roz missa Tcverti," Pirated editions would hold out as a recommendation, that they contained what I had chosen to sup- press, and thus it becomes prudent, and therefore proper, that such pieces should be retained. It has ever been a rule with me when I have imitated a passage, or borrowed an expression, to acknowledge the specific obligation. Upon the present occasion it behoves me to state the more general and therefore more important obligations wliich I am conscious of owing either to my pred- ecessors or my contemporaries. My first attempts in verse were much too early to be imitative ; but I was fortunate enough to find my way, when very young, into the right path. I read the "Jerusalem Delivered" and the "Or- lando Furioso, " again and again, in Hoole's trans- lations ; it was for tiie sake of their stories that I perused and re-perused these poems with ever- new delight; and by bringing them thus within my reach in boyhood, the translator rendered me a service which, when I look back upon my in- tellectual life, I cannot estimate too highly. I owe him much also for his notes, not only for the information concerning other Italian romances wiiich they imparted, but also for introducing me to Spenser; — how early, an incident which I well remember may show. Going with a relation into Bull's circulating library at Bath, (an excel- lent one for those days,) and asking whetiier they 8 P K K F A C E . had the " Faery Queen," the person who managed the shop said, " Yes, they had it, but it was in obsolete language, and tlie young gentleman would not understand it." But I, who had learned all I then knew of the history of England from Shakespear, and who had moreover read Beaumont and Fletcher, found no difficulty in Spenser's English, and felt in the beauty of his versification a charm in poetry of which I had never been fully sensible before. From that time 1 took Spenser for my master. I drank also be- times of Chaucer's well. The taste which had been acquired in that school was confirmed by Percy's "Reliques" and Warton's "History of English Poetry;" and a little later by Homer and the Bible. It was not likely to be corrupted afterwards. My school-boy verses savored of Gray, Mason, and my predecessor Warton ; and in the best of my juvenile pieces it may be seen how much the writer's mind had been imbued by Akenside. I am conscious also of having derived much benefit at one time from Cowper, and more from Bowles ; for wliich, and for the del^ht which his poems gave me at an age when we are most susceptible of such delight, my good friend at Bremhill, to wliom I was then and long afterwards personally unknown, will allow me to make this grateful and cordial acknowledgment. My obligation to Dr. Sayers is of a different kind. Every one who has an ear for metre and a lieart for poetry, must have felt how perfectly the metre of Collins's "Ode to Evening" is in accord- ance with the imagery and the feeling. None of the experiments which were made of other unrhymed stanzas proved successful. They were either in strongly-marked and well-known measures, which unavoidably led the reader to expect rhyme, and consequently balked him v;hen he looked for it ; or they were in stanzas as cumbrous as they were ill constructed. Dr. Sayers went upon a different principle, and suc- ceeded admirably. I read his " Dramatic Sketches of Northern Mythology " when they were first published, and convinced myself, when 1 had acquired some skill in versification, that the kind of verse in which his choruses were composed was not less applicable to narration than to lyrical poetry. Soon after I had begun the Arabian romance, for which this measure seemed the most appropriate vehicle, " Gebir " fell into my hands ; and my verse was greatly improved by it, both in vividness and strength. Several years elapsed before I knew that Walter Landor was the author, and more before I had the good fortune to meet the person to whom I felt myself thus behDlden. The days which I have passed with him in the Vale of Ewias. at Como, and lastly in tlie neigh- borhood of Bristol, are some of those which have left with me "a joy for memory." 1 have thus acknowledged all the specific obli- gations to my elders or contemporaries in the art, of which 1 am distinctly conscious. The advan- tages arising from intimate intercourse witli those who were engaged in similar pursuits cannot be in like manner specified, because in their nature they are imperceptible ; but of such advantages no man has ever possessed more or greater, than at differ- ent times it has been my lot to enjoy. Personal attachment first, and family circumstances after- wards, connected me long and closely with Mr. Coleridge ; and three-and-thirty years have rati- fied a friendship with Mr. Wordsworth, which we believe will not terminate with this life, and which it is a pleasure for us to know will be con- tinued and cherished as an heir-loom by those who are dearest to us both. When I add, what has been the greatest of all advantages, that I have passed more than half my life in retirement, conversing with books rather than men, constantly and unweariably engaged in literary pursuits, communing with my own heart, and taking that course which, upon mature con- sideration, seemed best to myself, I have said every thing necessary to account for the characteristics of my poetry, whatever they may be. It was in a mood resembling in no slight degree that wherewith a person in sound health, both of body and mind, makes his will and sets his worldly affairs in order, that I entered upon the serious task of arranging and revising the whole of my poetical works. What, indeed, was it but to bring in review before me the dreams and as- pirations of my youth, and the feelings whereto 1 had given that free utterance which by the usages of this world is permitted to us in poetry, and in poetry alone ? Of the smaller pieces in this col- lection there is scarcely one concerning wliich 1 cannot vividly call to mind when and where it was composed. 1 have perfect recollection of the spots where many, not of the scenes only, but of the images which I have described from nature, were observed and noted. And how wftuld it be possi- ble for me to forget the interest taken in these poems, especially the longer and more ambitious works, by those persons nearest and dearest to me then, who witnessed their growth and completion ? Well may it be called a serious task thus to resus- citate the past! But, serious though it be, it is not painful to one who knows that the end of his journey cannot be far distant, and, by the blessing of God, looks on to its termination with sure and certain hope. Keswick, lOUi May, 1837. isgfyj.yfHK-g^v«WSVTPjWc^'.-^,-?'yvxT-< ifnrF>,r'n-i-T.YiiYY^r»iM JOAN OF ARC. Soaw of Mxt. Era OiaNOS API2T0S AMYNES9AI HEPI IIATPHS homer Perlege, cognosces animum eine viribus alas Ingenii explicuisse leves, nam vera fatebor ; Implutnem tepido prxceps me gioria nido Expulit, et ccelo jussit volitare remote. Poenitet inccepti, cursum revocare juvenUe Si liceat, raansisse domi cum tempore nervos CoDsolidasse velim Petrabca PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC. Early in July, 1793, 1 happened to fall in con- versation, at Oxford, with an old schoolfellow upon the story of Joan of Arc ; and it then struck me as being singularly well adapted for a poem. The long vacation commenced immediately afterwards. As soon as I reached home I formed the outline of a plan, and wrote about three hundred lines. The remainder of the month was passed in trav- elling ; and I was too much engaged in new scenes and circumstances to proceed, even in thought, with what had been broken off. In August I went to visit my old schoolfellow, Mr. Grosvenor Bedford, who, at that time, resided with his pa- rents at Brixton Causeway, about four miles on tlie Surrey side of the metropolis. There, the day after completing my nineteenth year, I resumed the undertaking, and there, in six weeks from that day, finished what I called an Epic Poem in twelve books. My progress would not have been so rapid had it not been for the opportunity of retirement which I enjoyed there, and the encouragement that I received. In those days London had not extended in that direction farther than Kennington, beyond which place the scene changed suddenly, and there was an air and appearance of country which might now be sought in vain at a far greater dis- tance from town. There was nothing indeed to remind one that London was so near, except the smoke which overhung it, Mr. Bedford's res- idence was situated upon the edge of a common, on which shady lanes opened leading to the neigh- boring villages (for such they were then) of Cam- berwell, Dulwich, and Clapham, and to Norwood. The view in front was bounded by the Surrey hills. Its size and structure showed it to be one of those good houses built in the early part of the last century by persons who, having realized a respectable fortune in trade, were wise enough to be contented with it, and retire to pass the evening of their lives in the enjoyment of leisure and tran- quillity. Tranquil indeed the place was ; for the neighborhood did not extend beyond half a dozen families, and the London style and habits of vis- 2 iting had not obtained among them. Uncle Toby himself might have enjoyed his rood and a half of ground there, and not have had it known. A fore- court separated tlie house from the foot-path and the road in front ; behind, there was a large and well-stocked garden, with other spacious premises, in which utility and ornament were in some degree combined. At the extremity of the garden, and under the shade of four lofty linden trees, was a summer-house looking on an ornamented grass- plot, and fitted up as a conveniently habitable room. That summer-house was allotted to me, and there my mornings were passed at the desk. Whether it exists now or not, I am ignorant. The property has long since passed into other hands. The common is enclosed and divided by rectangu- lar hedges and palings ; rows of brick houses have supplanted the shade of oaks and elms ; tlie brows of the Surrey hills bear a parapet of modern villas, and the face of the whole district is changed. I was not a little proud of my performance. Young poets are, or at least used to be, as am- bitious of producing an epic poem, as stage-stricken youths of figuring in Romeo or Hamlet. It had been the earliest of my day-dreams. I had begun many such ; but this was the first which had been completed, and I was too young and too ardent to perceive or suspect that the execution was as crude as the design. In the course of tlie autumn I transcribed it fairly from the first draught, making no other alterations or corrections of any kind tiian such as suggested themselves in the act of tran- scription. Upon showing it to the friend in con- versation with whom the design had originated, he said, " I am glad you have written this; it will serve as a store where you will find good passages for better poems." His opinion of it was more judicious than mine ; but what there was good in it or promising, would not have been transplantable. Toward the close of 1794, it was announced as to be published by subscription in a quarto volume, price one guinea. Shortly afterwards I became acquainted with my fellow-townsman, Mr. Joseph Cottle, who had recently commenced business as a bookseller in our native city of Bristol. One evening I read to him part of the poem, without 10 PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC. any thought of making a proposal concerning it, i or expectation of receiving one. He, however, offered me fifty guineas for the copyright, and fifty copies for my subscribers, which was more than the list amounted to ; and the offer was accepted as promptly as it was made. It can rarely happen that a young author should meet with a bookseller as inexperienced and as ardent as himself, and it would be still more extraordinary if such mutual indiscretion did not bring with it cause for regret to both. But this transaction was the commence- ment of an intimacy which has continued, without the slightest shade of displeasure at any time, on either side, to the present day. At that time, few books were printed in the country, and it was seldom indeed that a quarto volume issued from a provincial press. A font of new types was ordered for what was intended to be the iiandsomest book that Bristol had ever yet sent fortli ; and wlien the paper arrived, and the printer was ready to commence his operations, nothing had been done toward preparing the poem for the press, except tiiat a few verbal alterations had been made. I was not, however, without misgivings, and when the first proof-sheet was brought me, the more glaring faults of the com- position stared me in the face. But the sight of a well-printed page, which was to be set off with all the advantages that fine wove paper and hot-press- ing could impart, put me in spirits, and I went to work with good-will. About Iialf the first book was left in its original state ; the rest of the poem was re-cast and re-composed while the printing went on. Tliis occupied six months. I corrected the concluding sheet of tlie poem, left the Preface in the publisher's hands, and departed for Lisbon by way of Coruna and Madrid. The Preface was written with as little discretion as had been shown in publishing the work itself. It stated how rapidly the poem had been produced, and that it had been almost re-composed during its progress through the press. This was not said as taking merit for haste and temerity, nor to excuse its faults, — only to account for them. But here I was liable to be misapprehended, and likely to be misrepresented. The public indeed care neither for explanations nor excuses j and such particulars might not unfitly be deemed un- becoming in a young man, though they may be excused, and even expected, from an old authoi, who, at the close of a long career, looks upon him- self as belonging to the past. Omitting these pas- sages, and the specification of what Mr. Coleridge had written in the second book, (whicli was with- drawn in the next edition,) the remainder of the Preface is here subjoined. It states the little which I had been able to collect concerning the subject of the poem, gives what was then my own view of Joan of Arc's character and history, and expresses with overweening confidence the opin- ions which the writer entertained concerning those poets whom it was his ambition not to imitate, but to Tollow. — It cannot be necessary to say, that some of those opinions have been modified, and others completely changed, as he grew older. ORIGINAL PREFACE. The history of Joan of Arc is as mysterious as it is remarkable. That she believed herself inspired, few will deny ; that she was inspired, no one will venture to assert ; and it is difiicult to believe that she was herself imposed upon by Charles and Du- nois. That she discovered the King when he dis- guised himself among the courtiers to deceive her, and that, as a proof of her mission, she demanded a sword from a tomb in the churcii of St. Catha- rine, are facts in which all historians agree. If this had been done by collusion, the Maid must have known herself an impostor, and with that knowledge could not have performed the enter- prise she undertook. Enthusiasm, and that of no common kind, was necessary, to enable a young maiden at once to assume the profession of arms, to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the foremost, and to subdue with an inferior force an enemy then believed invincible. It is not possible that one who felt herself the puppet of a party, could have performed these things. The artifices of a court could not have persuaded her that she discovered Charles in disguise ; nor could they have prompted her to demand the sword which they might have hidden, without discovering the deceit. The Maid then was not knowingly an impostor ; nor could she have been the instrument of the court ; and to say that she believed herself inspired, will neither account for her singling out the King, or prophetically claiming the sword. After crowning Charles, she declared that her mission was accomplished, and demanded leave to retire. Enthusiasm would not have ceased here ; and if they who imposed on her could per- suade her still to go with their armies, they could still have continued her delusion. This mysteriousness renders the story of Joan of Arc peculiarly fit for poetry. The aid of angels and devils is not necessary to raise her above man- kind ; she has no gods to lackey her, and inspire her with courage, and heal her wounds : the Maid of Orleans acts wholly from the workings of her own mind, from the deep feeling of inspiration. The palpable agency of superior powers would de- stroy the obscurity of her character, and sink her to the mere heroine of a fairy tale. The alterations which I have made in the his- tory are few and trifling. The death of Salisbury is placed later, and of the Talbots earlier than they occurred. As the battle of Patay is the concluding action of the Poem, I have given it all the previous solemnity of a settled engagement. Whatever appears miraculous is asserted in historj'^, and my authorities will be found in the notes. It is the common fault of Epic Poems, that we feel little interest for the heroes they celebrate. The national vanity of a Greek or a Roman might have been ^ratified by the renown of Achilles or jEneas; but to engage the unprejudiced, there must be more of human feelings than is generally to be found in the character of a warrior. From this objection, the Odyssey alone may be excepted. PREFACE TO JOAN OP ARC. H Ulysses appears as the father and the husband, and the afi'ections are enlisted on his side. The judgment must applaud the well-digested plan and splendid execution of the Iliad, but the heart always bears testimony to the merit of the Odyssey ; it is the poem of nature, and its per- sonages inspire love rather than conimand admira- tion. The good herdsman Eumteus is worth a thousand heroes. Homer is, indeed, the best of poets, for he is at once dignified and simple ; but Pope has disguised him in fop-finery, and Cowper has stripped him naked. There are few readers who do not prefer Turnus to iEneas — a fugitive, suspected of treason, who negligently left his wife, seduced Dido, deserted her, and then forcibly took Lavinia from her be- trothed husband. What avails a man's piety to the gods, if in all his dealings with men he prove himself a villain.' If we represent Deity as com- manding a bad action, this is not exculpating the man, but criminating the God. The ill-chosen subjects of Lucan and Statius have prevented them from acquiring the popularity they %vould otherwise have merited ; yet in de- tached parts, the former of these is perhaps un- equalled, certainly unexcelled. I do not scruple to prefer Statius to Virgil ; with inferior taste, he appears to me to possess a richer and more powerful imagination ; his images are strongly conceived, and clearly painted, and the force of his language, while it makes the reader feel, proves that the author felt himself The power of story is strikingly exemplified in the Italian heroic poets. They please universally, even in translations, when little but the story re- mains. In proportioning his characters, Tasso has erred ; Godfrey is the hero of the poem, Ri- naldo of the poet, and Tancred of the reader. Sec- ondary characters should not be introduced, like Gyas and Cloanthus, merely to fill a procession ; neither should they be so prominent as to throw the principal into shade. The lawless magic of Ariosto, and the singular theme as well as the singular excellence of Milton, render it impossible to deduce any rules of epic poetry from these authors. So likewise with Spenser, the favorite of my childhood, from whose frequent perusal I have always found increased delight. Against the machinery of Camoens, a heavier charge must be brought than that of profaneness or incongruity. His floating island is but a float- ing brothel, and no beauty can make atonement for licentiousness. From this accusation, none but a translator would attempt to justify him ; but Camoens had the most able of translators. The Lusiad, though excellent in parts, is uninteresting as a whole : it is read with little emotion, and remembered with little pleasure. But it was com- posed in the anguish of disappointed hopes, in the fatigues of war, and in a country far from all he loved ; and we should not forget, that as the Poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate of men, so he should be ranked among the most respectable. Neither his own country or Spain has yet produced his equal ; his heart was broken by calamity, but the spirit of integrity and inde- pendence never forsook Camoens. 1 have endeavored to avoid what appears to me the common fault of epic poems, and to render the Maid of Orleans interesting. With this intent 1 have given her, not the passion of love, but the remembrance of subdued affection, a lingering i>l' human feelings not inconsistent with the entliu. siasm and holiness of her character. The multitude of obscure epic writers copy with the most gross servility their ancient models. If a tempest occurs, some envious spirit procures it from the God of the winds or the God of the sea. Is there a town besieged .' the eyes of the hero are opened, and he beholds the powers of Heaven assisting in the attack ; an angel is at hand to heal his wounds, and the leader of the enemy in his last combat is seized with the sudden cowardice of Hector. Even Tasso is too often an imitator. But notwithstanding the censure of a satirist, the name of Tasso will still be ranked among tlie best heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau only condemned him for the sake of an antithesis ; it is with such writers, as with those who affect point in their conversation — they will always sacrifice truth to the gratification of their vanity. I have avoided what seems useless and wearying in other poems, and my readers will find no de- scriptions of armor, no muster-rolls, no geographi- cal catalogues, lion, tiger, bull, bear, and boar similes, Phoebuses or Auroras. And where in battle I have particularized the death of an indi- vidual, it is not, I hope, like the common lists of killed and wounded. It has been established as a necessary rule for the epic, that the subject should be national. To this rule I have acted in direct opposition, and chosen for the subject of my poem the defeat of the Em^lish. If there be any readers who can wish success to an unjust cause, because their country was engaged in it, I desire not their ap- probation. In Millin's National Antiquities of France, 1 find that M. Laverdy was, in 1791, occupied in collecting whatever has been written concerning the Maid of Orleans. 1 have anxiously looked for his work, but it is probable, considering the tumults of the intervening period, that it has not been accomplished. Of the various productions to the memory of Joan of Arc, I have only collected a few titles, and, if report may be trusted, need not fear a heavier condemnation than to be deemed equally bad. A regular canon of St. Euverte has written what is said to be a very bad poem, en- titled the Modern Amazon. There is a prose tragedy called La Pvcelle d' Orleans, variously attributed to Benserade, to Boyer, and to Me- nardiere. The abb6 Daubignac published a prose tragedy with the same title in 1642. There is one under the name of Jean Baruel of 1581, and another printed anonymously at Rouen, 1606. Among the manuscripts of the queen of Sweden in the Vatican, is a dramatic piece in verse called Le Mystere du Siege d' Orleans. In these modem 12 PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC. times, says Millin, all Paris has run to the theatre of Nioolet to see a pantomime entitled Le Fameux Siege de la Pucelle d' Orleans. I may add, that, after the publication of this poem, a pantomime upon the same subject was brought forward at Covent-Garden Theatre, in which the heroine, like Don Juan, was carried off by devils and pre- cipitated alive into hell. I mention it, because the feelings of the audience revolted at such a catas- trophe, and, afler a few nights, an angel was in- troduced to rescue her. But among the number of worthless poems upon this subject, there are two which are un- fortunately notorious, — the Pucelles of Chapelain and Voltaire. I have had patience to peruse tlie first, and never have been guilty of looking into the second ; it is well said by George Herbert, Make not ttiy sport abuses, for the fly That feeds on dung, is colored thereby. On the eighth of May, the anniversary of its deliverance, an annual fete is held at Orleans ; and monuments have been erected there and at Rouen to the memory of the Maid. Her family was ennobled by Charles ; but it should not be forgotten in the history of this monarch, that in the hour of misfortune he abandoned to her fate the woman who had saved his kingdom. Bristoi., Novemier, 1793. The poem, thus crudely conceived, rashly prefaced, and prematurely hurried into the world, was nevertheless favorably received, owing chiefly to adventitious circimistances. A work of tlie same class, with as much power and fewer faults, if it were published now, would attract little or no attention. One thing which contributed to bring it into immediate notice was, that no poem of equal pretension had appeared for many years, except Glover's Atiicnaid, which, notwithstanding the reputation of his Leonidas, had been utterly neglected. But the chief cause of its favorable reception was, that it was written in a republican spirit, such as may easily be accounted for in a youth whose notions of liberty were taken from the Greek and Roman writers, and who was ig- norant enough of history and of human nature to believe, that a happier order of things had com- menced with the independence of the United States, and would be accelerated by the French Revolution. Such opinions were then as unpopu- lar in England as they deserved to be ; but they were cherished by most of the critical journals, and conciliated for me the good-will of some of the most influential writers who were at that time engaged in periodical literature, though 1 was personally unknown to them. They bestowed upon the poem abundant praise, passed over most of its manifold faults, and noticed others with in- dulgence. Miss Seward ivrote some verses upon it in a strain of the highest eulogy and the bitter- est invective ; they were sent to the Morning Chronicle, and the editor (Mr. Perry) accom- panied their insertion with a vindication of the opinions which she had so vehemently denounced. Miss Seward was then in high reputation ; the sincerity of her praise was proved by the sever- ity of her censure ; and nothing could have been more serviceable to a young author than her no- tice, thus indignantly, but also thus generously, bestowed. The approbation of Uie reviewers served as a passport for the poem to America, and it was reprinted there while I was revising it for a second edition. A work, in which the author and tlie book- seller had engaged with equal imprude'nce, thus proved beneficial to both. It made me so advan- tageously known as a poet, that no subsequent hostility on the part of the reviews could pull down the reputation which had been raised by their good offices. Before that hostility took its determined character, the charge of being a hasty and careless writer was frequently brought against me. Yet to have been six months correcting what was written in six weeks, was some indication of patient industry ; and of this the second edition gave further evidence. Taking for a second motto the words of Erasmus, Ut homines ita libros, in- dies seipsis vieliores fieri opoj-tet, 1 spared no pains to render the poem less faulty both in its con- struction and composition ; 1 wrote a new begin- ning, threw out much of what had remained of the original draught, altered more, and endeavored, from all the materials which 1 had means of con- sulting, to make myself better acquainted with the manners and circumstances of the fifteenth century. Thus the second edition diifered almost as much from tlie first, as that from the copy which was originally intended for publication. Less extensive alterations were made in two sub- sequent editions ; the fifth was only a reprint of the fourth ; by that time ] had become fully sen- sible of its great and numerous faults, and request- ed tlie reader to remember, as the only apology which could be offered for them, that the poem was written at the age of nineteen, and published at one-and-twenty. My intention then was, to take no further pains in correcting a work of which the inherent defects were incorrigible ; and I did not look into it again for many years. But now, when about to perform what at my age may almost be called the testamentary task of revising, in all likelihood for the last time, those works by which it was my youthful ambition " to be forever known," and part whereof I dare be- lieve has been " so written to after times as they should not willingly let it die," it appeared proper that this poem, through which the author had been first made known to the public, two-and-forty years ago, should lead the way ; and the thought that it was once more to pass through the press under my own inspection, induced a feeling in some respects resembling that with which it had been first delivered to the printer — and yet how different! for not in hope and ardor, nor with the impossible intention of rendering it what it might have been had it been planned and execu- JOAN OF ARC. 13 ted in middle life, did I resolve to correct it once more throughout; but for the purpose of making it more consistent with itself in diction, and less inconsistent in other things with the well-weighed opinions of my maturer years. The faults of etfort, which may generally be regarded as hope- ful indications in a juvenile writer, have been mostly left as they were. The faults of language which remained from the first edition have been removed, so that in this respect the whole is sufficiently in keeping. And for those which expressed the political prejudices of a young man who had too little knowledge to suspect his own ignorance, they have either been expunged, or altered, or such substitutions have been made for them as harmonize with the pervading spirit of the poem, and are nevertheless in accord with those opinions which the author has maintained for thirty years, through good and evil report, in the maturity of his judgment as well as in the sincerity of his heart. Keswick, August 30, 1837. TO EDITH SOUTHET Edith ! I brought thee late a humble gift. The songs of earlier youth ; it was a wreath Witli many an unripe blossom garlanded And many a weed, yet mingled witli some flowers Which will not wither. Dearest ! now I bring A worthier offering ; thou wilt prize it well, For well thou know'st amid what painful cares My solace was in this : and though to me There is no music in the hoUowness Of common praise, yet well content am 1 Now to look back upon my youth's green prime. Nor idly, nor unprofitably past. Imping in such adventurous essay The wing, and strengthening it for steadier flight. Burton, near Christ Church, 1797. THE FIRST BOOK. There was high feasting held at Vaucouleur, For old Sir Robert had a famous guest. The Bastard Orleans ; and the festive hours, Cheer'd with the Trobador's sweet minstrelsy, Pass'd gayly at his hospitable board. But not to share the hospitable board And hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had sought Sir Robert's hall ; he came to rouse Lorraine, And glean what force the wasting war had left For one last effort. Little had the war Left in Lorraine, but age, and youth unripe For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids Of widow'd loves. And now with his great guest The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing On what might profit France, and found no hope, Despairing of their country, when he heard An old man and a maid awaited him In the castle-hall. He knew the old man well. His vassal Claude ; and at his bidding Claude Approach'd, and after meet obeisance made, Bespake Sir Robert. " Good my Lord, 1 come With a strange tale ; I pray you pardon me If it should seem impertinent, and like An old man's weakness. But, in truth, this IVIaid Hath witli such boding thoughts impress'd my heart, I think I could not longer sleep in peace Gainsaying what she sought. She saith that God Bids her go drive the Englishmen from France ! Her parents mock at her and call her crazed. And father Regnier says she is possess'd ; — But I, who know tliat never thought of ill Found entrance in her heart, — for, good my Lord, From her first birth-day she hath been to me As mine own child, — and I am an old man. Who have seen many moon-struck in my time, And some who were by evil Spirits vex'd, — I, Sirs, do think that there is more in this. And who can tell but, in these perilous times. It may please God, — but hear the Maid yourselves, For if, as I believe, this is of Heaven, My silly speech doth wrong it." While he spake. Curious they mark'd the Damsel. She appear'd Of eighteen years; there was no bloom of youth Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues Of health with lesser fascination fix'd The gazer's eye ; for wan the Maiden was. Of saintly paleness, and there seem'd to dwell In the strong beauties of her countenance Something that was not eartlily. " 1 have heard Of this your niece's malady," replied The Lord of Vaucouleur, " that she frequents The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude. Estranged from human kind and human cares With loathing like to madness. It were best To place her with some pious sisterhood. Who duly, morn and eve, for her soul's health Soliciting Heaven, may likeliest remedy The stricken mind, or frenzied or possess'd." So as Sir Robert ceased, the Maiden cried, " I am not mad. Possess'd indeed I am ! The hand of God is strong upon my soul, And I have wrestled vainly with the Lord, And stubbornly, I fear me. I can save This country. Sir ! I can deliver France ! Yea — I must save the country ! — God is in me ; I speak not, think not, feel not of myself. He knew and sanctified me ere my birtii , He to the nations hath ordained me ; And whitiier he shall send me, I must go ; And whatso he commands, that I must speak ; .'Vnd whatso is his will, that I must do ; And I must put away all fear of man. Lest HE in wrath confound me." At the first With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard The Maid inspired ; but now he in his heart Felt that misgiving which precedes belief 14 JOAN OF ARC. In what was disbelieved and scoff 'd at late For folly. " Damsel ! " said the Chief, " methinks It would be wisely done to doubt this call, Haply of some ill Spirit prompting thee To self-destruction." " Doubt ! " the Maid exclaim'd ; It were as easy when I gaze around On all this fair variety of things, Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt Creating wisdom ! — When in the evening gale I breathe the mingled odors of the spring. And hear the wildwood melody, and hear The populous air vocal with insect life, To doubt God's goodness ! There are feelings. Chief, Which cannot lie ; and 1 have oftentimes Felt in the midnight silence of my soul The call of God." They listen'd to the Maid, And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois, " Wilt thou go with me, Maiden, to the King, And there announce thy mission.' " Thus he said. For tlioughts of politic craftiness arose Within him, and his faith, yet unconfirm'd, Determin'd to prompt action. She replied, " Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur, That with such credence as prevents delay. He to the King might send me. Now beseech you Speed our departure ! " Then Dunois address'd Sir Robert, " Fare thee well, my friend and host ! It were ill done to linger here when Heaven Vouchsafes such strange assistance. Let what force Lorraine can raise to Chinon follow us ; And with the tidings of this holy Maid, Sent by the Lord, fill thou tlie country ; soon Therewith shall France awake as from the sleep Of death. Now, Maid ! depart we at thy will." "Gon'sblessing go with ye !"exclaim'd old Claude, " Good Angels guard my girl ! " and as he spake The tears stream'd fast adown his aged cheeks. " And if I do not live to see tiiee more. As sure I think I shall not, — yet sometimes Remember thine old Uncle. I have loved thee Even from thy childhood, Joan ! and I shall lose The comfort of mine age in losing thee. But God be with thee. Child ! " Nor was the Maid, Tliough all subdued of soul, untroubled now In that sad parting; — but she calm'd herself, Painfully keeping down her heart, and said, " Comfort thyself, my Uncle, with the thought Of wiiat I am, and for what enterprise Chosen from among the people. Oh ! be sure I shall remember thee, in whom I found A parent's love, when parents were unkind ! And when the ominous broodings of my soul Were scoff 'd and made a mock of by all else. Thou for thy love didst hear me and believe. Shall I forget these things .' " — By this Dunois Had arm'd, the steeds stood ready at the gate. But then siie fell upon the old man's neck And cried, " Pray for me ! — I shall need thy prayers ' Pray for me, that I fail not in my hour ! " Thereat awhile, as if some awful thought Had overpower'd her, on his neck she hung ; Then rising with flush'd cheek and kindling eye, " Farewell ! " quoth she, " and live in hope ! Anon Thou shalt hear tidings to rejoice thy heart. Tidings of joy for all, but most for thee ! Be this thy comfort! " The old man received Her last embrace, and weeping like a child, Scarcely through tears could see them on their steeds Spring up, and go their way. So on they went, And now along the mountain's winding path Upward they journey 'd slow, and now they paused And gazed where o'er the plain the stately towers Of Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen. Dark and distinct ; below its castled height, Through fair and fertile pastures, the deep Meuse RoU'd glittering on. Domremi's cottages Gleam'd in the sun hard by, white cottages. That in the evening traveller's weary mind Had w^aken'd thoughts of comfort and of home, Making him yearn for rest. But on one spot. One little spot, tlie Virgin's eye was fix'd. Her native Arc ; embower'd the hamlet lay Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods. With all their infinite varieties. Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain Rose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves. And vineyards in the greenest hue of spring, And streams now hidden on their winding way. Now issuing forth in light. The Maiden gazed Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye. " Oh what a blessed world were this ! " she cried, " But that the great and lionorable men Have seized the earth, and of the heritage Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given, Disherited their brethren ! Happy those Who in the after days shall live, when Time Hath spoken, and the multitude of years Taught wisdom to mankind ! — Unhappy France ! Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes Rush o'er the land, and desolate, and kill ; Long has the widow's and the orphan's groan Accused Heaven's justice ; — but the hour is come I God hath inclined his ear, hath heard the voice Of mourning, and his anger is gone forth." Then said the Son of Orleans, " Holy Maid ! Fain would I know, if blameless I may seek Such knowledge, how the heavenly call was heard First in thy waken'd soul ; nor deem in me Aught idly curious, if of thy past life I ask the story. In the hour of age. If haply I survive to see this realm Deliver'd, precious then will be tlie thought That I have known the delegated Maid, And heard from her tlie wondrous ways of Heaven. " A simple tale," the mission'd Maid replied : " Yet may it well employ the journeying hour, And pleasant is the memory of the past. ' Seest thou , Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirU JOAN OF ARC. 15 The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows, As on tlie farther bank, the distant towers Of Vaucouleur ? there in tlie hamlet Arc My father's dweUing stands;' a lowly hut. Yet nought of needful comfort did it lack, For in Lorraine there lived no kinder Lord Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques In flocks and herds was rich ; a toiling man. Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart Affection had no root. I never knew A parent's love ; for harsh my mother was. And deem'd the care which infancy demands Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were. And would have made me fear them; but my soul Fossess'd the germ of inborn fortitude. And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke And angry chastisement. Yet was the voice That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet To my young heart ; how have 1 felt it leap With transport, when my Uncle Claude ap- proach'd ! For he would take me on his knee, and tell Such wondrous tales as childhood loves to hear. Listening with eager eyes and open lips Devoutly in attention. Good old man ! Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven Unhallow'd by the grateful thought of him, Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it ! He was a parent to me, and his home Was mine, when in advancing years I found No peace, no comfort in my father's house. With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours. By day I drove my father's flock afield,' And this was happiness. *' Amid these wilds Often to summer pasture have I driven The flock ; and well I know these woodland wilds. And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream Is dear to memory. 1 have laid me down Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd The beck roll glittering to the noon-tide sun, And listen'd to its ceaseless murmuring. Till all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul, FiU'd with a strange and undefined delight That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds Over the vale at eve ; their fleeting hues The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye. Yet he remembers well how fair they were. How beautiful. " In solitude and peace Here I grew up, amid the loveliest scenes Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was, As the white mists of morning roU'd away. To see the upland's wooded heights appear Dark in the early dawn, and mark the slope With gorse-flowers glowing, as the sun illumed Their golden glory '" with his deepening light ; Pleasant at noon beside the vocal brook To lay me down, and watch the floating clouds, And shape to fancy's wild similitudes Their ever-varying forms ; and oh how sweet ! To drive my flock at evening to the fold, And hasten to our little hut, and hear The voice of kindness bid me welcome home. " Amid the village playmates of my youth Was one whom riper years approved a friend. A gentle maid was my poor Madelon ; I loved her as a sister, and long time Her undivided tenderness possess'd. Until a better and a holier tie Gave her one nearer friend ; and then my heart Partook her happiness, for never lived A happier pair tlian Arnaud and his wife. " Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her yovith Went Arnaud to the war. The morn was fair, Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerfully. And all the fields seem'd joyous in the spring ; But to Domremi wretched was that day. For tliere was lamentation, and the voice Of anguish, and the deeper agony That spake not. Never can my heart forget The feelings that shot tlu-ough me, when the horn Gave its last call, and through the castle-gate The banner moved, and from the clinging arms Which hung on them, as for a last embrace. Sons, brethren, husbands, went. " More frequent now Sought I the converse of poor Madelon, For now she needed friendship's soothing voice. All the long suimner did she live in hope Of tidings from the war ; and as at eve She with her mother by the cottage door Sat in the sunshine, if a traveller Appear'd at distance coming o'er the brow, Her eye was on him, and it might be seen By the flush'd cheek what tlioughts were in her heart. And by the deadly paleness which ensued. How her heart died within her. So the days And weeks and months pass'd on ; and when the leaves Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope That reason own'd not, tliat with expectation Did never cheer her as she rose at morn. Still linger'd in her heart, and still at night Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came. But Arnaud never from the war return'd ; He far away had perish'd ; and when late The tidings of his certain deatli arrived. Sore with long anguish underneath that blow She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day Upon the past, and talk of happiness That never couid return, as though she found Best solace in the thouglits which minister'd To sorrow : and she loved to see the sun Go down, because another day was gone. And then she might retire to solitude And wakeful recollections, or perchance To sleep more wearying far than wakefulness. Dreams of his safety and return, and starts Of agony ; so neither night nor day Could she find rest, but pined and pined away " Death ! to the happy thou art terrible ; But how the wretched love to think of thee, Oil thou true comforter, the friend of all Who have no friend beside ! ^' By the sick bed Of Madelon I sat wlien sure she felt 16 JOAN OF ARC. The hour of her deliverance drawing near ; X saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope, I had her latest look of earthly love, I felt her hand's last pressure. — Son of Orleans ! 1 would not wish to live to know that hour, When 1 could think upon a dear friend dead, And weep not ; but they are not bitter tears, — Not painful now ; for Christ hath risen, first fruits Of them that slept ; and we shall meet again, Meet, not again to part : the grave hath lost Its victory. " 1 remember, as her bier Went to the grave, a lark sprung up aloft, And soar'd amid the sunshine, carolling So full of joy, that to the mourner's ear More mournfully than dirge or passing bell. The joyous carol came, and made us feel That of the multitude of beings, none But man was wretched. " Then my soul awoke. For it had slumber'd long in happiness, And never feeling misery, never thought What others suffer. I, as best I might. Solaced the keen regret of Elinor ; And much my cares avail'd, and much her son's. On whom, the only comfort of her age, Slie centred now her love. A younger birth. Aged nearly as myself was Theodore, An ardent youth, who with the kindest care Had sooth'd his sister's sorrow. We had knelt By her death-bed together, and no bond In closer union knits two human hearts Than fellowship in grief. " It chanced as once Beside the fire of Elinor I sat. The night was comfortless, the loud blast howl'd. And as we drew around the social hearth. We heard the rain beat hard. Driven by the storm A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light ; We heapt the fire, and spread the friendly board. ''Tis a rude night,' the stranger cried: 'safe housed Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain. I too could be content to dwell in peace. Resting my head upon the lap of love, But that my country calls. When the winds roar. Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers. And think on Conrade.' " Theodore replied, ' Success go with thee ! Something we have known Of war, and tasted its calamity ; And I am well content to dwell in peace. Albeit inglorious, thanking the good God Who made me to be happy.' " ' Did that God,' Cried Conrade, * form thy heart for happiness. When Desolation royally careers Over thy wretched country .' Did tliat God Form thee for Peace when Slaughter is abroad. When her brooks run with blood, and Rape, and Murder, Stalk through her flaming towns ? Live thou in peace, Yotmff man ! my heart is human : I must feci For what my brethren suffer.' While he spake Such miuL^ied passions character'd his face Of fierce and terrible benevolence. That I did tremble as 1 listen'd to him j And in my heart tumultuous thoughts arose Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild. And vast, — yet such they were as made me pant As though by some divinity possess'd. " ' But is there not some duty due to those We love .' ' said Theodore ; ' is there an employ More righteous than to cheer declining age, And thus with filial tenderness repay Parental care .-' * " ' Hard is it,' Conrade cried, ' Ay, hard indeed, to part from those we love ; And I have suffer'd that severest pang. I have left an aged mother ; 1 have left One upon whom my heart has fasten'd all Its dearest, best affections. Should I live Till France shall see the blessed hour of peace, I shall return ; my heart will be content. My duties then will have been well discharged, And I may then be happy. There are those Who deem such thoughts the fancies of a mind Strict beyond measure, and were well content, If I should soften down my rigid nature Even to inglorious ease, to honor me. But pure of heart and high in self-esteem 1 must be honor'd by myself: all else. The breath of Fame, is as tlie unsteady wind Worthless.' " So saying from his belt he took The encumbering sword. I held it, listening to him, And wistless what I did, half from the sheath Drew forth its glittering blade. I gazed upon it, And shuddering, as I touch'd its edge, exclaim d, How horrible it is with the keen sword To gore the finely-fibred human frame ! I could not strike a lamb. " He answer'd me, ' Maiden, thou sayest well. I could not strike A lamb! — But when the merciless invader Spares not gray age, and mocks the infant's sliriek As it doth writhe upon his cursed lance. And forces to his foul embrace the wife Even where her slaughter'd husband bleeds to death. Almighty God ! I should not he a man If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down. Think well of tliis, young man ! ' "^ he cried, and took The hand of Theodore ; 'think well of this; As you are human, as you hope to live In peace, amid the dearest joys of home. Think well of this ! You have a tender mother ; As you do wish that she may die in peace, As you would even to madness agonize To hear this maiden call on you in vain For help, and see her dragg'd, and hear her scream In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful grasp. Think that there are such horrors ! " that even now, Some city flames, and haply, as in Roan, Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breast Yet hangs and pulls for food ! '■' — Woe be to those By whom the evil comes ! And woe to him, JOAN OF ARC. 17 For little less his guilt, — who dwells in peace, When every arm is needed for the strife 1 ' " 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 rundown 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 ? ■' — Thoughts like these 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 tlie 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, Mark'd the gorged raven clog his beak with gore. 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, — lo ! from the clouds an arm As of the avenging Angel was put fortli, And from his hand a sword, like lightning, fell. " From that night I could feel my burden'd soul 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 Strantre 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 t 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 lialf expectance, listen'd to the wind. " There is a fountain in the forest call'd The Fountain of the Fairies :'* 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 ; 3 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," And bask in moonshine. Here the Woodman loads His boy, and showing him the green-sward mark'd With darker circlets, says their midnight dance Hath traced tlie rings, and bids him spare the trie. Fancy had cast a spell upon the place Which made it holy ; and the villagers Would say that never evil thing approach'd Unpunisli'd there. The strange and fearful pleasure Which fiU'd me by that solitary spring. 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 1 hasten'd there To solitude and freedom ! Thitherward On a spring eve I had betaken me. 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 niglit Darken'd around, and the large rain-drops fell Heavy ; anon tempestuously the gale Swept o'er the wood. Methought the thunder- shower Fell with refreshing coolness on my head. And the hoarse dash of waters, and the rush Of winds that mingled with the forest roar. Made a wild music. On a rock I sat ; The glory of the tempest fiU'd my soul ; And when the thunders peal'd, and the long flash Hung durable in heaven, and on my sight Spread the gray forest, memory, thought, were All sense of self annihilate, I seem'd [gone," Diffused into the scene. " At length a light Approach'd the spring ; 1 saw my Uncle Claude ; His gray locks dripping with the midnight storm. He came, and caught me in his arms, and cried, ' My God ! my child is safe ! ' " I felt his words Pierce in my heart ; my soul was overcharged ; I fell upon his neck and told him all ; God was within me ; as I felt, I spake, And he believed. " Ay, Chieftain ! and the world Shall soon believe my mission ; for the Lord Will raise up indignation and pour on't His wratli, and they shall perish who oppress." '" THE SECOND BOOK. 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. 18 JOAN OF ARC. A grateful coolness freshened 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 thougii 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 Tiie 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 Iiave borne a lance in younger days ; And would tliat 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 fast From many a wound. Like wolves they hemm'd 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 Alencjon fell, Valiant in vain ; there D'Albert, whose mad pride Brought the whole ruin on. There fell Brabant, Vaudemont, and Marie, and Bar, and Faquenberg, Our noblest warriors ; the determin'd foe Fought for revenge, not hoping victory. Desperately brave ; ranks fell on ranks before Ihem ; The prisoners of that shameful day out-summ'd Their conquerors ! " 22 '■*■ 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^ Tiiick 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 arras, 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 liands, And bade them think upon their plighted faith. And pray'd for mercy in the name of God, In vain : the King had bade tiicm massacre, And in their helpless prisoners' naked breasts They drove tlie weapon. Tlien 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 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 beard 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 And close mine eyes. The tale of misery JOAN OF ARC. 19 Mayliap were tedious, or I could relate Much of tliat dreadful time." The Maid replied, Wishing of that devoted town to hear. Thu3 then the veteran : " So by Heaven preserved, From the disastrous plain of Agincourt -•* 1 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 conunand. Might rise impetuous, and with multitudes Tread down tlie 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 posscss'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 oll-told tale Of the dangers I had past ; their little eyes Would with such an.xious 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 sliall not reap the harvest ; if he see His offspring rise around, his boding heart Aclies at the tliought tliat they are nmltiplied To the sword ! Again from England tlie 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 tlieir camp. I need not tell, Sir Knight, How oft and boldly on the invading host We burst with fierce assault impetuous fortli. For many were the warlike sons of Roan.*' 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^ Never to yield them to the usurping foe. Before the God of Hosts we made the vow ; And we had bafHed 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 siglit ; For guarded was the Seine, and our stern foe Had made aleague 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 tile 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 loatliliest food We prized above all price ; while in our streets The dying groan of hunger, and the cries Of famishing infants eclioed, . — and we heard, With the strange selfishness of misery, We heard, and iieeded 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 tliink 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 cliiefs 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 ' 20 JOAN OF ARC. " What is man That he can hear the groan of %vretchedness And feel no fleshly pang ! Why did the All-Good Create these warrior sconrges 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. Tile aged ones groan'd to our foe in vain, Tlie mother pleaded for her dying child. And they felt no remorse I " 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, " .\nd 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 \ cry of frenzy ing 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''*' Auglit 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 gatlier'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 Tlie 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 miglity 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 wav« A pompous shade," and the tall torches cast 111 the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light,'" I thought what he had been on earth w ho 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. THE THIRD BOOK. 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 tracts Laid waste by war. They pass'd the Auxerrois ; The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth ^^ The unreap'd harvest ; from the village church No even-song bell was heard ; the sheplierd'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 w'ay with cautious speed. Shunning Auxerre, and Bar's embattled wall. And Roniorantin's towers. So journeying on. 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 faithfu. 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 to%vn," Dunois replied, " thinking that my prompt speed Might seize the enemy's stores, and -n-ith fresh force Reenter. Fastolfte's better fate prevail'd,'" And from the field of shame my maddening horse Bore me, an arrow having pierced his flank. JOAN OF ARC. 21 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 tlience To that beleaguer'd town shall lead sucli 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" Thou art for the Court. Son of the Chief I loved ! Be wise by my experience. He who seeks Court-fiivor, ventures like a boy who leans Over the brink of some high precipice To reach the o'erhanging fruit.^' Thou secst me here A banish'd man, Dunois ! '•'* 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.^^ Now confident of strength, at tlie King's feet He stabs the King'sbest friends, and then demands, As with a conqueror's imperious tone, The post of honor. Son of that good Duke Whose deatli my arm avenged,*' may all thy days Be liappy ; 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'daway. They journey on their way till Cliinon's towers Rose on the distant view ; tlie royal scat 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 tliose dark days When the Burgundian faction fiU'd thy streets With carnage.*' Twice hast thou since then been made A horror and a warning to all lands ; When kingly power conspired with papal craft To plot and perpetrate that massacre. Which neither change of kalcndar, nor lapse Of time, shall hide from memory, or eff'ace ; And wiicn in more enlighten'd days, — so deem'd, So vaunted, — the astonish'd nations saw A people, to their own devices left, Therefore as by judicial frenzy stricken. Lawless and godless, fill the whole wide realm With terror, and with wickedness and woe, — A more astounding judgment than when Heaven Shower'd on the cities of the accursed plain Its fire and sulphur down. In Paris now The Invader triumph'd. On an infant's head Had Bedford placed the crown of Charlemagne, And factious nobles bow'd the subject knee. And own'd an English infant for their King, False to their own liege Lord. " Beloved of Heaven,' Then said the Son of Orleans to the Maid, " Lo these the walls of Chinon, this the abode Of Charles our monarch. Here in revelry He of his armies vanquish'd, his fair towns Subdued, hears careless and prolongs the dance. And little marvel I that to the cares Of empire still he turns the unwilling ear. For loss on loss, defeat upon defeat. His strong holds taken, and his bravest Chiefs 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. I 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. " Son of Orleans I " So as he enter'd cried the haughty fair, " Thou art well come to witness the disgrace, Tlio 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 j^-* and fly the war, Recreant from battle ! I will not partake A fugitive's fate ; when thou hast lost tliy 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 witli flowers,^ to mount His gay-bedizen'd car, and ride abroad And make the multitude a holiday. Go, Charles ! and hide tliee in a woman s garb. And these long locks will not disgrace tliee then '."'" " Nay, Agnes! " Charles replied, "reproach me not! I have enough of sorrow. Look around. 22 JOAN OF ARC. See tliis fair country ravaged by the foe, My strong liolds taken, and my bravest friends Fallen in the field, or captives far away. Dead is tile Douglas ; cold thy gallant heart, Illustrious Buchan ! ye from Scotland's hills, Not mindless of your old ally distress'd. Came to his succor ; in tliis cause ye fought ; For him ye perish'd. Rasii, impetuous Narbonne ! Tliy mangled corse waves to the winds of Heaven.^' Cold, Graville, is thy sinewy arm in death ; Fallen is Ventadaur ; silent in the grave Rambouillet sleeps. Bretagne's unfaithful chief Leagues with my foes ; and Richemont,»'orin arms Defies my weak control, or from my side, A friend more dreaded than tlie enemy. Scares my best servants witli tiie assassin's sword. Soon must beleaguer'd Orleans fall. — But now A truce to tliese sad thoughts ! We are not yet So utterly dospoil'd but we can spread The friendly board, and giving tlioe, Dunois, Such welcome as befits thy fatlier's son. Win from our public cares a day for joy." Dunois replied, " So may thy future years Pass from misfortune free, as all these ills Shall vanish like a vision of the night ! I come to thee the joyful messenger Of aid from Heaven ; for Heaven hath delegated A humble Maiden to deliver France. That holy Maiden asks an audience now ; And when slie promises miraculous thino-s, I feel it is not possible to hear And disbelieve." Astonish'd by liis speech Stood Charles. " At one of meaner estimation I should have smiled, Dunois," the King replied ; " But tliy known wortli, and the tried loyalty Of tliy fatlier's house, compel me even to this To lend a serious ear. A woman sent To rescue us, wlien all our strength liath fail'd ! A humble Maiden to deliver France ! One whom it were not possible to hear. And disbelieve ! — Dunois, ill now beseems Aught wild and hazardous. And yet our state Being what it is, by miracle alone Deliverance can be hoped for. Is my person Known to this woman .' " " That it cannot be, Unless it be by miracle made known," Dunois replied ; " for she liatli never left Her native hamlet in Lorraine till now." " Here then," rejoin'd tlie King, " we have a test Easy, and safe withal. Abide tliou here ; And hither by a speedy messeno-er Summon the Prophetess. Upon tile throne Let some one take his seat and personate My presence, while I mingle in the train. If she indeed be by the Spirit moved. That Spirit, certes, will direct her eyes To the true Prince whom slie is sent to serve : But if she prove, as likeliest we must deem. One by her own imaginations crazed, Thus failing and convinced, slie may return Unblamed to her obscurity, and we Be spared the shame of farther loss incurr'd By credulous faith. Well might the English scoif,^ If on a frantic woman we should rest Our last reliance." Thus the King resolved. And with a faith half-filtering at the proof, Dunois despatch'd a messenger, to seek Beside the banks of Vienne, the mission'd Maid. Soon is tlie court convened : the jewell'd crown Shines on a courtier's head. Amid the train The Monarch undistinguish'd takes his place. Expectant of the event. The 'V^irgin comes, .\nd as the Bastard led her to the throne, Quick glancing o'er tlie mimic Majesty, Witli gesture and witli look like one inspired, Slie fix'd her eye on Cliarles;'" " Thou art the King ! " Then in a tone that tlirill'd all hearts, pursued ;- " I come the appointed Minister of Heaven, To wield a sword before whose fated edge. Far, far from Orleans shall the English wolves Speed their disastrous flight. Monarch of France ! Send thou the tidings over all tlie realm. Great tidings of deliverance and of joy ; The Maid is come, the mission'd Maid, whose hand Siiall in the consecrated walls of Rlieims Crown thee, anointed King."^* In wonder mute The courtiers heard. Astonish'd Charles exclaim'd, " This is indeed the agency of Heaven ! Hard, Maiden, were 1 of belief," he said, " Did I not now, witli full and coiifirm'd faith. Receive tiiee as a Prophetess raised up For our deliverance. Therefore, not in doubt Of Providence or thee do I delay At once to marshal our brave countrymen Beneath thy banner ; but to satisfy Those who at distance from this most clear prool Might hear and disbelieve, or yield at best A cold assent. These fully to confirm, And more to make thy calling manifest, Forthwith with all due speed I will convene The Doctors of Theologj','''- wise men. And learned in the mysteries of Heaven. By them thy mission studied and approved, As needs it must, their sanction to all minds Will bring conviction, and the sure belief Lead on thy favor'd troops to mightiest deeds, Surpassing human possibility." Well pleas'd the Maiden heard. Her the Kini leads From the disbanding throng, meantime to dwell AVitli Marj'. Watchful for her Lord's return She sat with .\gnes ; Agnes proud of heart, Majestically fair, whose large full eye Or flashing anger, or with scornful scowl Too ofl deforni'd her beauty. Yet with her Tlie lawless idol of the Monarch's heart. The Queen, obedient to her husband's will, Dwelt meekly in accord. With them the Maid Was left to sojourn ; by the gentle Queen Witli cordial aff"ability received ; By Agnes courteously, whose ontwartl show Of graciousness concealed an inward awe. BOOK HI* JOAN OF ARC. 23 For while she hoped and trusted througli her means Charles should be reestablish'd in his realm, She felt rebuked before her. Througli the land Meantime the King's convoking voice went forth, And from tlieir palaces and monasteries The tlieologians came, men who had grown In midnight studies gray ; Prelates, and Priests, And Doctors : teachers grave, and with great names, Seraj)hic, Subtile, or Irrefragable, By their admiring scholars dignified. They met convened at Chinon, to the place Of judgment, in St- Katharine's fane assign'd. The tloor with many a monumental stone Was spread, and brass-ensculptured effigies Of holy abbots honor'd in their day, Now to the grave gone down. The branching arms Of many a ponderous pillar met aloft, Wreath'd on the roof emboss'd. Through storied panes Of high arch'd windows came the tinctured light; Pure water in a font beneath reflects Tlie many-color'd rays ; around that font Tlie fathers stand, and there with rites ordain'd And signs symbolic strew the hallowing salt. Wherewith the limpid water, consecrate, So taught the Churcii, became a spell approved Against the fiends of Satan's fallen crew ; A licit spell of mightier potency Than e'er the hell-hags tauglit in Thessaly ; Or tiiey who sitting on the rifled grave, By the blue tomb-fire's lurid light dim seen, Share with the Gouls their banquet. This perform'dj The Maid is summon 'd. Round the sacred font, Mark'd witli the mystic tonsure and enrobed In sacred vests, a venerable train, They stand. The delegated Maid obeys Their summons. As she came, a blush suffused Her pallid cheek, such as might well beseem One mindful still of maiden modesty. Though to her mission true. Before the train In reverent silence waiting their sage will. With half-averted eye she stood composed. So have I seen a single snow-drop rise Amid the russet leaves that hide the earth In early spring, so seen it gently bend In modest loveliness alone amid The waste of winter. By the Maiden's side The Son of Orleans stood, prepared to vouch Tliat when on Charles the Maiden's eye had fi.-^'d. As led by power miraculous, no fraud, Nor juggling artifice of secret sign Dissembled inspiration. As he stood Steadily viewing the mysterious rites, Thus to the attentive Maid the President Severely spake. " If any fiend of Hell Lurk in thy bosom, so to prompt the vaunt Of inspiration, and to mock the power Of God and holy Church, thus by the virtue Of water hallowed in the name of God Adjure I tliat foul spirit to depart From his deluded prey." Slowly he spake, And sprinkled water on the virgin's face. Indignant at the unworthy charge, tlie Maid Felt her cheek flush ; but soon, the transient glow Fading, slie answer'd meek. " Most holy Sires, Ye reverend Fathers of the Christian church, Most catholic 1 1 stand before you here A poor weak woman ; of the grace vouchsafed, How far unworthy, conscious ; yet though mean_ Innocent of fraud, and call'd by Heaven to be Its minister of aid. Strange voices heard. The dark and shadowing visions of the night, And feelings which 1 may not dare to doubt, These portents make me certain of the God Within me ; He who to these eyes reveal'd My royal Master, mingled with the crowd And never seen till then. Such evidence Given to my mission thus, and thus confirm'd By public attestation, more to say, Methinks, would little boot, — and less become A silly Maid." "Thou speakest," said the Priest, "Of dark and shadowing visions of the night. Canst thou remember. Maid, what vision first Seem'd more than fancy's shaping .'' From such tale, Minutely told with accurate circumstance, Some judgment might be form'd." The Maid replied "Amid the mountain valleys I had driven My father's flock. The eve was drawing on. When by a sudden storm surprised, I sought A chapel's neighboring shelter; ruin'd now. But I remember when its vesper bell Was heard among the hills, a pleasant sound, That made me pause upon my liomeward road. Awakening in me comfortable thouglits Of holiness. The unsparing soldiery Had sack'd tlie hamlet near, and none was left Duly at sacred seasons to attend St. Agnes' chapel.^^ In the desolate pile I drove my flock, with no irreverent thoughts, Nor mindless that the place on wliich I trod Was holy ground. It was a fearful night 1 Devoutly to the virgin Saint I pray'd. Then heap'd the wither'd leaves which autumn winds Had drifted in, and laid me down upon them, And sure I think I slept. But so it was That, in the dead of night, Saint Agnes stood Before mine eyes, such and so beautiful As when, amid tlie house of wickedness. The Power whom with such fervent love she served Veil'd her with glory .^^ And I saw her point To the moss-grown altar, and tlie crucifix Half hid by weeds and grass ; — and then I thougiil I could have wither'd armies with a look, For from the present Saint such divine power I felt infused — 'Twas but a dream perhaps. And yet mcthouglit that when a louder peal Burst o'er tlie roof, and all was lefl again Utterly dark, the bodily sense was clear 24 JOAN OF ARC. And accurate in every circumstance Of time and place." Attentive to her words Thus the Priest answer'd ; " Brethren, ye have heard The woman's tale. Behoves us now to ask Whether of holy Church a duteous child Before our court appears, so not unlike Heaven might vouchsafe its gracious miracle ; Or misbelieving heretic, whose thoughts. Erring and vain, easily might stray beyond All reason, and conceit strange dreams and signs Impossible. Say, woman, from thy youth Hast thou, as rightly mother Church demands, Confess'd at stated times thy secret sins, And, from the priestly power conferr'dby Heaven, Sought absolution ? " "Father," she replied, " The forms of worship in mine earlier years Waked my young mind to artificial aw^e. And made me fear my God. Warm with the glow Of health and exercise, whene'er I pass'd The threshold of the house of prayer, I felt A cold damp chill me ; 1 beheld the tapers That with a pale and feeble glimmering Dimm'd the noon-light ; 1 heard the solemn mass. And with strange feelings and mysterious dread Telling my beads, gave to the mystic prayers Devoutest meaning. Often wiien I saw The pictured flames writhe round a penanced soul, I knelt in fear before the Crucifi.^, And wept and pray'd, and tremliled, and adored A God of Terrors. But in riper years. When as my soul grew strong in solitude, I saw the eternal energy pervade The boundless range of nature, with the sun Pour life and radiance from his flamy path, .\nd on the lowliest floweret of the field The kindly dew-drops shed. And then I felt That He who form'd this goodly frame of things Must needs be good, and with a Father's name I call'd on Him, and from my burdend heart Pour'd out the yearnings of unmingled love. Methinks it is not strange then, that I fled The house of prayer, and made the lonely grove My temple, at the foot of some old oak Watching the little tribes that had their world Within its mossy bark; or laid me down Beside the rivulet whose murmuring Was silence to my soul,^^ and mark'd the swarm Whose light-edged shadows on the bedded sand Mirror'd their mazy sports, — the insect hum. The flow of waters, and the song of birds Making a holy music to mine ear : Oh '. was it strange, if for such scenes as these, Sach deep dcvoutness, such intense delight i)i' quiet adoration, I forsook The house of worship .' strange that when I felt How God had made my spirit quick to feel And love whate'er was beautiful and good. And from aught evil and deform'd to shrink Even as with instmct ; — father ! was it strange That in my heart I had no thought of sin. And did not need forgiveness .' " As she spake The Doctors stood astonish'd, and some while Tliey listen'd still in wonder. But at length A Monk replied, " Woman, thou seem'st to scorn The ordinances of our holy Church ; And, if I rightly understand thy words. Nature, thou say'st, taught thee in solitude Thy feelings of religion, and that now Masses and absolution and the use Of the holy wafer, are to thee unknown. But how could Nature teach thee true religion. Deprived of these .' Nature doth lead to sin. But 'tis the Priest alone can teach remorse. Can bid St. Peter ope the gates of Heaven, And from the penal fires of purgatory Set the soul free. Could Nature teach thee this.' Or tell tliee that St. Peter holds the keys. And that his successor's unbounded power Extends o'er either world .' Although thy life Of sin were free, if of this holy truth Ignorant, thy soul in liquid flames must rue Its error." Thus he spake ; applauding looks Went round. Nor dubious to reply the Maid Was silent. " Fathers of the holy Church, If on these points abstruse a simple maid Like me should err, impute not you the crime To self-wiU'd reason, vaunting its own strength Above eternal wisdom. True it is That for long time I have not heard the sound Of mass high-chanted, nor with trembling lips Partook the holy wafer : yet the birds Wlio to the matin ray prelusive pour'd Their joyous song, methought did warble forth Sweeter thanksgiving to Religion's ear In their wild melody of happiness. Than ever rung along the high-arch'd roofs Of man : — yet never from the bending vine Pluck'd I its ripen'd clusters thanklessly. Or of that God unmindful, who bestow'd The bloodless banquet. Ye have told me, Sirs, That Nature only teaches man to sin ! If it be sin to seek the wounded lamb. To bind its wounds, and bathe them with my tears, Tliis is wh.at Nature taught ! No, Fathers, no ' It is not Nature that doth lead to sin : Nature is all benevolence, all love. All beauty ! In the greenwood's quiet shade There is no vice that to the indignant cheek Bids the red current rush ; no misery there ; No wretched mother, who with pallid face And famine-fallen hangs o'er her hungry babes. With such a look, so wan, so woe-begone, As shall one day, with damning eloquence, Against the oppressor plead ! — Nature teach sin ! Oil blasphemy against the Holy One, Wlio made us in tlie image of Himself, Who made us all for happiness and love, Infinite happiness, infinite love, Partakers of his own eternity." Solemn and slow the reverend Priest replied, ■' Much, woman, do I doubt that all-wise Heaven Would thus vouchsafe its gracious miracles JOAN OF ARC. 25 On one foredoom'd to misery ; for so doom'd Is tJiat deluded one, who, of the mass Unlieeding, and the Church's saving power, Deems Nature sinless. Therefore, mark me well ! Brethren, 1 would propose this woman try The iioly ordeal. Let her, bound and searcli'd, Lest haply in her clothes should be conceal'd Some holy relic so profaned, be cast In some deep pond ; there if she float, no doubt Tlie fiend upholds; but if at once she sink, it is a sign that Providence displays Her free from witchcraft. This done, let her walk Blindfold and bare o'er ploughshares heated red. And o'er these past, her naked arm immerse In scalding water. If from these she come Unhurt, to holy father of the church. Most blessed Pope, we then refer the cause For judgment: and this Chief, the Son of Orleans, 'Who comes to vouch the royal person known By her miraculous power, shall pass with her The sacred trial." " Grace of God ! " e.tclaim'd The astonish'd Bastard ; " plunge me in the pool, O'er red-hot ploughshares make me skip to please Your dotard fancies ! Fathers of the church, Where is your gravity ? what ! eiuer-like "Would ye this fairer than Susannah eye .■* Ye call for ordeals ; and I too demand Tne noblest ordeal, on the English host By victory to approve her mission sent From favoring Heaven. To the Pope refer For judgment I Know ye not that France even now Stands tottering on destruction ! " Starting then With a wild look, the mission'd Maid e.xclaim'd, " The sword of God is here ! the grave shall speak To manifest me ! " Even as she spake, A pale blue flame rose from the trophied tomb Beside her ; and within that house of death A sound of arms was heard, as if below A warrior, buried in his armor, stirr'd. " Hear ye ! " the Damsel cried; " these are the arms Which shall flash terror o'er the hostile host. Those, in the presence of our Lord tlie King, And of the assembled people, I will take Here from the sepulchre, where many an age, They, incorruptible, have lain conceal'd. For me reserved, the Delegate of Heaven." Recovering from amaze, the Priest replied : " Thou art indeed the Delegate of Heaven ! What thou hast said surely thou shalt perform. We ratify thy mission. Go in peace." THE FOURTH BOOK. The feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went round, And in the assembled court the minstrel harp'd 4 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 liath 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 tlius to be repell'd." Then with strong arm Removing him who barr'd his onward way. The hall lie enter'd. " King of France ! I come From Orleans, speedy and eff'ectual aid Demanding for her gallant garrison, Faithful to thee, though thinn'd in many a fight, And now sore pressed by want. Rouse thou thy* self. 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 liis 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, " 1 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 tlie 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 tlie board, retired. Meantime the herald's brazen voice proclaini'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, i(> JOAN OF ARC. The Monarch pass'd, and by his side the Maid ; Her lovel}' hmbs robed in a snow-white vest, Wistless that every eye on lier 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 Preeminent. 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 Kffaced 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 liis 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 auneaVd, Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade Defaced, nor e'er with ixostile 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 tlie 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 witli their happy lium 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 tomh 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 tlie 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 crowd 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 listened ; a brief while tliroughout the dome Deep silence dwelt; then with a sudden burst Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn, "Thee Lord we praise, our God!" the throng without Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy. And tliundering 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, '* lU-omen'd Maid! victim of thine own worth, Devoted for this king-curst realm of France, lU-omcn'd Maid, I pity thee ! " so saying. He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange worda 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 flavored witii the fragrant summer fruit. Or luscious with methegliu 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 CornwalP' underneath whose maiden sword The strength of Ireland fell ; and he who struck JOAN OF ARC. 2J 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 soncs of earlier years embalm your fame • And liaply 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 ftlessenger from that besieged town, Reenter'd. " It is pleasant. King of France," Said he, " to sit and hear the harper's song : Par other music hear the men of Orleans ! Famine is there ; and there the imploring cry Of Hunger ceases not." " Insolent man ! " E.xclaim'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 lol\y lay. Hast thou no loose, lewd tale To pamper and provoke the appetite ? Such should procure thee worthy recompense ! Or rather sing tliou of tliat wealthy Lord, Wlio 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 tlie 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 lengtti The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hail, Charles and the delegated damsel sought The inner palace. There the gentle Queen Awaited them : witli her Joan lov'd to pass Her intervals of rest; for she had won Tlie 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. " Wliy dost thou haunt me thus," The monarch cried ; " is there no place secure From thy rude insolence ? unmanner'd man ! [ know tliee not! " " Then learn to know me, Charles ! " Solemnly he replied ; " read well my face. That thou may'st know it on that dreadful day, \Vhen 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 fflanced on him, And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed In tlie Maid's bosom. " King of France ! " he said, *' She loved me, and by nmtual word and will We were betroth'd, wlien, in unhappy hour, I left her, as in fealty bound, to fight Thy battles. In mine absence thou didst come To tempt her tlien 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 iionorable name,"^ O lost to me. And to thyself, forever, ever lost, My poor polluted Agnes ! — Charles, that faith Almost is shaken, which should be hencefortli My only hope : thou hast thy wicked will. While I the victim of lier guilt and thine. Though meriting alike from her and thee Far other guerdon, bear about with me A wound for which this eartli aff'ords no balm, And doubt Heaven's justice." So he said, and frowu'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 Azraf.i., 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 .\s from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck. He wept. " I know thee, Damsel ! " he cxclaim'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 tlie Maid Answering, address'd : " 1 do remember well. That night ; for then the holy Spirit first, Waked by thy words, possess'd me." Conrade cried, " Poor Maiden, thou wort happy ! thou hadst lived Blessing and blest, if I had never stray 'd, Needlessly rigid, from my peaceful path. And tliou hast left thine home then, and obey'd The feverish fancies of an ardent brain ! And hast tiiou left him too, tiie youth whose eye Forever glancing on thee, spake so well Affection's eloquent tale ? " So as he said, Rusli'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek 28 JOAN OF ARC. " 1 am alone," she answered, " for this realm Devoted." Nor to answer more the Maid Endured, for many a melanclioly thought Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind seye 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 iiim 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 Myself." '^ Then, in a tone subdued Of calmness, "There are moments wlien the soul From her own impulse witli strange dread recoils, Suspicious of herself; but with a full. And pi.-rfect faith I know tliis 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 aff*ection"s breast. My soul will groan in anguisii. Thou wilt serve, Like me, the wortliless 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 liave 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 liis 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. 1 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 liad burst The ties, strong as they are, which bind us down To selfish happiness, and on tliis eartli 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, Conracc ' 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 not, 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 Awhile 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, luU'd her to such dreajns 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 forced 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'd 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 rescue France ? " Thrill'd by the well-known tones, she started up, And fell upon the neck of Theodore. "Have 1 then found thee!" cried the impas- sioned youth ; *• Henceforth we part no more ; but where thou 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. Oil, 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, Wiiich Heaven forbid, unlicensed and unblest?" " Oh, surely not unblest ! " the youth replied ; JOAN OF ARC. 29 Yet conscious of his unrepented fault, Witli 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 liad fail'd me, if it had not glow'd With ardor like thine own; the sacred fire With which thy hosom burns had kindled me ; High in prophetic hope, 1 bade her place Her trust in Heaven ; I bade her look to hear Good tidings soon of glorious victory ; I told her I siiould soon return, — return With thee, and thou wouldst be to her old age What Madclon had been." As thus he spake, AN arm 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 Withered her cheek; cold damps suffused her brow. And falling on the neck of Theodore, Feeble and faint she hung. His eager eve Concentring all the anguish of the soul, And strain'd in ansious 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 lier 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 I 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 swoid and spear ! I will go with thee And spread the guardian shield " " Nay," she replied, " 1 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, Tliinking 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 Tlie 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 HaUi been withdrawn for me, and I have seen The fearful features of Futurity. ■Ves, 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 ' [ do not tell thee there are other maids As fair J 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 lioly 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 tire sons of France ; Tliey crowd around the standard," cried the chief. " Our bretliren, pent in Orleans, every moment Gaze from the watch-tower witli 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 Tlie 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 ta rescue Orleans from the foe." THE FIFTH BOOK. Scarce had the early dawn from Chinon's towers Made visible the mist that curl'd along The river's winding way, when from her couch The martial Maid arose. She mail'd her limbs ; The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed heac She girt the sacred falchion by her side. And, like a youth wlio from his mother's arms. For his first field impatient, breaks away. Poising the lance went forth. Twelve hundred men, Rearing in order'd ranks their glittering spears, Await her coming. Terrible in arms Before them tower'd Dunois, his manly face 30 JOAN OF ARC. O'ershadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks. The assembled court gazed on the marshall'd train, And at the gate the aged prelate stood To pour his blessing on the chosen host. And now a soft and solemn symphony Was heard, and chanting high the hallow'd hymn, From the near convent came the vestal maids. A holy banner, woven by virgin hands, Snjw-white they bore. A mingled sentiment Of awe and eager ardor for the fight, Tiirill'd through the army, as the reverend man Took the white standard, and with heaven- ward eye Caird on the God of Justice, blessing it. The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd, Her dark liair floating on the morning gale, Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand Received the mystic banner. From tiie host A loud and universal shout burst forth, As rising from the ground, upon her brow She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high The banner'd lilies. On their way they march. And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon Fade from the eye reverted. The sixth sun, Purpling the sky with his dilated light, Sunk westering; when embosom'd in the depth Of that old forest, which for many a league Shadow'd the hills and vales of Orleannois, They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale The streamers flutter; and ascending slow Beneath the foliage of the forest trees, With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke Melts in the iinpurpled air. Leaving her tent. The martial Maiden wander'd through the wood ; There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank Reclined, she saw a damsel, her long locks With willow wreathed ; upon her lap there lay A dark-hair'd man, listening the while she sung Sad ditties, and enwreathed to bind his brow The melancholy garland. At tiie sound Of one in arms approaching, she had fled ; But Conrade. looking upward, recognized The Maid of Arc. '-Nay, fear not, Isabel," Said he, -'for this is one of gentle kind, Whom even the wretched need not fear to love." So saying, he arose and took her hand. And press'd it to his bosom. *' My weak heart, Though school'd by wrongs to loatli at human kind, Will beat, rebellious to its own resolves. Come hither, outcast one ! and call her friend. And she will be thy friend more readily Because thou art unhappy." Isabel Saw a tear starting in the virgin's eye, And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept, Wailing his wilder'd senses. "Mission'd Maid ' " The warrior cried, *'be happy ! for tfty power Can make this sufferer so. From Orleans driven, Orphan'd by war, and of her only friend Bereft, I found her wandering in the wilds, Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, Joan, Wilt his beloved to the youth restore; And trust me. Maid ! the miserable feel When tliey on others bestow happiness, Their happiest consolation." She replied, Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone Of equal friendship, solacing her cares. " Soon shall we enter Orleans," said the Maid ; A few hours in her dream of victory England shall triumph, then to be awaked By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath ! Irksome meantime the busy camp to me A solitary woman. Isabel, Wert thou the while companion of my tent, Ligiitlier the time would pass. Return with me ; I may not long be absent." So she spake. The wanderer in half-utter'd words express'd Grateful assent. "Art thou astonish'd, then, That one though powerful is benevolent .'* In truth thou well mayst wonder!" Conrade cried. "But little cause to love the mighty ones Hath the low cottager ; for with its shade Too oft doth Power, a death-dew-dropping tree, Blast every herb beneath its baleful boughs ! Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel ! Relate How warr'd the chieftains, and the people died. The mission'd Virgin hath not heard tliy woes ; And pleasant to mine ear the twice-told tale Of sorrow." Gazing on the martial Maid She read her wish, and spake. " A wanderer now, Friendless and hopeless, still 1 love to think Upon my native home, and call to mind Each haunt of careless youth; the woodbined wall, The jessamine that round the straw-roof 'd cot Its fragrant branches wreathed, beneath whose shade I wont to sit and watch the setting sun, And hear the thrush's song. Nor far remote, As o'er the subject landscape round I gazed. The towers of Yenville rose upon the view. A foreign master holds my father's home ! I, far away, remember the past years, And weep. "Two brethren fonn'd our family ; Humble we were, and happy ; honest toil Procured our homely sustenance ; our herds Duly at morn and evening to my hand Gave their full stores ; the vineyard we had rear'd Purpled its clusters in tlie southern sun. And, plenteous produce of my father's toil. The yellow harvest billow'd o'er the plain. How cheerfully around the blazing hearth, When all tlie labor of the day was done, We past the evening hours; for they would sing Or merry roundelay, or ditty sad Of maid forsaken and the willow weed, Or of the doughty Paladins of France Some warlike fit, the while my spinning-wheel A fitting music made. " Thus long we lived. And happy. To a neighboring youth my hand, In holy wedlock soon to be consign 'd. JOAN OP ARC. 33 Was pliglited : my poor Francis ! " Here slie paused, And here slie wept awhile. " We did not think The desolating stream of war would reach To us ; hut soon as with the whirlwind's speed Ruin rush'd round us."- Mehun, Clery, fell, The hanner'd Leopard waved on Gergeau's wall ; Baugenci yielded ; soon the foe approached The towers of Yenville. " Fatal was the hour To me and mine : for from the wall, alas ! The rusty sword was taken, and the shield Which long had moulder'd on the mouldering nail. To meet the war repair'd. No more was heard The ballad, or the merry roundelay ; The clattering hammer's clank, the graiing file Harsh sounded through the day a dismal din ; 1 never shall forget their mournful sound ! "My father stood encircling his old limbs In long-forgotten arms. ' Come, boys,' he cried ; ' I did not tliink that this gray head again Should bear the helmet's weight ; but in the field Better to bravely die a soldier's death. Than here be tamely butcher'd. Isabel, Go to the abbey ! if we should survive. We soon shall meet again ; if not, my child. There is a better world ! ' In broken words. Lifting his eyes to Heaven, my father breathed His blessing on me. As they went away, My brethren gazed on me, and wrung my hand In silence, for they loved their sister well. From the near cottage Francis join'd the troop. Then did I look on our forsaken home, And almost sob my very soul away ; For all my hopes of happiness were fled. Even like a dream 1 " " Perish these mighty ones," Cried Conrade, " these who let destruction loose. Who walk elated o'er their fields of fame. And count the thousands that lie slaughter'd there. And with the bodies of the innocent, rear Their pyramid of glory ! perish these, Tlie epitome of all the pestilent plagues That Egypt knew ! who send their locust swarms O'er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood. Fear and Destruction go before their path, And Famine dogs their footsteps. God of Justice, Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain ! " Thus while he spake, the murmur of the camp Rose on their ear ; first like the distant sound When the fuU-foliaged forest to tlie storm Shakes its hoarse head ; anon with louder din ; And through the opening glade gleam'd many a fire. The Virgin's tent they enter'd ; tiiere the board Was spread, the wanderer of the fare partook. Then thus her tale renew'd : — " Slow o'er the hill Whose rising head conceal'd our cot I past. Yet on my journey paused awhile, and gazed And wept ; for often had 1 cross'd the hill With cheerful step, and seen the rising smoke Of hospitable fire ; alas ! no smoke Curl'd o'er its melancholy chimneys now ! Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood The abbey ; and ere long I learnt the fall Of Yenville. ** On a day, a soldier ask'tl For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet Support me. It was Francis, and alone — The sole survivor of that company ! " And soon the foes approach'd : impending jvar Soon sadden'd Orleans.^ There the bravest chiefs Assembled ; Tliouars, Coarase, Chabannes, .\nd the Sire Chapelle,'* in successful war Since wounded to the death ; and that good Knight Giresme of Rhodes, who in a better cause Can never wield the crucifi.x that hilts His hallowed sword; **' and Xaintrailles ransura'd now, And Fayette late released, and that young Duke"* Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest man " That ever yet did win his soldiers' love ; And over all for hardihood renown'd The Bastard Orleans. " These within tlie town Expect the foe. Twelve hundred cliosen men. Well tried in war, uprear the guardian shield Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight Of preparation. The wide suburbs stretch'd Along the pleasant borders of the Loire, Late throng'd with multitudes, now feel the hand Of ruin. These preventive care destroj's. Lest England, shelter'd by the friendly walls, Securely should approach. The monasteries Fell in the general waste. The holy monks Unwillingly their long-accustom'd haunts Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook Call'd to awaken'd memory some trace Of vision seen, or sound miraculous. Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells, For the rude uproar of a world unknown, Tlie nuns desert ; their abbess, more composed. Collects her maids around, and tells her beads. And pours the timid prayer of piety. The pioneers, by day and night employ 'd, Throw up the violated earth, to impede The foe : the hollow chambers of the dead Echo'd beneath their stroke. The brazen tomb Which late recorded death, in the furnace cast Is made to inflict it now. Sad sight it was To see so wide a waste ; the aged ones Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went O'er the fallen dwellings of their happier years ; The stern and sullen silence of the men Musing on vengeance : and but ill represt, The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay One ample ruin ; *' whence the stones were bornf Within the town to serve in its defence. " And now without the walls the desolate spac€ Appear'd, a rough and melancholy waste, With uptorn pavements and foundations deep Of many a ruin'd dwelling. Nor within Less drearv was the scene ; at evening hour 32 JOAN Of ARC. BOOK V. No more the merry viol's note was heard ; *' No more the aged matron at her door Humm'd cheery to lier spinning-wheel, and saw Her childreu dancing to the roundelay. The chieftains strengthening still the ancient walls, Survey them every where with prying eye ; The eager youth, in anxious preparation, Practise the arts of war; silent and stern. With the hurrying restlessness of fear, they urge Their gloomy labors. In the city dwelt An utter silence of all pleasant sounds; But all d.ay long the armorer's beat was heard, And all night long it echoed. " Soon the foe Led to our walls the siege : as on they move The clarions clangor, and the cheerful fife, Accordant to the thundering drum's deep sound. Direct their measured march. Before the ranks Salisbury was seen, Salisbury, so long the scourge Of France ; and Talbot towered by his side, Talbot, at wliose dread name the froward cliild Clings mute and trembling to his nurse's breast. Suffolk was there, and Hungerford, and Scales, And Fastolffe, victor in the frequent tight. Dark as the autumnal storm they roll'd along, A countless host ! From the higii tower I mark'd The dreadful scene ; I saw the iron gleam Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun. Their banners tossing to the troubled'gale. And — fearful music — heard upon the wind The modulated step of multitude^. " There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I saw The dreadful stores of death; tremendous roll'd Over rough roads the harsh wheels ; the brazen tubes Flash'd in the sun their fearful splendor far. And, last, the loaded wagons creak 'd along. " Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care pro- cured Human defence, neglectful to implore That heavenly aid, deprived of which the strength Of man is weakness. Bearing through our streets The precious relics of the holy dead, The monks and nuns pour'd many an earnest praj'er. Devoutly join'd by all. Saint Aignan's shrine Was throng'd by supplicants, the general voice Call'd on Saint Aignan's name*' again to save His people, as of yore, before he past Into the fulness of eternal rest; When by the Spirit to the lingering camp Of ."Etius borne, he brought the timely aid, .\nd Attila, with all his multitudes, Far off retreated to their field of siiame." And now Dunois — for he had seen the camp Well-order'd — enter'd. " One night more in peace England shall rest," he cried, " ere yet the storm Burst on her guilty head ! then their proud vaunts Forgotten, or remember'd to their shame. Vainly her chiefs shall curse the hour when first They pitch'd their tents round Orleans." " Of that siege," The Maid of .\rc replied, " gladly I hear The detail. Isabel, proceed ! for soon Destined to rescue this devoted town. The tale of all the ills she hath endured I listen, sorrowing for the past, and feel Joy and contentment in the merciful task For which I am sent forth." Thus spake the maid. And Isabel pursued. " And now more near The hostile host advancing pitch their tents. Unnumber'd streamers wave, and clamorous shouts, Anticipating conquest, rend the air With universal uproar. From their camp A herald came ; his garb emblazon'd o'er With leopards and the lilies of our realm — Foul shame to France ! The summons of the foe He brought." The Bastard interrupting cried, " I was with Gaucour and the assembled chiefs, When by his olfice privileged and proud That herald spake, as certain of success As he had made a league with Victory. * Nobles of France rebellious I from the chief Of yon victorious host, the mighty Earl Of Salisbury, now there in place of him Your Regent John of Bedford : in his name I come, and in our sovereign Lord the King's, Henry. Ye know full well our master's claim, Incontrovertible to this good realm. By right di'scent, and solemnly confirm'd By your great monarch and our mighty king Fifth Henr}', in the treaty ratified At Troyes,^' wherein your monarch did disclaim All future right and title to this crown. His own exempted, for his son and heirs Down to the end of time. This sign'd and seal'd At the holy altar, and by nuptial knot Of Henry and your princess, gives the realm, Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose My master's title, in the face of God, Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime, Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion 'gainst The Lord's anointed. He, at Paris crown'd With loud acclaim of duteous multitudes. Thus speaks by me. Deliver up your town To Salisbury, and yield yourselves and arms, So shall your lives be safe ; and such his grace, If of your free accord to him you pay Due homage as your sovereign Lord and King, Your rich estates, your houses shall be safe, .\nd yon in favor stand, as is the Duke, Philip of Burgundy. But — mark me well ! If, obstinately wilful, you persist To scorn his proffer'd mercy, not one stone Upon another of this wretched town Shall then be left ; and when the English host Triumphant in the dust have trod the towers Of Orleans, who survive the dreadful war Shall die like traitors by the hangman's hand. Ye men of France, remember Caen and Roan ! ' " He ceased ; nor Gaucour for a moment paused To form reply. " ' Herald ! to all thy vaunts Of English sovereignty let tliis suffice JOAN OP ARC. 33 For answer : France will only own as King Her own legitimate Lord. On Charles's brow, Transmitted through a long and good descent, The crown remains. We know no homage due To English robbers, and disclaim the peace Inglorious made at Troyes by factious men Hostile to France. Thy master's proffer'd grace Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, yes. Be su-3 we shall remember Caen and Roan ' Go tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury, Tiiat as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power. Like Blanchard, he can brave his cruelty, And triumph by enduring. Speak 1 well. Ye men of Orleans .'' ' " Never did 1 hear A shout so universal as ensued Of approbation. The assembled host As with one voice pour'd forth their loyalt}'. And struck their sounding shields ; and walls and towers Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went. The work of war began." *'A fearful scene," Cried Isabel. ** The iron storm of death Clash'd in the sky ; the mighty engines hurl'd Huge stones, which shook the ground where'er they fell. Then was there heard at once the clang of arms, The thundering cannons, and the soldier's shout, The female's shriek, the affrighted infant's cry, The groan of death, — discord of dreadful sounds That jarr'd the soul. " Nor while the encircling foe Leaguer'd the walls of Orleans, idly slept Our friends : for winning down the Loire its way The frequent vessel with provision fraught, And men, and all the artillery of death, Cheer'd us with welcome succor. At the bridge These safely landed mock'd the foeman's force. This to prevent, Salisbury, their watchful chief,^^ A mighty work prepares. Around our walls. Encircling walls he builds, surrounding thus The city. Firm'd with massiest buttresses. At equal distance, si.xty forts protect The English lines. But chief where in the town The six great avenues meet in the niidst,*^ Six castles there he rear'd impregnable. With deep-dug moats and bridges drawn aloft. Where over the strong gate suspended hung The dread portcullis. Thence the gunner's eye From his safe shelter could with ease survey Intended sally, or approaching aid, And point destruction. " It were long to tell, And tedious, how in many a bold assault The men of Orleans sallied on their foes ; How afler difficult fight the enemy Possess'd the Tournelles,'* and the embattled tower That shadows from the bridge the subject Loire ; Though numbering now three thousand daring men, Frequent and fierce the garrison repell'd Their far outnumbering foes. From every aid Included, they in Orleans groan'd beneath All ills accumulate. The shatter'd roofs 5 Allow'd the dews of night free passage there ; And ever and anon the ponderous stone. Ruining where'er it fell, witli hideous crash Came like an earthquake,'' startling from his sleep The affrighted soldier. From the brazen slings The wild-fire balls hiss'd through the midnight sky; ™ And often their huge engines cast among us The dead and loathsome cattle of their cam]i, As though our enemies, to their deadly league Forcing tlie common air, would make us breatlie Poisonous pollution." Through the streets were seen The frequent fire, and heaps of dead, in haste Piled up and streaming to infected Heaven. For ever the incessant storm of death Pours down, and crowded in unwholesome vaults* The wretched females hide, not idle there, Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ'd, Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal, Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds : A sad equality of wretchedness ! " Now came the worst of ills, for Famine came The provident hand deals out its scanty dole, Yielding so little a supply to life As but protracted death. The loathliest food Hunted with eager eye and dainty deem'd, The dog is slain, that at his master's feet Howling with hunger lay ; with jealous fear, Hating a rival's look, the husband hides His miserable meal ; the famish'd babe Clings closely to his dying mother's breast; And — horrible to tell ! — where, thrown aside, There lay unburied in the open streets Huge heaps of carcasses, the soldier stands Eager to mark the carrion crow for food.'' " O peaceful scenes of childhood ! pleasant fields : Haunts of mine infancy, where I have stray 'd Tracing the brook along its winding way. Or pluck'd the primrose, or with giddy speed Chased the gay butterfly from flower to flower ! days in vain remember'd ! how my soul, Sick with calamity, and the sore ills Of hunger, dwelt on you and on my home ! Thinking of you amid the waste of war, 1 could in bitterness have cursed the great Who made me what I was, a helpless one, Orphan'd, and wanting bread ! " " And be they curst ! " Conrade exclaim'd, his dark eye flashing rage ; "And be they curst! O groves and woodland shades, How blest indeed were you, if the iron rod Should one day from Oppression's hand be wrench'd By everlasting Justice ! Come that hour. When in the Sun the Angel of the Lord"" Shall stand and cry to all the fowls of Heaven, ' Gather ye to the supper of your God, That ye may eat the flesh of mighty men. Of captains, and of kings ! ' Then shall be peace." " And now lest all should perish," she pursued 34 JOAN OF ARC. The women and the infirm must from the town Go forth and seek their fate. " I will not now Recall the moment, when on my poor Francis With a long look I hung. At dead of night, Made mute by fear, we mount the secret bark, And glide adown the stream with silent oars : Thus thrown upon the mercy of mankind, I wandered reckless where, till wearied out, And cold at heart, I laid me down to die ; So by this warrior found. Him I had known And loved, for all loved Conrade who had known him ; Nor did 1 feel so pressing the hard hand Of want in Orleans, ere he parted thence On perilous envoy. For of his small fare — " "Of this enough," said Conrade. " Holy Maid ! One duty yet awaits me to perform. Orleans her envoy sent me, to demand Aid from her idle sovereign. Willingly Did I achieve the hazardous enterprise, For rumor had already made me fear The ill that hath fallen on me. It remains. Ere I do banish me from human kind, That 1 ret^nter Orleans, and announce Thy march. 'Tis night, and hark ! how dead a silence ' Fit hour to tread so perilous a path ! " So saying, Conrade from tiie tent went forth. THE SIXTH BOOK. The night was calm, and many a moving cloud Shadow'd the moon. Along the forest glade With swift foot Conrade past, and now had reach'd The plain, where whilome by the pleasant Loire, Cheer'd with the song, the rustics had beheld The day go down upon their merriment : No song of peace now echoed on its banks. There tents were pitch'd, and tiiere the sentinel, Slow pacing on his sullen rounds, beheld The frequent corse roll down the tainted stream. Conrade with wider sweep pursued his way,. Shunning the camp, now hush'd in sleep and still. And now no sound was heard save of the Loire, Murinuring along. The noise of coming feet Alarm'd him ; nearer drew the rapid steps As of pursuit ; anon — the clash of arms ! That instant breaking through a rifted cloud The moonlight show'd, where two with force combined Prest on a single foe, who, warding still Their swords, retreated in unequal fight, As he would make the city. Hastening With timely help to save him, Conrade sped. One with an unexpected stroke he slew ; The other fled : " Now let us speed our best. Frenchman! " he cried. On to the Loire they ran, And making way with practised arms across, Ere long in safety gain'd the opposite shore. " Whence art thou.'" cried the warrior; "and on what Commission'd -"' " Is it not the voice of Conrade ? * Francis replied ; " and dost thou bring to us Tidings of succor ? oh ! that it had come A few hours earlier ! Isabel is gone ' " " Nay, she is safe," cried Conrade ; " lier I founa Bewilder'd in the forest, and consign'd her To the protection of the holy Maid, Whom Heaven hath sent to rescue us. Now say Wherefore alone ? A fugitive from Orleans, Or sent on dangerous service from the town? " " There is no food in Orleans," he replied, " Scarce a meal more. The assembled chiefs resolve, If thou sbouldst bring no tidings of near aid, To cut their way to safety, or by death Prevent the pang of famine."" One they sought, Who, venturing to the English lines, should spy Where best to venture on this desperate chance, And I, believing all I loved was lost, Offer'd myself." So saying, they approach'd The gate. The sentinel, soon as he heard Thitherward footsteps, with uplifted lance Challenged the darkling travellers. At their voice He drew the strong bolts back, and cautiously Open'd the wicket. To the careful chiefs Who sate in midnight council, they were led, And Conrade thus address'd them : " Sirs, the Lord, In this our utmost need, hath sent us aid. A holy Maid hath been raised up by Heaven ; Her mission is by miracles confirm'd. And hither, with twelve hundred chosen men, Led by Dunois, she comes. I am myself A witness to the truth of what I tell ; And by to-morrow's noon, before these walla Her banner will be seen " Thereat the chiefs Were fill'd with wonder and with joy, by doubt Little repress'd. " Open the granaries ! " Xaintrailles exclaim'd ; ■' give we to all the host With hand unsparing now a plenteous meal ; To-morrow we are safe ! for Heaven all-just Hath seen our sufferings and decreed their end. Let the glad tidings echo through tlie town ! God is with us ! " " Be not too confident," Graville replied, " in this miraculous aid. Some frantic woman this, who gives belief To idle dreams, and with her madness then Infects the simple ! That Dunois is there. Leading in anns twelve hundred chosen men. Affords a better hope ; yet lavish not Our stores, lest in the enterprise he fail. And Orleans then be fain to bear the yoke Of England!" " Chief I I tell thee," Conrade cried, " I did myself behold the sepulchre. Fulfilling what she spake, give up those arms Which surely for no common end the grave JOAN OF ARC. 35 Through many an age hath held inviolate. She is the Prophetess of the Most High, And will deliver Orleans ! " Gaucour then, " Be it as thou hast said. For I must thinli. That surely to no vulgar tale tliese chiefs Would yield a light belief; and our poor stores Must speedily, ye know, be clean consumed. Spread then the joyful tidings through the troops That God hath to deliver the oppress'd, As in old time, raised up a Prophetess, And the belief itself will make them fight With irresistible courage." Thus the chief. And what he said seem'd good. The men of Orleans, Long by their foemen bay'd, such transport felt. As when the Mexicans,^*^ with eager eye Gazing to Huixachtla's distant top. On that last night, doubtful if ever morn Again shall cheer them, mark the mystic fire Flame on the breast of some brave prisoner, A dreadful altar. As they see the blaze Beaming on Iztapalapan's near towers. Or on Tezcuco's calmy lake flash'd far. Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy Wake the loud echo j the glad husband tears The mantling aloe from his consort's face. And children, now deliver'd from the dread Of everlasting darkness, look abroad, Hail the good omen, and expect the sun Uninjur'd still to run his flaming race. While thus in Orleans hope had banished sleep, The Maiden's host perform'd their evening prayer. And in the forest took their rest secure. And now the morning came. At earliest dawn Lightly upstarting, and bcdight in arms, Tlie Bastard moved along, with provident eye Marshalling the troops. All high in hope they march ; And now the sun shot from the southern sky His noontide radiance, when afar they hear The hum of men, and see the distant towers Of Orleans, and the bulwarks of the foe, And many a streamer wantoning in air. These as they saw and thought of all the ills Their brethren had endured, closely pent there For many a month, such ardor for the fight Burnt in each bosom, as young Ali felt Then when Mohammed of the assembled tribe Ask'd who would be his Vizir. Fierce in faith. Forth from the race of Hashem stept the youth, " Prophet of God ! lo — I will be the man ! " And well did Ali merit that high post, Victorious upon Beder's fertile vale. And on mount Ohud, and before the walls Of Chaibar, when down-cleaving to the chest His giant foe, he grasp'd the massy gate. Shook with strong arm and tore it from the fort. And lifted it in air, portentous shield ! "Behold the towers of Orleans," cried Dunois, " Lo ! this the vale where on the banks of Loire, Of yore, at close of day the rustic band Danced to the roundelay. In younger years As oft I glided down the silver stream, Frequent upon the lifted oar I paused. Listening the sound of far-off merriment. There wave the hostile banners ! martial Maid. Give thou the signal ! — let us fall upon These merciless invaders, who have sack'd Village and town, and made the hamlet haunts Silent, or hearing but the widow's groan. Give but the signal, Maiden ! " Her dark eye Fix'd sadly on the foe, the holy Maid Answer'd him ; " Ere the avenging sword be drawn. And slaughter be let loose, befits us send Some peaceful messenger, who shall make known The will of Heaven : so timely warn'd, our foes Haply may yet repent, and quit in peace Besieged Orleans, for I fain would spare The bloody price of victory." So she said ; And as she spake, a soldier from the ranks Came forward. " I will be thy messenger, Prophetess ! and to the English camp Will bear thy bidding." ** Go," the Virgin cried ; " Say to the Lord of Salisbury, and the chiefs Of England, Suffolk, Fastolffe, Talbot, Scales, Invaders of the country, say, thus says The Maid of Orleans; ' With your troops retire In peace. Of every captured town the keys Restore to Charles ; so bloodless you may seek Your native island ; for the God of Hosts Thus hath decreed. To Charles the rightful heir, By long descent and by the willing choice Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd The kingdom. In His name the Virgin comes Arm'd with the sword, yet not of mercy void. Depart in peace : for ere the morrow dawns. Victorious upon yonder wall shall wave Her holy banner.' " To the English camp Fearless the herald went. At mid-day meal. With all the dissonance of boisterous mirth. The British chiefs caroused and quaff'd the bowl. When by the sentinel conducted there The Maiden's herald came. " Chiefs," he began, ■' Salisbury, and ye the representatives Of the English King, usurper of this realm. To ye the leaders of the English host 1 come, no welcome messenger. Thus saith The Maid of Orleans : ' With your troops retire In peace. Of every captured town the keys Restore to Charles ; so bloodless you may seek Your native island ; for the God of Hosts Thus hath decreed. To Charles the rightful heir, By long descent and by the willing choice Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd The kingdom. In His name the Virgin comes, Arm'd with the sword, yet not of mercy void. Depart in peace : for ere the morrow dawns, Victorious upon yonder wall shall wave Her holy banner.' " Wonder made a pause ; To this a laugh succeeds. "What!" Fastolffe cried, " A virgin warrior hath your monarch sent 36 JOAN OF ARC. To save devoted Orleans ? By the rood, 1 thank his grace. If she be young and fair, No worthless prize, my lords ! Go, tell your Maid, Joyful we wait her coming." There was one Among the English chiefs wlio had grown old In arms, yet had not age unnerved his limbs, But from the flexile nimbleness of youth To unyielding stiffness braced them. One who saw Him seated at the board, miglit well have deem'd Tliat Talbot with his whole collected might Wielded the sword in war, for on his neck Tlie veins were fuU,"^^ and every muscle bore The character of strength. He his stern eye Fix'd on the herald, and before he spake His silence threaten'd.'"'' *' Get thee gone ! " exclaim'd The indignant chief: "away ! nor think to scare Witii girlish phantasies the English host That scorns your bravest warriors. Hie thee thence, And tell this girl she may expect to meet The mockery of the camp ! " *' Nay, scare her not," Replied their chief: " go, tell this Maid of Orleans, That Salisbury longs to meet her in the fight. Nor let her fear that cords or iron chains Shall gall her tender limbs ; for 1 myself Will be her prison, and " " Contemptuous man ! No more ! " the herald cried, as to his cheek Rush'd the red anger : " bearing words of peace And timely warning came I to your camp ; And here have been with insolent ribaldry Received. Bear witness, chieftains I that the French, Free from blood-guiltiness, shall meet the war." *' And who art thou ? " cried Suffolk, and his eye Grew fierce and wrath-infiamed : " What fool art thou, Who at this woman's bidding comest to brave The host of England ? Thou shalt have thy meed '. " Then turning to the sentinel he cried, *' Prepare a stake ! and let the men of Orleans, And let this woman who believes her name May privilege her herald, see the fire Consume him.^**^ Plant a stake I for by my God He shall be kalendared of this new faith First martyr." As he spake, a sudden flush Came o'er the herald's cheek, and his heart beat With quicker action ; but the sudden flush. Nature's instinctive impulse, faded soon To such a steady hue as spake the soul Roused up with all its powers, and unsubdued, And strengthen'd for endurance. Through the camp, Soon as the tidings spread, a shout arose, A hideous shout, more savage than the howl Of midnight wolves, around him as they throng'd. To gaze upon their victim. He pass'd on ; A.nd as they led him to the appointed place Look'd round, as though forgetful of himself, And cried aloud, " Oh ! woe it is to think So many men shall never see the sun Go down ! Ye English mothers, mourn ye now ! Daughters of England, weep ! for, hard of heart. Still your mad leaders urge this impious war ; And for their folly and their wickedness. Your sons, your husbands, by the sword must fall Long-suffering is the Lord, and slow to wrath, But heavy are his judgments ! " He who spake Was young and comely ; had his cheek been pale With dread, and had his eye look'd fearfully, Sure he had won compassion ; but the blood Gave now a livelier meaning to his cheek, As with a prophet's look and prophet's voice He raised his ominous warning : they who heard Wonder'd, and they who rear'd the stake perform'd With half-unwilling hands their slacken'd toil, And doubted what might follow. Not unseen Rear'd they the stake, and piled around the wood; In sight of Orleans and the Maiden's host,** Had Suffolk's arrogant fierceness bade the work Of death be done. The Maiden's host beheld; At once in eager wrath they raised the loud And general clamor, " Lead us to the foe ! " *' Not upon us, O God ! " the Maid exclaim'd, " Not upon us cry out the innocent blood ! " And bade the signal sound. In the English camp The clarion and the trumpet's blare was heard ; In haste they seize their arms, in haste they form, Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear Even from themselves, some silently in prayer, For much their hearts misgave them. But the rage Of Suffolk swell'd within him. '•'• Speed your work ! ' ' Exclaim'd the injurious earl; "kindle the pile. That France may see the fire, and in defeat Feel aggravated shame ! " And now they bound The herald to the stake : he cried aloud. And fix'd his eye on Suffolk, " Let not him W^ho girdeth on his harness boast himself As he that puts it off I ^^"^ They come ; they come ! God and the Maid!" The host of France approach'o. And Suffolk eagerly beheld the fire Brought near the pile ; when suddenly a shout Toward Orleans call'd his eye, and thence he saw A man-at-arms upon a barded steed Come thundering on. As when Chederles comes "^*' To aid the Moslem on his deathless horse, Swaying the sword witli such resistless arm, Such mightiest force, as he had newly quaff 'd The hidden waters of eternal youth, Till with the copious draught of life and strength Inebriate ; such, po fierce, so terrible, Came Conrade tlirough the camp. Aright, aleft, The affrighted foemen scatter from his spear; Onward he comes, and now the circling throng Fly from the stake, and now he checks his course, And cuts the herald's bonds, and bids him live To arm, and fight, and conquer. " Haste thee hence To Orleans," cried the warrior. "Tell the chiefs JOAN OF ARC. 37 There is confusion in the English camp. Bid them come forth." On Conrade's steed the youth Leapt up, and hasten'd onward. He the wliile Turn'd to4he war. Like two conflicting clouds, Pregnant with thunder, moved the hostile hosts. Then man met man, then on tlie batter'd shield Rung the ioud lance, and through the darken'd sky Fast fell the arrowy storm. Amid his foes The Bastard's arm dealt irresistibly The strokes of death ; and by his side the Maid Led the fierce fight, the Maid, though all unused To such rude conflict, now inspired by Heaven, Flashing her flamy falchion through the troops, That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell, Scatter'd the trembling ranks. The Saracen, Though arm'd from Cashbin or Damascus, wields A weaker sword ; nor might that magic blade Compare with this, which Oriana saw Flame in the ruffian Ardan's robber iiand. When, sick and cold as death, she turn'd away Her dizzy eyes, lest they should see the fall Of her own Amadis. Nor plated shield. Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque. Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved Like as tile Angel of the Lord went forth And smote his army, when the Assyrian king, Haughty of Hamatli and Sepharvaim fallen, Blasphemed the God of Israel. Vet the figlit Hung doubtful, where exampling hardiest deeds, Salisbury struck dow n the foe, and FastolfFe strove. And in tlie hottest doings of the war Towered Talbot. He, remembering the past day When from his name the affrighted sons of France Fled trembling, all astonish'd at their force And wontless valor, rages round the field Dreadful in anger ; yet in every man Meeting a foe fearless, and in the faith Of Heaven's assistance firm. The clang of arms Reaches the walls of Orleans. For the war Prepared, and confident of victory. Forth speed the troops. Not when afar e.xhaled The hungry raven snuffs the steam of blood That from some carcass-cover'd field of fame Taints the pure air, flies he more eagerly To feed upon tlie slain, than the Orleanites, Impatient now for many an ill endured In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray ; The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun '™ Now quench'd in blood their radiance. O'er the host Howl'd a deep wind that ominous of storms RoU'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night Frown'd, and the thunder from the troubled sky Roar'd hollow. Javelins clash'd and bucklers rang; Shield prest on shield ; loud on the helmet jarr'd The ponderous battle-axe ; the frequent groan Of death commingling with the storm was heard, And the shrill shriek of fear. Even sucli a storm Before the walls of Cliartres quell'd the pride Of the third Edward, when the heavy hail Smote down his soldiers, and the conqueror heard God in the tempest, and remembered then With a remorseful sense of Christian fear What misery he had caused, and in the name Of blessed Mary vowed a vow of peace."" Lo ! where the holy banner waved aloft, The lambent lightnings play. Irradiate round, As with a blaze of glory, o'er the field It stream'd miraculous splendor. Then their heart! Sunk, and the English trembled ; with such fear Possess'd, as when the Canaanites beheld The sun stand still on Gibeon, at the voice Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote The country of the hills, and of the south. From Baal-gad to Halak, and their chiefs. Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fled From tliat portentous banner, and the sword Of France ; though Talbot with vain valiancy Yet urged the war, and stemm'd alone the tide Of battle. Even their leaders felt dismay ; Fastolffe fled first, and Salisbury in the rout Mingled, and all impatient of defeat, Borne backward Talbot turns. Then echoed loud The cry of conquest, deeper grew the storm. And darkness, liovering o'er on raven wing. Brooded the field of death. Nor in the camp Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives ; On to the forts they haste. Bewilder'd there Amid the moats by fear and the thick gloom Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops, Crush'd by fast-following numbers, who partake The death tliey give. As swol'n with vernal snows A mountain torrent hurries on its way. Till at the brink of some abrupt descent Arrived, with deafening clamor down it falls, Thus borne along, tuniultuously the troops Driven by the force behind them, plunge amid The liquid death. Tlien rose the dreadful cries More dreadful, and t!ie dash of breaking waters That to the passing lightning as they broke Open'd their depth. Nor of the host so late Exultant in the pride of long success, A remnant had escaped, had not their chief, Slow as he moved unwilling from the field, Wliat most might profit the defeated ranks Bethought him. He, when he had gaiu'd the Ibrl Named from St. John, there kindled up on high The guiding fire. Not unobserved it rose ; The watchful guards on Tournelles, and the pile Of that proud city in remembrance fond Call'd London, light their beacons. Soon the firet Flame on the summit of the circling forts, Which, with their moats and crenellated walls. Included Orleans. Far across the plain They cast a lurid splendor ; to the troops Grateftil, as to the way-worn traveller. Wandering with parch'd feet o'er Arabian sands. The far-seen cistern ; he for many a league Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved With tempest swell the desert billows round. Pauses, and shudders at his perils past. 3« JOAN OF ARC. Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave So long bewail'd. Swift as the affrighted herd Scud o'er the plain, when rattling thunder-cracks Upon the bolted lightning follow close, The English hasten to their sheltering forts, Even there of safety doubtful, still appall'd And trembling, as the pilgrim who by night On his way wilder'd, to tlie wolf's deep liowl Hears the wood echo, when from close pursuit Escaped, the topmost branch of some tall tree He grasps close clinging, still of the wild beast Fearful, iiis teeth jar, and the cold sweat stands Upon his clammy limbs. Nor now the Maid Greedy of vengeance presses the pursuit. She bids tiie trumpet of retreat resound ; A welcome note to the affrighted foe Blew that loud blast, whereat obediently Tlic French, though eager on the invaders' heads To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword. Loud is the cry of conquest as they turn To Orleans. There what few to guard the town Unwilling had remain'd, haste forth to meet The triumpli. Manj' a blazing torch tliey held. Which raised aloft amid the midnight storm Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced ; Deep throurrh the sky the hollow thunders roird;'>i Innocuous lightnings round the hallowed banner Wreath'd their red radiance. Through the city gate Then, as the laden convoy pass'd, was heard The shout of exultation ; and such joy The men of Orleans at that welcome sight Possess'd, as when from Bactria late subdued. The mighty Macedonian led his troops Amid the Sogdian desert, where no stream Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves, Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed ; Scorch'd by the sun, that o'er their morning march Steam'd his hot vapors, heart-subdued and faint ; Such joy as then they felt, when from the heights Burst the soul-gladdening sound, for thence was seen The evening sun silvering the fertile vale, Where Oxus roll'd below. Clamors of joy Echo along the streets of Orleans, wont Long time to hear the infant's feeble cry, The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sou;.d, When from the cannon burst its stores of death. Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles And high heap'd carcasses, wiience scared away From his abhorred meal, on clattering wing Rose the night-raven slow. In the English forts Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night Steal m the straggling fugitives ; as when Past 8 t\y storm, and o'er the azure sky Serenely shines the sun, with every breeze The waving branches drop their gather'd rain, Renewing the remembrance of the storm. THE SEVENTH BOOK. 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 tiU'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 vamly 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 waf» 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, tlirong the troops. High tower'd the Son of Orleans, in lijs 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 approacliing, cried the chief, " Well hast thou proved tliy mission, as by words And miracles attested when dismay'd The grave theologists dismiss'd their doubts^ JOAN OF ARC. 39 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 tlie way 1 your populous town — One open sepulchre ! who is there here That does not mourn a friend, a brotlier 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 oflentnnes Defeated, oft a prisoner, and as ofl Released for ransom, both with friend and foe Growing repute of active hardihood. And martial skill obtained ; so erst from earth Ant!EUs vaunting in his giant bulk, When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell v^anquish'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-controU'd, He from the soldiers' confidence and love Prompter obedience gaiu'd, than ever fear Forced from the heart reluctant. The third band Aleni;on 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 striphng 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 ))oy Parthenop»us,"° when the war of beasts Disdaining, he to cope with men went forth. Bearing the bow and those Dicttean 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 Gladdis- dale "n Commands the English, who as the enemy Moved to the assault, from bow and arbalist Theirshafts 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. Alenron 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, unliooded, as of lowly line,"^ He wore, though here, amid the high-born chiefs Preeminent 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 Alem^on 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 Alen(;on 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 Iiap 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 tliere tlie 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 40 JOAN OP ARC. ^ 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 witli the hostile shafts, Even like a porcupine, when in his rage Roused, he collects within liim 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 liad wearied one Of common strength ; but unencumber'd he, And unfatiguedj alertly moved in it, And wielded with both Iiands a battle-axe, Which gave no second stroke ; for where it fell, Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail Might save, norcrested 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 witii 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 Followed, 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 tlie broken stroke, and thrust his lance Clean througli 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 tliem, 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 tie 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 Fress'd forward. Nor the garrison within Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall. For in the entrance of tlie fort the fight Raged fiercely, and together througli 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 ba/^k 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 Tiie indiscriminating blow should light) Could give no aid, the English of that way Bethought them; by tliat 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 tlie 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 lutting 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 JOAN OF ARC. 41 Could tlio Euglishbringtlieirnurabers, forthe way By upward steps presented from the fort A narrow asr.ent, where one alone could meet The w:ir. 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 nmst sink Fatigued with slaughter, and by toil foredone Succumb. There was amid tlie 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-a.xe 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 tlie 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 e»ger ear, Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door The wretched one shall sit, and with fix'd eye Gaze on tiie path, where on his parting steps Her last look liung. Nor ever shall she know Her husband dead, but cherisliing a hope. Whose falsehood inwardly she knows too well. Feel life itself witli 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 fortli 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-a.xe Uplifted, Where the buckler was beneatli 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 fiU'd ; his breastplate with convulsive throes Heaved as he fell. Victorious, he tlie 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. 6 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 skiU'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 tlie 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 nigli ; tlie Orleanites From St. Loup's captured fort along the wall Sped to support him ; cheering was tlie 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 tlieir 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 tiie Rutilian hero seem'd. Then hoping well to right himself in arms ; Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris Rusli'd the fierce king of Sarza, Rodomont, Clad in his dragon mail. Like some tall rock, Around whose billow-beaten foot tlie waves Spend tlieir vain force, unshaken Conrade stood, Wiien, drawing courage from despair, the foe Renew'dthe contest. Tlirough the throng he hew'd His way unhurt amid the arrowy shower. Though on his siiield and helm the darts fell fast, As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling tree The autumnal whirlwind shakes. Nor did lie pause Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand Seized on tiie massy bolts. These as he drew. Full on his helm a weiglity English sword Descended ; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath. When lo ! the assailant gasping on the ground, Cleft by the Maiden's falcliion : she herself To the foe opposing with her herald's aid. For they alone, following the adventoi-ous 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 cltains That held on higli tlie bridge : down fell the bridge Rebounding; the victorious troops rush'd in; And from their walls the Orleanites with sliouts 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 batterinff-ram against their gates and walls 4a JOAN OF ARC Anon I shall be with you. Thus he saidj Then to the damsel. " Maid of Arc ! awhile [iet tliou and I withdraw, and by sliort rest Renew our strength." So saying lie his hehn Unlaced, and in the Loire's near flowing stream Cool'd his hot face. The Maid Iier liead unlielm'd, And stooping to tlie stream, reflected tliere Saw her white plumage stain'd witli human blood I Shuda.^ring she saw, but soon her steady soul Collected : on the banks slie laid her down, Freely awhile respiring, for her breath Still panted from the fight : silent they lay, .\nd 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 lie said, '* Maiden of Arc ! at such an hour as tliis, 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 ! Oil I hours forever fled ! delightful hopes Of the uususpecting heart ! I do believe If Agnes on a worthier one liad 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 liim I 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 thouglit. " Oh, Iiappy age I " He cried, '■'^ when all the family of man fVeely 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 Tiie blameless merriment; and learnt of him What time to yoke the oxen to the plough, What liollow meanings 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 Wliicli, planted at his birth, with nim had grown, .\nd fiourish'd in its strength when he decay 'd. They delved the narrow liouse : 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 raoe. An e"il 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 lie too will be there, Thy Theodore." Soothed by his words, the Maid 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 1 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 tlie 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 tliey look round With haggard eyes, as seeking where to fly, Though Talbot there presided, with their chief, Tlie 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 ? Oil call to mind 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 chivalry ? Then was that noble heart of Douglas pierced,'^* Bold Buchan bit the earth, and Narbonne died, And this Alenc^on, boaster as he is, Cried mercy to his conqueror. Shall 1 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 I Who is there among yon 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." JOAN OF ARC. 43 Bravely thus he spake, Advising well, and Salisbury replied : " Rif htly 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 liad weher 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 *' ho ! Conrade ! " she exclaim'd, -'Tlie foe advance to meet us — look ! they lower Tiie bridge I and now they rush upon the troops : — A gallant onset ! Dost tliou mark tlie man Who all this day has by our side endured The hottest conflict .= Often 1 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 Rctund 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 tlie 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, crlancing 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 tiirn'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, Wlien over wild Catfraria'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 encampinfT." 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 44 JOAN OF ARC. BOOK VIII Recount the tale of danger ; soon to rest Betaking them ; for now the night drew on. THE EIGHTH BOOK. Now was the noon of night, and all was still, Save where the sentinel paced on his rounds Humming a broken song. Along the camp High flames the frequent fire. The Frenchmen there, Ou the bare eartli e.xtended, rest their limbs Fatigued ; their spears lay by them, and tile shield PiUow'd the helmed head ; "- secure they slept. And busy in their dreams they fought again The fight of yesterday. But not to Joan, But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid. Soother of sorrows. Sleep ! no more her pulse, Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast, AUow'd no pause for thought. With clasp'd hands now And with fix'd eyes slie sat, and in her mind The spectres of the days departed rose, A melancholy train ! Upon the gale The raven's croak was heard ; she started then. And passing through the camp with hasty step, Slie sought the field of blood. The night was calm ; Nor ever clearer welkin canopied Chaldea, while the watchful shepherd's eye Survey'd the hostof heaven, and mark'd them rise Successive, and successively decay. Lost in tiie stream of light, as lesser springs Amid Euphrates' current. The high wall Cast a deep shadow, and the Maiden's feet Stujnbled o'er carcasses and broken arms ; And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan Of one yet struggling in the pangs of death. She reach'd the spot where Theodore was slain Before Fort London's gate ; but vainly there Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold face (Jaziug with such a look as though she fear'd The tiling she sought.'^ And much she marvell'd then. For there the victim of his vengeful arm. And close beside where he himself had fallen, Known by the buckler's blazon'd heraldry, Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stood Looking around the plain, she mark'd a man l'o«s slowly on, as burden'd. Him to aid She sped, and soon witli unencumbcr'd speed O'ertaking, thus bespake him : " Dost thou bear Some slaughter'd friend? oris it one whose wounds Leave yet a hope of life ? oh ! if he lives, 1 will with earnest prayer petition Heaven To shed its healing on him ! " So she said, And as she spake stretch'd forth her careful hands To ease the burden. " Warrior ! " he replied, " Thanks for thy proffer'd aid . but he hath ceased To safter, and my strengtli may well suffice To bear him himoe for burial. Fare thee well ! The night is far advanced ; thou to the camp Return : it fits not darkling thus to stray." "Conrade!" the Maid exclaim'd, for well she knew His voice : — With that she fell upon his neck And cried, "My Theodore ! — But wherefore thus Through the dead midnight dost thou bear hia " Peace, Maiden ! " Conrade cried, "collect tliy soul ! He is but gone before thee to that world Whither thou soon must follow ! Yestermorn, Ere yet from Orleans to the war we went, He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear. ' Lo, Conrade, where she moves ! beloved Maid ! Devoted for the realm of France she goes, Abandoning for this the joys of life, Yea — life itself! Yet on my heart her words Vibrate. If she must perish in the war, I will not live to bear tlie thought that I Perhaps might have preserved her. I will go In secret to protect her. If I fall, — And trust me I have little love of life, — Do thou in secret bear me from the field. Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye A mangled corpse. She must not know my fate. Do this last act of friendship, and in the stream Cast me,- — she then may think of Theodore Without a pang.' Maiden, I vow'd with him To take our place in battle by thy side, And make thy safety our peculiar care. And now I hoped thou hadst not seen him fall." Saying thus, he laid the body on the ground. With steady eye the wretched Maiden view'd That life-left tenement : his batter'd arms Were with the night-dews damp ; his brown hair clung Gore-clotted in the wound, and one loose lock Play'd o'er his cheek's black paleness.'^* " Gallant youth ! " She cried, " 1 would to God the hour were come When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss ! No, Theodore ! the sport of winds and waves, Thy body sliall not float adown the stream ! Bear him with me to Orleans, there to rest In holy ground, where priests may say their prayers And hymn the requiem to his parted soul. So will not Elinor in bitterness Lament that no dear friend to her dead child Paid tlie last office." From the earth they lift Their mournful burden, and along the ;>!ain Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate. The obedient sentinel, knowing Conrade's voice. Admits them at tiiat hour, and on they go, Till in the neighboring abbey's porch arrived They rest the lifeless load. Loud rings the bell. The awaken'd porter turns the heavy door. To him the Virgin : " Father, from the slain On yonder field, a dear-loved friend we bring Hither for Christian sepulture ■ chant ye BOOK Till. JOAN OF ARC. 45 The requiem to his soul : to-morrow eve I will return, and in the narrow house Will see him laid to rest." The father knew The Prophetess, and humbly bow'd assent. Now from the city, o'er the shadowy plain, Backward they bend their way. From silent thoughts The Maid awakening cried, " There was a time, When thinking on my closing hour of life, Thoufh with a mind resolved, some natural fears Shook my weak frame ; but now the happy hour. When this emancipated soul shall burst The cumbrous fetters of mortality, I look for wishfully. Conrade ! my friend. This wounded heart would feel another pang Shouldst thou forsake me." "Joan! " the chief replied, " Along the weary pilgrimage of life Together will we journey, and beguile The painful way with hope, — such hope as, fix'd On heavenly things, brings with it no deceit. Lays up no food for sorrow, and endures From disappointment safe." Thus communing They reach'd the camp, yet hush'd ; there separating. Each in the post allotted restless waits The day-break. Morning came : dim through the shade The twilight glimmers; soon the brightening clouds Imbibe the rays, and o'er the landscape spread Tlie dewy light. The soldiers from the earth Arise invigorate, and each his food Receives, impatient to renew the war. Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points — " Soldiers of France ! behold, your foes are there ! " As when a band of hunters, round the den Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate In hope of conquest and the future feast, When on the hospitable board their spoil Shall smoke, and they, as foaming bowls go round. Tell to their guests their exploits in the chase, They with their shouts of exultation make The forest ring ; so elevate of heart. With such loud clamors for the fierce assault The French prepare. Nor, keeping now the lists Dare the disheartened English man to man Meet the close conflict. From the barbican,'^ Or from the embattled wall ™ at random they Their arrows and their death-fraught enginery Discharged; meantime the Frenchmen did not cease With well-directed shafts their loftier foes To assail : behind the guardian pavais fenced,"' They at the battlements their arrows aim'd, Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the bayle, The bayle now levell'd by victorious France, The assailants pass'd with all their mangonels ; "* Or tortoises,'^ beneath whose roofing safe, They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers Make fit foundation ; or with petraries, War- wolves, and beugles, and that murderous sling The matafund, from whence the ponderous stone Made but one wound of him whom in its way It met ; no pious hand might then compose The crush'd and mangled corpse to be conveyed To where his fathers slept ; a dreadful train '*> Prepared by Salisbury o'er the town besieged For hurling ruin ; but that dreadful train Must hurl its ruin on the invader's head ; Such retribution righteous Heaven decreed. Nor lie the English trembling, for the fort Was ably garrison'd. Glacidas, the chief, A gallant man, sped on from place to place Cheering the brave ; or if an archer's hand. Palsied with fear, shot wide his ill-aim'd shaft. Driving him from the ramparts with reproach And shame. He bore an arbalist himself, A weapon for its sure destructiveness Abominated once;''" wherefore of yore The assembled fathers of the Christian church Pronounced the man accursed whose impious hand Should use the murderous engine. Such decrees Befitted them, as ministers of peace, To promulgate, and with a warning voice, To cry aloud and spare not, * Woe to them Whose hands are full of blood ! ' An English king, The lion-hearted Ricliard, tlieir decree First broke, and rightly was he doom'd to fall By that forbidden weapon ; since that day Frequent in fields of battle, and from far To many a good knight bearing his death wound From hands unknown. With such an instrument Arm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance Darts not the hawk when from the feather'd tribe He marks his prey. A Frenchman for his aim He chose, who kneeling by the trebuchet. Charged its long sling witli death."- Him Glacidas, Secure behind the battlements, beheld, And strung his bow ; then bending on one knee, He in the groove the feather'd quarrel placed,'-*^ And levelling with sure eye, his victim mark'd. The bow-string twang'd, swift on its way the dart Whizz'd, and it struck, there where the helmet's clasps Defend the neck ; a weak protection now, For through the tube which draws the breath of life Pierced the keen shaft ; blood down the unwonted way Gush'd to the lungs . prone fell the dying man Grasping, convulsed, the earth ; a hollow groan In his throat struggled, and the dews of death Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth He had pass'd peaceful, and had known what joys Domestic love bestows, the father once Of two fair children ; in the city hcmin'd During the siege, he had beheld their cheeks Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries For bread. His wife, a broken-hearted oie, Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babes With hunger pined, and follow'd ; he survived A miserable man, and heard the shouts Of joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd. As o'er the corpse of his last little one He heap'd the unhallowed earth. To him the foe 46 JOAN OF ARC. BOOK viir Ferforni'd a friendly part, hastening the hour Grief else had soon brought on. The English chief, Pointing again his arbalist, let loose The string ; the quarrel, by that impact driven, True to its aim, fled fatal : one it struck Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd Deep in liis liver ; blood and mingled gall Flow'd from the wound, and writhing with keen pangs. Headlong he fell. He for the wintry hour Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale, A man in his small circle well beloved. None better knew with prudent hand to guide The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time To press the full-swollen clusters; he, heart-glad. Taught his young boys the little all he knew, Enough for happiness. The English host Laid waste his fertile fields : lie, to the war, By want compelled, adventured, in his gore JSow weltering. Nor the Gallic host remit Their eager efforts; some, the watery fence. Beneath the tortoise roofed, with engines apt Drain painful;'** part, laden with wood, throw there Their buoyant burdens, laboring so to gain Firm footing : some the mangonels supply. Or charging with huge stones the murderous sling,'^^ Or petrary, or in the espringal Fix the brass-winged arrows : '■**' hoarse around Tiie uproar and the din of multitudes Arose. Along the ramparts Gargrave went, Cheering the English troops ; a bow he bore ; The quiver rattled as he moved along. He knew aright to aim his feathered shafts. Well skilled to pierce the mottled roebuck's side, O'crtaken in his speed. Him passing on, A ponderous stone from some huge martinet,**^ Struck : on iiis breastplate falling, the huge weight Shattered the bone, and to his mangled lungs Drove in the fragments. On the gentle brow Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home, A stately mansion, far and wide from whence The sight ranged unimpeded, and surveyed Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety ! The traveller knew its liospilable towers, For open were the gates, and blazed for all The friendly fire. By glory lured, the youth Went forth ; and he had bathed his falchion's edge In many a Frenchman's blood; now crush'd beneath The ponderous fragments' force, his lifeless limbs Lie quivering Lo ! towards the levelled moat, A moving tower, the men of Orleans wheel '■'^ Four stages elevate. Above was hung. Equalling the walls, a bridge ; in the lower stage A battering-ram : within a chosen troop Of archers, through the opening, shot their shafts.'^ In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepared To mount tlie rampart; for, no hunter he, He loved to see the dappled foresters Browze fearless on their lair, with friendly eye. And happy in beholding happiness, Not meditating death : the bowman's irt Therefore he little knew, nor was he wont To aim the arrow at the distant foe, But uprear in close conflict, front to front, His battle-axe, and break the shield and hehn, First in the war of men. There too the Maid Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower, Slow o'er the moat and steady, though the foe Showered there their javelins, aimed their engines there. And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart Shot burning through the sky.'^ In vain it flamed For well with many a reeking hide secured. Passed on the dreadful pile, and now it reached The wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven. The iron headed engine swings its stroke, Then back recoils; while they within who guide, In backward step collecting all their strength, Anon the massy beam with stronger arm Drive full and fierce. So rolls the swelling sea Its curly billows to the unmoved foot Of some huge promontory, whose broad base Breaks the rough wave ; the shivered surge rolls back. Till, by the coming billow borne, it bursts Again, and foams with ceaseless violence ; The wanderer, on the sunny clift outstretched, Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock His weary senses to forge tfulness. But nearer danger threats the invaders now. For on the ramparts, lowered from above The bridge reclines.'^' A universal shout Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant French Break out in loud rejoicing, whilst the foe Raise a responsive cry, and call aloud For speedy succor there, with deafening shout Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din The mountain torrent flings precipitate Its bulk of waters, though amid the fall Shattered, and dashing silvery from the rock. Lo ! on the bridge forth comes the undaunted man^ Conrade I the gathered foes along the wall Throng opposite, and on him point their pikes. Cresting with armed men the battlements. He undismayed, though on that perilous height, Stood firm, and hurled his javelin; the keen point Pierced through the destined victim, where his arm Joined the broad breast : a wound which skilful care Haply had healed ; but, him disabled now For further service, the unpitying throng Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to throw His deadly javelins fast, for well within The tower was stored with weapons, to his hand Quickly supplied. Nor did the missioned Maid Rest idle from the combat; she, secure, Aimed the keen quarrel ; taught the crossbow's use By the willing mind that what it well desires Gains aptly : nor amid the numerous throng. Though haply erring from their destined mark, Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower BOOK VIII. JOAN OF ARC. 47 Ceaseless the bow-strings twang : tlie knights below, Each by his pavais bulwarked, thither aimed Their darts, and not a dart fell woundless there ; So thickly thronged they stood, and fell as fast As wlien the monarch of the East goes forth From Gemna's banks and the proud palaces Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood Die in the blameless warfare : closed within The still-contracting circle, their brute force Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there. Or by each other's fury lacerate, The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain, Rajali or Omrah, in the war of beasts Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood. Shouts of alarm ring now along the wall. For now the French their scaling-ladders place. And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault Mount fearless ; from above the furious troops Fling down such weapons as inventive care Or frantic rage supplies ; huge stones and beams Crush the assailants ; some, thrust from the height. Fall living to their death ; tormented, some, And writhing wildly as the liquid lead Consumes their flesh, leap desperately down, To end their pain by death. Still others mount. And by their fellows' fate unterrified. Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerless To the English was the fight, though where they stood The vantage-place was theirs ; for them amidst Fast fled the arrows there ; and brass- wing'd darts. There driven resistless from the espringal, Keeping their impulse even in the wound. Whirl f his loolher, and liis father's supposed kinne rejoysed in gaining the patrimony and possessions. Charles duke of Orleaunce heryng of this judgment, took hym into his family, and gave hym greate offices and fees, whiche he well deserved, 'or (during his captivitie), he defended his landes, expulsed the Englishmen, and in conclusion, procured his deliverance. — JIadoT''s sweet minstrelsy. Lorraine, according to Chaucer, was famous for its singers. There mightest thou se these flutours, Minstrallis and eke jogelours, That wel to singin did ther paine ; Some soiigin songis of Loraine, For in Loraine ther notis be Full swetir than in this contre. Romaunt of the Rose. No mention is made of the Lorraine songs in the corre- ipooding lines of the original. Ld estoient herprurs, Jlcutnirs, Et de moutt dhnstrumens jongleurs ; Les uns disoient chansons faictc^, Les autres nottes nouvellettes. V. 770—3. Note 3, p. 13, col. 2 — Gainsaying what she sought. The following account of Joan of Arc is extracted from a history of the siege of Orleans, prise dc. moid mot, sans aucun cliangenient de langage, d^un vieil exemplaire escrit a la mtdn en parcheinin, et trouvc en la maison de ta dkte villc d'Orleans. Troyes. 1621. •' Or en cctemps avoit une jeune jUle au pais de Lorraine, aagee de dir-kuict ans ou environ, nommce Jannc, natifue d^un paroisse nomme Dompre, fiUe d^un Laboureur nomme Jacques Tart ; qui jamais n*avoitfoit autre chose que garder les bestes aur champs, a la quelle, ainsi qii'rlle ilisnit, avoit estd reveli qui Dieu vouloit qu^elle allast dcvers le Roi Charles septirsme, pour luy aider et le conseUler a recouvrer son royaume et ses villes ct places que les /inglois avoient conquises en ses pays. La quelle recclatiun cl'.e n^osa dire ses pere et mere, pource guVHe sgavoU bien que jamais n'cussent consenty qu'elle yfust allee ; et le persuada tant qu'il la menu devers un geiiteUiomjne nomme Messlre Robert de Saudri- court, qui pour lors estoit Cappitaine de la ville, on chastcau de Vaueouleur, qui est assci prochaia dc la ,- auquel elle pria Ins instanment qu'il la Jist mentr devers le Roy de France, en leur disant qu'd estoit tres necessairc qu'elle parlast a luy pour le Hen dc son royaume, et que elle luy feroit grand secours et aide a re- couvrer son diet royaume, et que Dieu le voulmt ainsi, et que U luy avoit estc rcvele par plusirurs fois. Des quelles paroUts a ne faisoit que rirc et se mocqutr et la reputuit incensec: toutea- fois elle persevera tant et si longuetncnt qu''il luy bailla un gen- telhomme, nomme VUle Robert^ ct quelque nombre de gens, les ^leU la mencrcnt devers le Roy que pour lors estoit a CAiiuia," Note 4, p. 13, col. 2. — Of eighteen years. This agrees with the account of her age given by Holinshed, who calls lier " a young wench of an eighteene years old ; of fiivour was she counted Hkesome, of person Btronglie made and manlie, of courage great, bardie, and stout withall ; an undcr- stander of counsels though she were not at them, greet sem- blance of chastitie both of bodie and behaviour, the name of Jesus in hir mouth about all her businesses, humble, obedient, and fasting divers days in the weeke." — Holinshed, 600. De Serres speaks thus of her: "A young maiden named Joan of Arc, born in a village upon the Marches of Barre called Domremy, neere to Vaucouleurs, of the age of eighteene or twenty years, issued from base parents, her fatlier was named James of Arc, and her mother Isabel, pooro country folkes, who had brought her up to keep their cattell. She said with great boldnesse that she had a revelation how to succour the king, how he might be able to chase the English from Orleance, and after that to cause the king to be crowned at Rheims, and to put him fully and wholly in possession of his realme. "After she had delivered this to her father, mother, and tlieir neighbors, she presumed to go to the lord of Baudri- court, provost of Vaucouleurs ; she boldly delivered unto him^ after an extraordinary manner, all these great mysteries, as much wished for of all men as not hoped for: especially com- ing from the mouth of a poore country maide, whom they might with more reason beleeve lo be possessed of some mel- ancholy humour, than divinely inspired ; being the instrument of so many excellent remedies, in so desperat a season, after the vaine striving of so great and famous personages. At the first he mocked and reproved her, but having heard her with more patience, and judging by her temperate discourse and modest countenance tliat elie spoke not idely, in the end he resolves to present her to llie king for his discharge. So she arrives at Chinon the sixt day of May, attired like a man. "She had a modest countenance, sweet, civill, and resolute ■ her discourse was temperate, reasonable and retired, her ac- tions cold, shewing great chastity. Having spoken to the king, or noblemen with whom she was to negociate, she presently retired to her lodging with an old woman that guided her, without vanity, affectation, babling or courtly lighlncsse. These are the manners which the Original attributes to her." Edward Grimeston, the translator, calls her in the margin, " Joane the Virgin, or rather Witch." Note 5, p. 13, col. 2. — Lest he in irrath confound me. Then the word of the Lord came unto me, saying, " Before I formed thee in the belly, I knew thee : and before thou earnest forth out of tiie womb I sanctified thee, and I ordained thee a prophet unto the nations." Then said. I, Ah, Lord God, behold I cannot speak, for I am a child. But the Lord said unto me. Say not, I am a child, for tJiou shalt go to all that I shall send thee, and whatsoever I com- mand thee, thou shalt speak. Thou therefore gird up thy loins, and arise, and speak unto them all that I command thee : be not dismayed at their faces, lest I confound thee before them. — Jeremiah, chap. i. Note 6) p. 14, col. 2. —Tauglit wisdom to majikind .' But as for the mighty ir.iL, he liad the eprth, and the honor able man dwelt in it NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 6J Davs should speak, and multitude of years should teach wisdom. — Job, Note 7, p. 14, col. 3. — Rush o^cr Vie landf and desolate, and kill. " While the English and French contend for dominion, sovereignty and life itself, men's goods in France were vio- lently taken by the license of war, churches spoiled, men every wlicre niurthored or wounded, others put to death or tortured, matrons ravished, maids forcibly drawn from out their parents* arms to he deflowered j towns daily taken, daily spoyled, d;iilvdt-faced, the riches of the inhabitants carried whether the conijuerora think good ; houses and villages round about set on fire, no kind of cruelty is left unpractised upon the miserable French, omitting many hundred kind of other calamities which all at once oppressed thom. Add hero unto that the com- monwealth, being destitute of tlie help of laws (which for tlie most part are mute in times of war and mutiny), floateth up and down without any anchorage at right or justice. Neither was England herself void of these mischiefs, who everyday lieard the news of her valiant children's funerals, slain in per- petual skirmishes and bickerings, her general wealth con- tinually ebbed and wained, so that the eviis seemed almost equal, and the whole western world echoed the groans and sighs of either nation's quarrels, being the common argument of speech and compassion through Christendom." — Speed. Note 8, p. 15, col. 1. — there, in the hamlet Arc, My father'' s dwelling stands. Wlien Montaigne saw it in 1580, the front of the house was 'covered with paintings representing the history of the Maid. He says, Ses descendans furent annoblis par faveur da Roi, ct nous Jiwnstrarent les armes que le Roi tear donna, qui soiit d^azur d iwi' c.^/JfJe droite couronnce etpoignee d'or, et dnix fieurs de lis d^or Pit cote dc ladite espce ,' de quoy un rcci-veur dc Vaucouleur donna un escussim peint d M. dc Ca-^clis. Le devant de la maisonnette oU eUe naquit est toute pehite de scs ffestes ; mats Vaagc en afort corrumpulapciuture. U y a aussi un abre U lon-r d^tuie inn-ne qii'on nomm" fahre de la Pucelle, qui n^a nnlle autre chose d remerquer, — Voyages de Montaigne, i. p. 17. Ce n'etait qu'ane viaisunuctle f et cependant elle a subsistc jusqu^ d nos jours, grhce au zcle national da maire et des liabitans de Domremy, qui pendant les derni^res annees da gouvemement imperial, voyant qu'on refusait de leur allouer la somme necessaire pour son entretien, y supplcerent par une souscription volontaire ; taut le respect et la veneration que les iiertus inspirent, peuvcnt quelquefois prolonger la diiree des monumeiis les plus simples et les plus fragites. — Le Brun dc Charmettes, t. i. 244. It appears, however, that whatever might be the respectand veneration of the inhabitants for this illustrious heroine and martyr, they allowed the cottage in which she was born to be villanously desecrated, very soon after their national feeling had been thus praised. The author, whose book was published only in the second year (1817) after the overthrow of the Im- I't-rial Government, adds the following note to this passage: Dcpuis Vcpoque oil ce passage a 6tc icrit, it pnrait que les clioses sont fort changdes. On lit ce qtii suit dans le JSTarrateur de la Mcuse : " Les chamhrcs oti logerent cette kero'ine et ses parens soiit ciinverlies en 6taJ>les; dc vils animaux. oceupent Vcmplace- ttieiit du lit de Jeanne d^Jirc^ son armoire vermoulue renferme des u^-itensiles d^icurie.^' Note 9, p. 15, col. I. — By day I drove my f other's flock ofield. " People found out a nest of miracles in her education, says old Fuller, that so lion-like a spirit should be bred among eheep like David." Note 10, p. 15, col. 1. — With gorse- flowers glowing, as tits sun illumrd Tlteir goUlen glory. [t is said that when Linnreus was in England, he was more struck with the splendid appearance of the furze in blossom, than with any other of our native plants. — Mrs Braifs Letters, r. 31G. Note Jl, p. 15, col.! - Death ! to ike happy thou art terrihh ; But how the wretched love to think ofViee, thou tT^ie comforter, the friend of all Who have no friend bcsiile ! O Death, how bitter is the remembrnnco of thee to a man that liveth at rest in his possessions, unto the man that hath nothing to vex him, and that hath prosperity in all things , yea unto him that is yet able to receive meat ! O DeJth, acceptable is thy sentence unto the needy, and unto him whose strength faileth, that is now in the last age, and is vexed with all things, and to him that despaireth, anf^ hath lost patience I — EcclesiasUcus, xli. 1, 2. Note 12, p. IB, col. 2. — Think well of this, young man.' Dreadful indeed must have been the miseries of the French frorti vulgar plunderers, when the manners of the hiijlieei classes wore marked by hideous grossness and vices that may not be uttered. "Of acts so ill examples are not good.'' Sir William Alexander. Yet it may be right to justify the saying in the text by an extract from the notes to Andrews's History of Groat Britain. ^^Agricola quilibet, sponsam juvenem acqidsitus, ac in vicinia alicujus iri nobilis et prmpotentis habitans, crudelissimc vexa- tabtir. JVempenunnunquam in ejus domum irruens iste optimas, magna comitante cater vet, pretium ingeiis redcniptionis eiigereii ac si non protinus solveret colonus, istum miserum in magna area prutrudms, venustw ac tenertB uxori s^ue {siiper ipsam arcam prostrate) vim tur nobilis adferrct ; voce exclamans horrenda, * Audine Rustiee .' jamjam, super haiic arcam coiistupratar dilecta tua sponsa I ' atque pcratto hoc seelerc ncfavdo relinque- retar (ftorrcsco rcferens) suffucatione erpirans maritns, jiisi magna pretio sponsa nuper vitiata liberationem ejus redimc- ret.'*^ — J. de Paris. Let U3 add to this the detestable history of a great com- mander under Charles VII. of France, the bastard of Bourbon, who (after having committed the most execrable crimes during a series of years with impunity) was drowned in 1441, by the constable Richemont, (a treacherous assassin himself, i)ut a mirror of justice when compared to some of his contempora- ries,) on its being proved against him " Quod super ipsum maritum vi prostratum, uxori, frustrarepugnanti, vim adlulcrat . Ensuite il avoit fait battre et deconper le mart, tant que c'etoit pitie a roir." — Mem. de Richemont. Note 13, p. 16, col. 2. — TTiijik tluit there are stick hurrors. I translate the following anecdote of the Black Prince from Froissart : — The Prince of Wales was about a month, and not longer, before the city of Lymoges, anri he did not assault it, but always continued mining. When the miners of the prince had finished their work, they said to him, "Sir, we will throw down a great part of the wall into the moat whenever it shall please you, so that you may enter into the city at your ease, without danger." These words greatly pleased tlie prince, who said to them, " I chuse that your work should be mani- fested to-morrow at the hour of day-break." Then the niincrrt set fire to their mines the next morning as the prince had commanded, and overthrew a great pane of tlie wall, which filled the moat where it had fallen. The English saw all this very willingly, and they were thero all armed and ready to enter into the town; tlmse who were on foot could enter at their ease, and they entered and ran to the gate and heat it to the earth and all the harriers also ; for there was no defcnre and all this was done so suddenly, tliat the people of the tov.-.i were not upon their guard. And then you might have seen tlie prince, tho duke of Lancaster, the count of Cantcrbur--, the count of Pembroke, Messire Guischart Dangle, and all the other chiefs and their people who entered in ; and ruffians on foot who were prepared to do mischief, and to run throu'.'li the town, and to kill men and women and children, and so they had been commanded to do. There was a full pitiful si, lit, for men and women and children cast themselves on their kncen before the prince and cried " mercy ! " but he was so cnfhinicd with so great ra-je, that he heard them not ; neither man ntir woman would he hear, but they were all put to the sword wherever they were found, and these people had not been guilty. I know not how they could have no pity upon poor people, who had never been powerful enough to do any trea- son. There was no heart so hard in the city of Lymoges which had any remembrance of God, that did not lament the 62 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. great miachief that WQ3 there ; for more than three thousand men and women and children were put to death that day ; God has their soub, for indeed they were martyred. In en- tering the town a party of the English went to the palace of the bishop and found liim there, and took him and led him tefore llie prince, who looked at Iiim with a murderous look, Ifilonnensement.,) and the best word that he could say to him was that his head should be cut off, and then he made him be laken from his presence. — I. 235. The crime whicli the people of Lymoges had committed was that of surrendering when tliey had been besieged by the tluke of Berry, and in consequence turning French. And Uiis crime was tlius punished at a period when no versatility of conduct was thought dishonorable. Tlie phrases tourner Aiigbjis — tourner Frangms — retourner Jinglois, occur repeat, cdiy in Froissart. I should add that of all the heroes of this period the Black Prince was the most generous and the most humane. After the English had taken the to'wn of Montereau, the seigneur de Guitery, who commanded there, retired to the castle ; and Henry V. threatened, unless he surrendered, to hang eleven gentlemen, taken in the town. These poor men entreated the governor to comply, for the sake of saving their lives, letting him at the same time know how impossible it was that his defence could be of any avail. He was not to be persuaded j and when they saw this, and knew that they must die, some of them requested that they might first see their rt-ives and their friends. This was allowed : la y eut depiteux regreLi au prendre congc^ says Pierre de Fanin, and on the fol- lowing morning they were executed as Henry had threatened. The governor held out for fifteen days, and then yielded by a capitulation which secured himself, — {Coll. des Jilemoires, . V. p. 436.) In the whole history of these dreadful times I remember but one man wliom the cruelty of the age had not contami- nated, and that was the Portns;ueze hero Nuno Alvarea Pereira, a man who appears to me to have been a perfect example of patriotism, heroism, and every noble and lovely quality, above all others of any age or country. Atrocious, however, ns these instances are, they peem as nothing when compared to the atrocities which the French exercised upon each other. AVhen Soissons was captured by I^harles VI. (1414) in person, " in regard to the destruction committed by the king's army (says Monstrellet), it cannot be estimated ; for after they had plundered all the inhabitants, and their dwellings, they despoiled the churches and monasteries. They even took and robbed the most part of the sacred shrines of many bodies of saints, which they stripped of all the pre- cious stones, gold and silver, together with many other jewels and holy things appertaining to the aforesaid churches. There is not a christian hut would have shuddered at the atrocious xcesses committed by the soldiery in Soissons : married women violated before their husbands ; young damsels in the presence of their parents and relatives ; holy nuns, gentle- women of all ranks, of whom there were many in the town ; all, or the greater part, were violated against their wills by divers nobles and others, who after having satiated their own brutal passions, delivered them over without mercy to their servants: and there is no remembrance of such disorder and havoc being done by christians, considering the many persons of high rank that were present, and who made no efforts to check them. There were also many gentlemen in the king's army who had relations in the town, as well secular as churcli- inen ; itut the disorder was not the less on that account." — Vol. iv. p. 31. What a national contrast is there between tho manner in which tlie Englisli and French have conducted their civil wars I Even in the wars of the Fronde, when all parties were alike thoroughly unprincipled, cruelties were committed on both sides which it might have been thought nothing hut the strong feelings of a perverted religious principle could have given birth to. Note 14, p. 16, col. 2. — Yet hangs and pulls fur food. Hoi.nshed says, speaking of the siege of Roan, " If I should rehearse how doerelie dogs, rats, mice, and cats were sold within the towne, and bow greedilie they were by tlie poore people eaten and devoured, and how the people dailie died for fault of food, and young infants laie sucking in t'lc strcfts on their mothers^ breasts, being dead starved for hunger, th« reader might lament their extreme miseries." — p. 566. Note 15, p. 17, col. 1. — The sceptre ofUie wicked 1 " Do not the tears run down the widow's check ? and is not her cry against him that causeth them to faili* " The liOrd will not be slack till he have smitten in sunder the loins of the unmerciful, till he have taken away the multi- tude of the proud, and broken the sceptre of the unrighteous." — EccUsiasticus. Note 16, p. 17, col. I.— The Fountain of the Faii-ies. In the Journal of Paris in the reigns of Charles VI. and VII. it is asserted that the Maid of Orleans, in answer to an interrogatory of the doctors, whether she had ever assisted at the assemblies held at the Fountain of the Fairies near Dom- prein, round which the evil spirits dance, confessed that she liad often repaired to a beautiful fountain in the country of Lor- raine, which she named the good Fountain of the Fairies of our Lord. — From the notes to the English version of Le Orand's Fabliaux. Note 17, p. 17, col. 2. — They love to lie and rock upon its leaves. Being asked whether she had ever seen any fairies, she answered no ; but that one of her god-mothers pretended to have seen some at the Fairy-tree, near the village of Dompre. — Rapin. Note 18, p. 17, col. ^.~- Memory, thought, were gone. " In this representation which I made to place myself near to Christ (says St. Teresa), there would come suddenly upon me, without either expectation or any preparation on mv part, such an evident feeling of the presence of God, as that I could by no means doubt, but that either he was within me, or else I all engulfed in him. This was not in the manner of a vision, but I think they call it Mistical Theology ; and it suspends the fioul in such sort, that she seems to be \vholly out of herself. The Will is in act of loving, the Memory seems to be in amanncr lost, the understanding, in my opinion, discourses not ; and although it be not lost, yet it works not aa I was saying, but remains as it were amazed to consider how much it understands." — Life (f St. Teresa, written by herself. Teresa was well acquainted with the feelings of enthusiasm. I had, however, described the sensations of the Maid of Orleans before I had met with the life of the saint. Note 19, p. 17, col. 2. — .^nd they shall perish icho oppress. " Raise up indignation, and pour out wrath, and let then: perish who oppress the people ! " — Ecclesiasticus, xxxvi. Note 20, p. 18, col. 1. — The hoarse grasshoppers their evening song Sang shrill and ceaseless. The epithets shriU and hoarse will not appear mcongruous to one wlio has attended to the grasshopper's chirp. Gazieus has characterized the sound by a word certainly accurate, in his tale of a grasshopper who perched upon St. Francis's finger, and sung 'he praise of God and the wonders of his own body in his vernacaj.i; tongue, St. Francis and all the grass- hoppers listening with equal edification. Cicada Canebat (vt sic effcram) cicadici. Pia ITdaria Angelini Qai!is deleur arrivce et du. sujet qui les amenoit. Tout lemondefut eztrSmemeatsurpris d^un si long voyage /ait arte tant de bonheur." — P. Daniel Note 46, p. 20, col. 2. — Tlie autumnal rains Itad beaten to the earth. " JiTU QallidL perturbatiusy jiU spoliatius^ nU egentiiis esset ; std neque cum viilite mcUus agebaturj qui tametsi gaudebat prceddf interim tamen trucidebatur passim, dum uterque rex civitates sutsfaclionis principes in^de retinerc studeret. Igitur jam Ciedium satietas utrumquc populum ceperat, jamque tot damna utrinque Ulata cratU, ut quisque generatim se oppressum, lacera- tum, perditum ingemisccret, doloreque summo angeretur, dis~ rumpereturf cruciaretur, ac per id animi quamvis obstinatissijni ad pacem inclinarentur. Simul urgebat ad hoc rerum omnium inupia ; passim enim agri devastati inculti manebant, cum pne- sertim homines pro vit^ tuendd, nan arva colore sed bello scrvire necessario cogereiUur. Ita tot urgentibus malisy neuter a pace aihorrebat, sed alter ab altera earn aut petere, vel admittere turpe putabat.'^ — Pulyd^rre Virgil. The effect of this contest upon England was scarcely less ruinous. " In the la^t year of the victorious Henry V. there was not a sufficient number of gentlemen lefl in England to carry on the business of civil government. "But if the victories of Henry were so fatal to the popula- tion of liis country, the defeats and disasters of the succeeding reign were still more destructive. In the 25lh year of this war, the instructions given to the cardinal of Winchester and other plenipotentiaries ajipointed to treat about a peace, authorise them to represent to those of France " that there haan been moo men slayne in these wars for the title and claime of the coroune of France, of oon nacion and other, than been at this daye in both landys, and so much christiene biode shed, that it is to grete a sorow and an onour to think or here it." — Henry. Rymer^s Ftedera. Note 47, p. 20, col. 2. — Fastolffe^s better fate prevail^. DuQoLs was wounded in the battle of Herrings, or Kouvrai Saint-Denya. N " TE 48, p. 21, col. 1 . — To die far him whom I have lived to serve. Tanneguy du Ch^tel had saved the life of Charles when J aris was seized by the Burgundians. Lisle Adam, a man Tioted for ferocity even in that age, was admitted at midnight into the city with eight hundred horse. The partisans of Burgundy were under arms to assist them, and a dreadful slaughter of the Armagnacs ensued. Du Chattel, then gov- ernor of the Bastile, being unable to restrain the tumult, ran to the Louvre, and carried away the Dauphin in his shirt, in order to secure him in his fortress. — Rapin. Note 49, p. 21, col. 1. — To reach the o"* crhan gin g fruit. High favors like as fig-treea are That grow upon the sides of rocks, where they Who reach iheir fruit adventure must so far Aa to hazard their deep downfall. — Daniel. Note 50, p. 21, col. 1. — A banished man , Dunvis ! De Serrea says, *' The king was wonderfully discontented for the departure of Tanneguy de Chastel, whom he called father ; a man beloved, and of amiable conditions. But there was no remedy. He had given the chief stroke to John Bur- gongne. So likewise he protested without any difficulty, to retire himself whithersoever his master should command him." Note 51, p. 21, col. 1. — . . . . Richemont, who down the LoirB Sends the black carcass of his strangled foe Richemont caused De Giac to be strangled in his bed, and thrown into the Loire, to punish the negligence that had occa- sioned him to be defeated by an inferior force at Avranchea. The constable had laid siege to St. James de Beuvron, a place strongly garrisoned by the English. He had been promised a convoy of money, which De Giac, wlio had the management of the treasury, purposely detained to mortify the constable. Richemont openly accused the treasurer, and revenged him- self thus violently. After this, he boldly declared that he would serve in the same manner any person whatsoever that should endeavor to engross the king's favor. The Camus of Beaulieu accepted De Giac's place, and was by the consta- ble's means assassinated in the king's oresence. Note 52, p. 21, col. 1. — JVhose death my arm avenged. " The duke of Orleans was, on a Wednesday, the feast-day of pope St. Clement, assassinated in Paris, about sever o'clock in the evening, on his return from dinner. The mur- der was committed by about eighteen men, who had lodged at an hotel having for sign the image of our Lady, near the Porte Barbette, and who, it was afterwards discovered, liad for several days intended this assassination. On the Wednesday before mentioned, they sent one named Seas de Courteheuze, valet de chambre to the king, and one of their accomplices, to the duke of Orleans, who had gone to visit the queen of France at an hotel which she had lately purchased from Montagu, grand master of the king's house- hold, situated very near the Porte Barbette. She had lain in there of a child, which had died shortly after its birth, anc had not then accomplished the days of her purification. Seas, on his seeing the duke, said, by way of deceiving him, " My lord, the king sends for you, and you must instantly hasten to him, for he has business of great importance to you and him, which he must communicate to you." The duke, on hearing this messag"^, was eager to obey the king's orders although the monarch knew nothing of the matter, and imme- diately mounted his mule, atte^dt^d by two esquires on one horse, and four or five valetb on foot, who followed behind bearing torches ; but his other attendants made no haste to follow him. He had made this visit in a private manner, not- withstanding at this time he had within the city of Paris six hundred knights and esquires of his retinue, and at his expense. On his arrival at the Porte Barbette, the eighteen men, alt well and secretly armed, were waiting for him, and were lying in ambush under shelter of a penthouse. The night was pretty dark, and as they sallied out against liim, one cried out, " Put him to death I " and gave him such a blow on the wrist with his battle-axe as severed it from his arm. The duko, astonished at lliis attack, cried out, " 1 am the duke of Orleans ! " when the assassins continuing their blows, answered, " You are the person we were locking for." So many rushed on him that he was struck off his mule, and his scull was split that his brains were dashed on the pavement. They turned him over and over, and massacred him that he was very soon completely dead. A young esquire, a German by birth, who had been his page, was murdered with him : seeing his master struck to the ground, he threw himself on his body to protect him, but in vain, and he suffered for his generous courage. The horse which carried the two esquires that preceded the duko, seeing so many armed men advance, began to snort, and when he passed them set out on a gallop, so that it was some time before he could be checked. When the esquires had stopped their horse, they saw their lord's mule following them full gallop: having caught him, they fancied the duke most have fallen, and were bringing it 68 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. back by the bridle ; but on tiieir arrival where their lord lay, they were menaced by the assassins, that if they did not in- Btantly depart they should sliare his late. Seeing their lord had been thus basely murdered, they hastened to the hotel of the queen, crying out, Murder! Those who had killed the duke, in their turn, bawled out, Fire ! and they had arranged their plan that while some w c-e assagainating the duke, others were to set fire to their Wgings. Some mounted on horseback, and the rest on foot made off as they could, throw- ing behind them broken glass and sharp points of iron to prevent their being pursued. Report said that many of them went the back way to the hotel d'Artois, to their master the duke of Burgundy, who had commanded them to do tliis deed, as lie afterwards publicly confessed, tu inform him of the success of their murder ; when instantly afterward they withdrew to places of safety. The chief of these assassins, and the conductor of the busi- ness, was one called Rollet d'Auctonville, a Norman, whom the duke of Orleans had a little bpforo deprived of liis office of commissioner of taxes, which the king liad given to him at the request of the late duke of Burgundy : from that time the said Rollet had been considering how lie could revenge him- self on the duke of Orleans. His other accomi)lices were William Courteheuze and Seas Courteheuze, before men- tioned, from the country of Guines, Jolui de la Motte, and others, to the amount of eighteen. Within half an hour the household of the duke of Orleans, hearing of this horrid murder, made loud complaints, and witli great crowds of nobles and others hastened to the fatal spot, where they found him lying dead in the street. His knights and esquires, and in general all bis dependants, made grievous lamentations, seeing him thus wounded and dis- figured. With many groans they raised the body and carried it to the hotel of the lord de Rieux, marshal of France, which was hard by ; and shortly afterward the body was covered with a white pall, and conveyed most honorably to the Guillemins, where it lay, as being the nearest church to where the murder had been committed. Soon afterward the king of Sicily, and many other princes, kniglits and esquires, having heard of this foul murder of the only brother of the king of France, came with many tears to visit the body. It was put into a leaden coffin, and the monks of the church, with all the late duke's household, watched it all night, saying prayers, and singing psalms over it. On the morrow his servants found the hand which had been cut off, and collected much of the brains that had been scattered over the street, all of which were enclosed in a leaden case and placed by the coffin. The whole of the princes who were at Paris, except the king and his children, namely, the king of Sicily, the dukes of Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon, the marquis du Pont, the counts de Nevers, de Clermont, de Vendome, de St. Pol, de Dammartin, the constable of France, and several others, having assembled with a large body of the clergy and nobles, and a multitude of the citizens of Paris, went in a body to the church of the Guillemins. Then the principal officers of the late duke's household took the body and bore it out of the church, with a groat number of lighted torches carried by the esquires of the defunct. On each side of the body were due order, uttering groans and shedding tears, the king of Sicily, the dukes of Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon, each holding a corner of the pall. After the body followed the other princes, the clergy and barons, according to their ranks, recommending his soul to his Creator; and thus they pro- ceeded with it to the church of the Celestines. When a most solemn service had been performed, the body was interred in a beautiful chapel he himself had founded and built. After the service all the princes, and others who had attended it, returned to their homes. — Monstrelet, vol. i. p. 199. Note 53, p. 21, col. 1. ■ ff'iirn the Bur^undian faction filled thy streets With carnage. About four o'clock on the 13th day of June, the populace of Paris rose to the amount of about sixty thousand, fearing (as they said) that the prisoners would be set at liberty, al- though the new provost of Paris and other lords assured them to the contrary. They were armed with old mallets, hatchets, staves, and other disorderly weapons, and paraded through the streets shouting, *' Long live the king and the duke of Bur- gundy 1 " toward the different prisons in Paris, namely, the Palace, St. Magloire, St. Martin des Champs, the Chatelet, the Temple, and to other places wherein any prisoners were confined. They forced open all their doors, and killed Chepier and Chepiere, with the whole of the prisoners, to the amount of sixteen hundred or thereabouts, the principal of wliom were the count de Armagnac, constable of France, master I'.enry de Marie, chancellor to the king, the bishops of Cou- tances, of Bayeux, of Evrem af Senlis, of Saintes, the count de Grand-Pre, Raymonnet de la Guerre, the ahbot de St. Coniile de Compiegne, sir Hector de Chartres, sir Enguerrand de Marcoignet, Chariot Poupart, master of the king's ward- robe, the members of the courts of justice and of the treasury, and in general all they could find: among the number were several even of the Burgundian party confined for debt. In this massacre several women were killed, and left on the spot where they had been put to death. This cruel butchery lasted until ten o'clock in the morning of the following day. Those confined in the grand Chatelet, having arms, defended themselves valiantly, and slew many of the populace ; but on the morrow by means of fire and smoke they were conquered, and the mob made many of them leap from the battlements of the towers, when they were received on tlie points of the spears of those in the streets, and cruelly mangled. At this dreadful business were present the new provost of Paris, sir John de Luxembourg, the lord de Fosseaux, the lord de I'IsIe-Adam, tlie vidame of Amiens, the lord de ChevreusR, the lord de Chasteilus, the lord de Cohen, sir James de Har- court, sir Emond do Lombers, the lord d'Auxois, and others, to the amount of upward of a thousand combatants, armed and on horseback, ready to defend the murderers sliould there be any necessity. Many were shocked and astonislied at such cruel conduct; but tliey dared not say any thing except. " Well, my boys I " The bodies of the constable, the chan- cellor, and of Raymonnet de la Guerre were stripped naked^ tied together with a cord, and dragged for three days by the blackguards of Paris through the streets; the body of the constable had the breadth of two fingers of his skin cut off crosswise, like to a bend in heraldry, byway of derision : and they were thus publicly exposed quite naked to the eight of all ; on the fourth day they were dragged out of Paris on a hurd"? and buried with the others in a ditch called la Louviere. Notwithstanding the great lords afler this took moch pains to pacify the populpce, and remonstrated with them, that they ought to allow the kind's justice to take its regular course against offenders, they w"uld not desist, but went in great crowds to the houses of such as had favored the Armagnacs, or of those whom they disliked, and killed them without mercy, carrying away all tliey could find. In these times it was enough if one man bated another at Paris, of whatever rank he might be, Burgundian or not, to say, "There goes an Armagnac," and be was instantly put to death without further inquiry being made. — Moiistrelet, vol. v. p. 20. To add to the tribulations of these times the Parisians again assembled in great numbers, as they had before done, and went to all the prisons in Paris, broke into them, and put to death full three hundred prisoners, many of whom had been con- fined there since the last butchery. In the number of those murdered were sir James de RIommor, and sir Louis de Corail, chamberlain to the king, with many nobles and churchmen. They then went to the lower court of the bas- tille of St. Anthony, and demanded that six prisoners, whom they named, should be given up to them, or they would attack the place: in fact, they began to pull down the wall of the gate, when the duke of Burgundy, who lodged near thr bas- tille, vexed to the heart at such proceedings, to avoid worse, ordered the prisoners to be delivered to them, if any of their leaders would promise that they should be conducted to the Chatelet prison, and suffered to be punislied according to their deserts by the king's court of justice. Upon this they all departed, and hy way of glossing over their promise, they led the prisoners near to the Chatelet, when they put them to death, and stripped them naked. They then divided into several large companies and paraded the streets of Paris, en- tering the houses of many who had been Armagnacs, plun- dering and murdering all without mercy. In like manner aa NOTKS TO JOAN OF ARC. oefore, when they met any person they disliked he was slain instantly ; and their principal leader was Cappeluche, the Jtangman of the city of Paris. The duke of Burgundy, alarmed at these insurrections, sent for some of tlio chief citizens, with whom he lemonstrated on the consequences these disturbances niiglit have. The citi- zens excused themselves from being any way concerned, and said they were much grieved to witness tliem : tliey added, they were all of the lowest rank, and had thus risen to pillage the more wealthy; and they reriuired the duke to provide a remedy by enijiJoying these men in his wars. It was then proclaimed, in the names of tlie king and the duke of Bur- gundy, under pain of death, that no person eliould tumultu- ousiy assemble, nor any more murders or pillage take place ; but that such as had of late risen in the insurrection should prepare themselves to march to the sieges of ftlontlehery and Marcoussi, now held by the king's enemies. The commonalty made reply, that they would cheerfully do so if they had proper captains appointed to lead them. Within a few days, to avoid similar tumults in Paris, six thousand of the populace were sent to Montleliery under tlio command of the lord de Cohen, sir Walter de Ruppes and sir Waiter Raillart, with a certain number of men at arms, and store of cannon and ammunition sufficient for a siege. These knights led them to Montlehery, where they made a 'sharp attack on the Dauphinois within the castle. The duke of Burgundy, after their departure, arrested several of their accomplices, and the princiiial movers of the late insurrection, some of whom he caused to he beheaded, otiiers to be hanged or drowned in tlie Seine ; even their leader Cappeluche, tiie hangman, was belicaded in the mar- ket-place. When news of this was carried to the Parisians who had been sent to Montlehery, they marched back to Paris to raise another rebellion, but the gates were closed against Uiem, so tliat they were forced to return to the sifge. Monstrelet, vol, v. p. 47. To what is it owing that four centuries should Iiave made BO little diflerence in tlie character of the Parisians? Note 54, p. 21, col. 2. — He will retreat To distant Dauphiny. " Charles, in despair of collecting an army which should dare to approacii the enemy's entrenchments, not only gave the city of Orleans for lost, but began to entertain a very dis- mal prospect with regard to the general state of his affairs. He saw that the country in which he had hitherto, with great difficulty, subsisted, would be laid entirely opr-n to the inva- sion of a powerful and victorious enemy, and he already entertained thouglits of retiring with the remains of his forces into Languedoc and Daupliiny, and defending himself as long as possible in those remote provinces. But it was fortunat€ for this good prince, that as he lay under the do- minion of the fair, the women whom he consulted had tlie spirit to support his sinking resolution in this desperate ex- tremity. Mary of Anjou, his queen, a princess of great merit andjtrudence, vehemently opposed this measure, which she foresaw would discourage all his partisans, and serve as a general signal for deserting a prince who seemed himself to despair of success : liis mistress too, the fair Agnes Sorcl, who lived in entire amity with the queen, seconded all her remonstrances." — Hume. Von/ait konn/ur d la belle Agnis Sorely Demoiselle de Tou- raittCf jnaitrcsse de ee Prince, d^avoir beaucoup contrihui d Vencourager en cetle occasion. On lui fait cet konneur princi- palemetii au stijct d'ua quatraiH. rapporte par Saint Oelais comme Aiant etefait par le Roi Francois I. d fkonneur de cettc Demoisellt. Plus dc louange et d^konneur tu mertfe, La cau^e etant de France recouvrer, Que ee que peut dedaiis un Cluilre ouvrer Ciatisi JVoRHairij on bten devot Hermite. — P. Daniel. Ndte 55, p. 21, col. 2. —On a May morning decked toithjlowers. Here in this first race you shall see our kings but once a year, the first day of May, in their chariots deckt with flowres and grcene, and drawn by four oxen. Whoso hath occasion to treat with them lot him 8eele3 th^m in thei chambers. amidst their delights. Let him talke of any matters of state he shall he sent to the Maire. — De Serres. Fuller calls tJiis race "a chain of idle kings, well linked together, who gave themselves over to pleasure privately, never coming abroad, but ooely on May-day they showed themselves to the people, riding in a chariot, adorned with flowers, and drawn with oxen, slow cattcl, but good enough for so lazy luggage.^' — Holy Warre. Ces Rois hideux en longue larbe espesse, En longs cheveuz, omez, presse sur presse, De ckaisnes d^or et de carquans gravely Hants dans un char en triomphe elevei, Unefois Van seferont voir enpompe Enjlei d'' un fard qui le vulgaire trompe. — Ronsard. Note 56, p. 21, co\.2.—J]nd these long locks will not dis- grace thee then. Long hair was peculiar to the kings in the first ages of the French monarchy. Wlien Fredegonda had murthered Clovis and thrown him into the river, the fishermen who found his body knew it by the long hair. — Jilezeray. At a later period the custom seems to have become general. Pasquier says, *' lors de monjeune aage nvl n'estoit tondu,f&rs lesmoincs. Advint par mesadventure que le roy Francois pre- mier de ce nom, ayant esie fortuitemcnt blesse d la teste d^un tizon, par le capitainc Lorgcs, sieur de Montgoumery, les medc- cinsfurent d'advis de la tondre. Depuis il ne porta plus longs cheveu-x, estant le premier de nos roys, gut par un sinistre augure degenera de ceste venerable anciennete. Sur son exemple, les princes premier ement, puis les gcntilskommes, ctjinalement tons les subjects se voulureiit former, il nefutpas que les Prestres ne se meissait de ceste partie. Sur la plus grande partie du rcgne de Francois premier, et devant, chacun portoit longue chev el u re, et barbe ras, oH maintenant chacun est tondu, etporlc longue barbe.^^ Note 57, p. ffi, col. 1. — Thy mangled corsewaves to thewinds of heaven. Le Fiscomtc de J^arbonne y pirit aussi, et porta la peine de sa tcmcrife, qui avoit etc nne des principaJes causes de la perte dc la battaille. Le due de Betfort aiant fait chercher son corps, le ft ecarteler et pendre d un gibet, parce qu'H passoit pour avoir etc complice de la mort du due de Bourgogne. — P. Daniel. Note 58, p. '22, col. 1. — Brctagne's unfaithful chief Leagues witli my foes, and Richemont, Slc. Richemont has left an honorable name, though he tied a prime minister up in a sack and tlirew him into the river. For this he had a royal precedent in our king John, but Richemont did openly what the monarch did in the dark, and there is some difference between a murderer and an execu- tioner, even though the executioner be a volunteer. " U mcrita sa grace (says Daniel), par les services qu'ilrendit au roi contre les Anglais, malgrc ce prince m& me. Ilfut un des prin- cipauT aiUcurs de la reftirme de la milice Frangoise, qui pro- duLfit la tranquillitc de la France et les grands victoires doiit elte fust suieie. Vautorile qu''il avoit par sa charge de connetable, jointe d safcrmeti naturelle, lui donna moyen de tenir la mum i t* observation des ordonnances publiees par le roi pmir la disci- pline milUairc ; et les examples de severity quHlft d cet egiird, lui f rent dvnncr le sumoni de justicier. Etant decenu due de Brctngne, quclques Seigneurs de sa Cour hit conseitlerent de se dcmettrc de sa charge de connetable, comme d^une dignitc qui ctoit au dfssntLi de lui. II ne la voulut pas, et il faisoit porter decant lui deux epees, Vune la pointe en haut, en qualiic dc due dc Bretagnr, et Vautrc dans lefourrrau le pointe en bas, comme connetable de France. Son motive pour consercer la charge de connetable, etoit, disoit il d'honorer dans sa vieillcsse line charge qui ravoit honm-e lui-mime dans un age moins aeancc. On le peut compter au nombre des plus grands capUa'nies qitc lu France ait cus d son aervicc. 11 avoit beaucoup de rcltgion, il etoit liberal, aumdnier, bicnfaisant, et en ne peut guircs lui reprocher que la hauteur et la violence^ dont il usa envers Irs trots ministres.''^ 70 NOTES TO .CAN OF ARC. Note 59, p. 22, col. 2. — fVcH might tlie Eiiirlisk scoff. Yet in tlie preceding year J428, the English women had concerned Ihcmaelves somewhat curiously in the ofTairs of their rulers. "There was one Miatris Stokes with divers others stout women of London, of good reckoning, well-6.;- parelled, came openly to tlie upper parliament, and delivered letters to the duke of Glocester, and to the archbishops, and to tlie other lords there present, containing matter of rebuke ttnd sharp reprehension of the duke of Glocester, hecauee he would not deliver his wife Jaqueline out of her grievous im- prisonment, being then held prisoner by the duke of Bur- gundy, suffering her there to remain so unkindly, and for his public keeping by him another adultresse, contrary to the law of God, and the honourable estate of matrimony." — Stowe. Note 60, p. 92, col. 9. — Skc fixed her eye on Charles. Of this I may say with Scudery, O mervcilk estonnante, et difficile d croire! — Mais one mius rapporlons sar lafoy de VHisioire. Marie, L. 2. The matter (aays De Serres) was found ridiculous both by the king and his councell, yet must they make some triall. The king takes upon him the habit of a countriman to be disguised : this maid (being brought into the chamber) goes directly to the king in this attire, and salutes him with so viodest a coun- tenance, as if she had been bred up in court ail her life. They telling her that she was mistaken, she assured them it was tlie king, although she had never seene him. She begins to deliver unto him this new charge, which, she sayes, she had received from the God of Heaven ; so as she turned the eyes and minijs of all men upon her." Ce prince prit erpr^s ce jour-ld un habit fort simple, ct se m&la sans distinction dans lafuulc des courtizans. La file entra dans la chambre sans paroitre ancunement ctonnie, et quoiqu^ ellc 71* cft( jamais pit le roT, die lui addressa la parole, et lui dit d*un ton ferine, que Dteu Penvoyoit pour le secourir, pourfairc lever le sii^e d^ Orleans, et le conduire d Reims pour y Hre sacri. Elle l^assura que les ^nglois scroient chasse.^ du Roy- aurne, et que s'^ils ne le quittoient au platOt, il Icur en prendroit vial. — P. Daniel. Note 61, p. 29, col. 9. — Crown Viee anointed king. The anointing was a ceremony of much political and mys- tical importance. "King Henry III. of England, being de- sirous to know wliat was wrought in a king by his unction, consulted by letter about il wilh that great scholler of the age Robert Grossetest bishop of Lincoln, who answered him thus: — '^ Q^uod autem in Jine litera vestriE nobis wandas- tis, videlicet quod intimaremus quid unctionis sacramentum videatur adjicere regies dignitatt, cum multi sint reges qui nullatenus unctionis munera decorentur, non est noi'elam ordinabHiter regat tandem et ipse. Mljicit igitur regiir ^ignitati unctionis ^is prepares qa'ou servait apris les viandes. 1. Les Vins cuits, qui sont encore en usage dans quetques provinces, et qui ont conserve le mSme nom. 2. Ceuz auiqueU on ajoutait le sue de quelque fruit, tels que le Mor6,/a(t avec da jus de mUre. 3. Ceuz (pi'on assaisannait avec du micl, comme le Nectar, le Medon, ^'c. 4. Ceuz oxiVon faisait infuser des plantes in6dicinales ou aromatiques, et qui prenaient leur nom de ces plantes, Vins d'Absinthe, de Myrthe, d'Alo^s, &c. Le Roman de Florimont les appelle Vins herbez. 5. Enjin ceux dans lesquels, outre le miel, il entrait des epicis. On appellait ces dcrniers du nom giniral de Pimcns. Cetoicnt les plus estimcs de tous. JVos auteurs n'en parlent qu'avec delices. II pUi inanqui quelque chose d une fete ou d ttn n'pas, si on n*tj efil point scrvi du Piment: et Van on donnait mane aur moines daiis Irs couvcns d certains jours de Pannee. — Le Grand. Note 71, p. 26, col. 2. — the ijoutJi Of Corntcall. Sir Tristram du Lyones. Note 72, p. 27, col. 1. — and he who struck The dolorous stroke. Sir Balin le Sauvage. Note 73, p. 27. col. 1. Ariosto. - Like that divinest Tuscan. Note 7-1, p. 27, col. 2. — Thou carist not with thy golden belt put on An honorahle name. Du praveioe Bonne rcnommee vant mieux que ceinture doree. Lisant un arrest aneisn qui est encorespour le jourd'hmj inseri aux registres du Cluistetet de Paris, j^estimay qu^ni ce proverbe il y ai^oit une notable sentence, et une longuc anciennete tout en- semble. Car par arrest qui est du'UBdeJuin l\^, il est portd en termes erpres que deffnuses soiit faites d toutes fcmmes amou^ reuses, files dcjoye, et paillardcs de ne porter robbes d collets ren- vcrsez, quciies, nec.eintures dore.es, boutonniers dleurs chaperons, sur peine de confiscation et amende, et que les huissiers de parle~ ment, commissaires et sergents du Chastelet q>ii les trouveroient, eusscnt d les mencr prisonnieres. Au surplus (je diray cecy en pass tnt) d la mirnne rolonte que eeux qui donnerent cest arrest eiissey tournc la chance, ct que non sailement ces cetntures dorees, ains en toutes autrcs dornres, et affiqucts, ils eussent fait deffcnces d toutrs femmes d''honneur d^emportrr, sur peine (Cestre declarees putains ; car U n'y auroit vomt phis prompt moijen que r.estuy,pour bannier le superjluitc et bombance des dames. — Pasquier. Note 75, p. 28, col. 1. — I knew myself. H- stancp is, Chapelain has omitted it. Note U% p. 38, col. 1. — Strong were tlie English forts Tho patience and persever:mce of a besieging army in those ages appear almost incredible to us now. Tho camp of Fer dinand before Granada swelled into a citv. Edward IH made a market town before Calais. Upon the cnptain's refusal to surrender, says Barnes, "he began to etitrench himself strongly about the city, soltin:.' his own tent directly against the chief gates at whieli he intendeil to entei ; tlien he placed bastions I)etwecn the li>wn nnd the river, and ^et out n-gular streets, and rearrd up decent buildings of strong 76 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. timber between the trendies, wliich lie covered with tliatch, reed, broom unii skins. Tlius lie encompassed the whole town of Calais, from Ri-sban on the northwest side to Cour- gaine on the northeast, all along by ??angate, at Port and Fort do Nicolay, commonly by the English called Newland- bridge, down by Hammes, Cologne and Marke ; so that his camp looked like a spacious city, and was usually by stran- gers, that came thither to market, called New Calais. For this priitce's reputation for justice was so great, that to his markets (which he held in hi:? camp twice every week, viz. on Tuesdays and Saturdays for flesh, fish, bread, wine and ale, witJl cloth and all other necessaries,) there came not only his friends and allies from England, Flanders and Aquitain, but even many of king Philip's subjects and confederates conveyed thither their cattle and other commodities to be sold." Note 113, p. 38, col. 2. — Entering UJttA his eye. JV*tt7u: leiUuSy celsis adstans in colUbiiSj inlrat Urbem ocutis^ dlscitque locos caussasque locorwm, Silius ItalicuSj xii. 567. Note 114, p. 38, col. 2. — Drfikd and unrepair'd. Abjecerc madentes, Sicut eranty clijpeos ; nee qtiisquam spicule tersity JVec laudavit eqitum, nitida ncc cassidis altam Compsit adornavitque jabaiit, Statius. Note 115, p. 39, col. 2. — Part/ienopa:iLS. fpsam, Midtl in umhrd-, Dtaiuun, teiitro sigjiantem- ^amina passu, I ^novisse ferv.nl coiiUti, DicUtaquc tela Ipsaan, tt JJimjchcas kumcris apiasse pharetras. iadet nemoriiniy tttitlumque noccntnn. Sanguinis kumani pudor est nescire sag-ittas. Statius, IV. 056. Note 116, p. 39, col. 9. — Qladdisdale. Giaddisdale must be the sir William Glansdale of Shakes- pear. Stowe Calls him William Gladesdale. It is proper to remark that I have introduced no fictitious names among the killed. They may ail be found in the various histories. Note 117, p. 39, col. 2.— TVir balista. Jv'equc eniin solis excussa lacertis Lancca, sed tenso baHjsUn turbine rapta, Hand unum contenta tatus transire, quiescit; Sed pandens perque arma viani, pcrqtie ossa, rcticta. Morltfugit: superest tela post vulnera eursus. Ltican. HI. Vegetins says, that the balista discharged darts with such rapidity and violence, tiiat nothing could resist their force. This engine was used particularly to discharge darts of a sur- prising length and weight, and often many small ones together. Its form was not unlike that of a broken bow; it had two arms, but straight and not curved like those of a cross-bow, of wliicli the whole acting force consists in bending the bow. That of the balista as well as of the catapulta, lies in its cords. — RolUn. Note 118, p. 39, col. 2. — fVhere bij the baijle^s embattled wall. The h;iyle or lists was a space on the outside of the ditch surrounded by strong palisades, and sometimes by a low em- bittled wall. In the attack of fortresses, us the range of the machines then in use did not exceed the distance of four stadia, tlw besiegers did not carry on their approaches hy means of trenches, but begun their operations above ground, with the att;ickof tlie bayleor lists, where many feats of chivalry were pert'ormed by the knights and men at arms, who considered the assault of that work as particularly belonging to them, the weight of their armor preventing them from scaling the walls. As this part was attacked by the knights and men at arms, it was also defended by those of the snme rank in the place, whence many single combjit^ were fought here. This was at tlie first investing of the place. — Orose. Note 119, p. 39, col. 2. — ^ rude coat ufmaily Unkosed, unfioodedj as of lowly line In France, only persons of a certain estate, called unfefde liaabcr, were permitted to wear a hauberk, which was the ar- mor of a knight. Esquires might only wear a simple coat of mail, without the hood and hose. Had this aristocratic dis- tinction consisted in the ornamental part of the arms alone, it would not have been objectionable. In the enlightened and t'ree states of Greece, every soldier was well provided with defensive arms. In Rome, a civic wreath was the reward of him who should save the life of a citizen. But to use the words of Dr. Gillies, "the miserable peasants of modern Europe are exposed without defence as without remorse, by the ambition of men, whom the Greeks would have styled tyrants." Note 120, p. 39, col. 3. — Tlie rudt-featured helm. The brirgonet, which represented the shape of the head and features. Note 121, p. 39, col. 3.— On his crown-crested helm. Earls and dukes frequently wore their coronets on the crests of their helmets. At the battle of Agincourt Henry wore "a bright helmet, whereupon was seta crowne of gold, repleate with pearle and precious stones, marvellous rich." — Stowe. Note 122, p. 39, col. ^.^J3nd agaimt the iron fence beneatJt. A breastplate was sometimes worn under the hauberk. Note 123, p. 40, col. 1. — .... Conrade, wiUt an active bounds Sprung on tJte battlements. The nature of this barrier has been explained in a previous note. The possibility of leaping upon it is exemplified in the following adventure, which is characteristic of the period in which it happened, (1370.) " At that time there was done an extraordinary feat of arms by a Scotch knight, named sir John Assueton, being one of timse men of arms of Scotland, who imd now entered king Edward's pay. This man left his rank with his spear in his hand, liis page riding behind him, and went towards the bar- riers of Noyon, where he alighted, saying, 'Here hold my horse, and stir not from hence ;' and so he came to the bar- riers. There were there at that time sir John de Roye, and sir Lancelot de Lorris, with ten or twelve more, who all won- dered what this knight designed to do. He for his part being close at the barriers said unto tht^m, ' Gentlemen, I am come hither to visit you, and because I see you will not come fortlj of your barriers to me, I will come in to you, if Tmay, and prove my kniglitliood against you. Win me if you can.' And with tliat ho leaped over the bars, and began to lay about him like a lion, he at them and they at him ; so that he alone fought thus agiiinst them all for near the space of an hour, and hurt several of them. And all the while tliose of the town beheld with much delight from the walls and their garret windows his grea; activity, strength and courage ; hut they offered not to do him any hurt, us tiiey might very easily have done, if they had been minded to cast stones or darts at him ; but the French knights charged them to the contrary, saying * how they should let them alone to deal with him.' When matters had continued thus about an hour, the Scotch page came to the harriers with his master's horse in his hand, and said in his language, ' Sir, pray come away, it is high time for you to leave off now; for the army ismurcaed off out of sight.' The kniglit heard his man, and then gave two or three terrible strokes about him to clear the way. and so, armed as he was, ho leaped back again over the barriers and mounted his horse, having not received any hurt ; and turning to the Frenchmen, said, ' Adieu, sirs! I thank you for my diversion.' And with that he rode after his man upon the spur towards the army." — Joshua BarneSj p. 801. Note 124, p. 40, col. 1. — The iron weight srcuvg Mgh. Le massue est un baton gros comme Ic bras, ayant d Pun de ses bouts une forte courruie pour tenir Varme et Pcinp&cher de glisserj ctd Vautre trois cJiatnons de fer, au^quels paid un boulel NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 77 vc^aiU kuit livre^. It n'y a pas d^komme aujouriPhui capable de manier une telle arme. — Le Grand. Tlie arms of the Medici fumiiy " are romantically referred to Averardo de Medici, a commander under Charlemagne, who for his valor in destroying the gigantic plunderer Mu- gello, by whom the surrounding country was laid waste, was honored with the privilege of bearing for his arme sis pallc or balls, as characteristic of the iron balls that hung from iho mace of his tierce antagonist, the impression of which remained on his shield-" — Roscue. Scudery enumerates the mace among the instruments of war, in a passage whose concluding line may vie with any bathos of sir Richaid Blackmore. La confasemeiit frappent de toutcs parts Pieira*, pique^^ cspieuz, masses, Jle ekes et dards. Lances et javdotSy sabres et marteauz d^armes, Dangereuses ijistrumcnts des guerriercs alarmcs. — ^laric. Note 195, p. 40, col. 9. — There was a portal in tfie English fort. Which opened on Hie wall. Vitruvius obser^'es, in treating upon fortified walls, that near the towers the walls should be cut within-side the breadth of the tower, and that the ways broke in this manner should only be joined and continued by beams laid upon the two extremities, without being made fast with iron ; that in case the enemy should make himself master of any part of the wall, the besieged might remove this wooden bridge, and thereby prevent his passage to the other parts of the wall and into the towers. — Rollin. The precaution recommended by Vitruvius had not been observed in the construction of the Englisli walls. On each side of every tower, a small door opened upon the wall ; and the garrison of one tower are represented in the poem as fly- ing by this way from one to shelter themselves in the other. With the enterprising spirit and the defensive arms of chival- ry, the subsequent events will not be found to exceed probability. ' Note I9G, p. 40, col. 2. — JVot overbrow^d by jutting parapet. The machicolation : a projection over the gate-way of a town or castle, contrived for letting fall great weights, scald- ing water, ice. on the heads of any assailants who might have got close to the gate. " Machecollare, or machecoulare," says Coke, " is to make a warlike device over n gate or other passage like to a grate, through wliich scalding water, or pon- derous or offensive things may be cast upon the assaylants." Note 127, p. 41, col. 1. — Plucking from the shield the severed head, He threw it bach. I have met with one instance in English history, and only one, of throwing the spear after the manner of the ancients. It is in Stowe's chronicle. " 144Q. The 30th of January, a challenge was done in Smithfield within lists, before the king ; the one sir Philip de Beawse of Arragon, a knight, and the other an esquire of the king's house called John Ausley or Astley. These comming to the fielde, tooke their tents, and there was the knight's sonne made knight by the king, and so brought again to his father's tent. Then the heralds of armes called them by name to doe their battel, and s«j they came both all armed, with their weapons ; the knight came with his sword drawn, and tlie esquire with his speare. Tlie esquire cast Jiis speare against the knight, but the kniglit avoiding it with his sword, cast it to the ground. Then (lie esquire look his axe and went against the knight suddenly, on whom he stroke many strokes, hard and sore upon his baaenet, and on his hand, and made him loose and let fall his axe to the ground, and brast up his limbes three times, and caught his dagger and would h:ive smitten him in the face, for to have slaine him in the tield ; and then the king cried hoo, and so they were departed and went to their tents, and the king dubbed John Astley knight for his valiant tornoy, and the knight of Arragon offered his armes at Windsor." Note 198, p. 41, col 1 —Full on tJie corselet of a meaner man. The corselet was chiefly wort: by pikcmen. Note 129, p. 42, col. 1. — ^ harlot! — an adulteress! This woman, who is always respectably named in French history, had her punishment both In herself and in her child. " This fair Agnes Imd been five years in the service of tho queen, during which she had enjoyed all the pleasures of life, in wearing rich clothes, furred robes, golden chains, and pre- cious stones; and it was commonly reported that the king often visited her, and maintained her in a state of concu- binage, for the people are more inclined to speak ill than well of their superiors. " The affection the king showed her was as much for her gaiety of temper, pleasing manners, and agreeable conversa- tion, as for her beauty. She was so beautiful that she was called the Fairest of the Fair, and the Lady of Beauty, as well on account of her personal charms, as because the king had given her for life tlie castle of Beaute near Paris. She was very charitable, and most liberal in her alms, which she distributed among such churches as were out of repair, and to beggars. It is true that Agnes hud a daughter who lived but a short time, which she said was the king's, and gave it to him as the proper father; but the king always excused himself as not having any claim to it. She may indeed have called in help, for the matter was variously talki^d of. " At length she was seized with a bowel comphiint, and was a long time ill, during which she was very contrite, and sincerely repented of her sins. She often reniemlM.red Mary JIagdalene, who had been a great sinner, and devoutly in- voked God and the virgin Mary to her aid like a true catholic : after she had received the sacraments, she calJed for her book of prayers, in which she had written with her own hand the verses of St. Bernard to repeat them. She then made many gifts (which were put down in writing, that her executors might fulfil them, wilh the other articles of her will), which including alms and the payment of her servants mi^t amount to nearly sixty thousand crowns. " Her executors were Jacques Ccpur, councellor and master of the wardrobe to the king, master Robert Poictevin phy- sician, and master Stephen Chevalier treasurer to the king, who was to take the lead in the fulfilment of her will should it be his gracious pleasure. "The fair Agnes, perceiving that she wa^ daily growing weaker, said to the lord de la Trimouille, the Indy of the seneschal of Poitou, and one of the king's equerries called Gouffier, in the presence of all her damsels, that our fragile life was but a stinking ordure. _" She then required that her confessor would give her abso- lution from all her sins and wickedness, conformable to an absolution, which was, as she said, at Loches, which the con- fessor on her assurance complied with. After this she uttered a loud shriek, and called on the mercy of God and the support of the blessed virgin Mary, and gave up the ghost on Monday the 9th day of February, in the year 1449, about six o'clock in the afternoon. IJer hody was opened, and her heart in- terred in the church of the said abbey, to which she had been a most libera! benefactress ; and her body was conveyed with many honors to Lociies, where it was interred in the col- legiate church of our Lady, to which also she had made many handsome donations and several foundations. May God have mercy on her soul, and admit it into Paradise." Monstrelet, vol. ix. p. 97 On the 13th day of June, the seneschal of Normandy, count of Maulovrier, ami son to the late sir Pierre de Breze, killed at the battle of Month-hery, went to the village of Romiers, near Dourdan, which belonged to him, for the sake of bunt- ing. He took with him his lady, the princess Charlotte ot France, natural daughter of the late king Charles the VM by Agnes Sorel. After the chace, when they were returned to Romiers to sup and lodge, the seneschal retired to a single- bedded room for the night; his lady retired also to another chamber, when moved by hei disorderly passions (as the hns band said) she calleil to her a gentleman from Poitou, named Pierre de la Vegne, who was head huntsman to the seneschal, and made him lie with her. This was told to the seneschal by the master of his household, called Pierre I'Apothicaire ; when he instantly arose, and taking his sword, broke open the door of the chamber where his lady and the huntsman were in bed. The huntsman started up in his shirt, and the senes- chal gave him first a severe blow with his sword on the head. 78 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. aiid thun thrust it through his hotly, and killed Itim on the sjiot. This done, he went into an iiiljoinin^ room where liia diildren lay, and finding his wife hid under the coverlid of their bed, drugged her thence by tlie arm along the ground, and struck her between the shoulders with Iiis sword. On her raising herself on her knees he ran his sword tlirough lier bre.ist, and she fell down dead, lie sent her body for inter- ment to the abbey of Coulens, where lier obsequies were [lerfonned, and he caused the huntsman to be buried in the garden of the house wherein he had been killed. — Monstrcletj v.ii. it. p. 233. N'oTE 130, p. 42, col. I.— ami immld Uuit. I had lived III tliosc old times. MiiKET^ CTICIT OMpCtXov CyU} neflTTTOtat fi€TEtV(tl Audpaaii/, aW t] TrpuaBe Oaveiv n cTretra ycvcaOai. Nur yap <5») ytvo? ecri at^Tjpcov' oi6i.iTOT r,pap Uavaoi'Tai xaparui nai oi^v-i^^ oiSc ri vvKTi<>pi 'Pdeipopepoi. Hbsiod Note 131, p. 42, col. 2. — Then was that noble htart of Douglus pierced. Tlie heart of Bruce was, by iiis own dying will, intrusted to Douglas to bear it to Jerusalem. This is one of the finest stories in the whole nge of chivalrous history. Douglas inshrined the lieart in a golden case, and wore it round his neck ; he hnded in Spain on his way, and stopped to assist the Castillians against the Moors, — probably during the siege of Aigeziras. There, in the heat of action, he took the heart from his neck, and cast it into the thick of the en»fmy, exclaiming, as Barbour has it, " Now pass thou forth before As thou wast wont in fight to be, And I shall follow or else die." In this action he perished, and from that time the bloody heart has been borne by the family. Note 13-3, p. 44, col. 1. — the shield Pillowed the helmed head. 11 n'tst 1 •'■n de si douz, pour des caurs pleuis dc gloire. Que la patsibll lir.t md suit une victoirc, Dvrmir sur iin tropnet^ «,; in '■harmant repos^ El le champ de baita'de est le Ha u,hifi ^ems. Scuuiry. Alaric. The night after a battle is certainly more agreeable than the night before one. A soldier may use his shield for a pillow, but he must be very ingenious to sleep upon a trophy. Note 133, p. 44, col. 1. — Qaiing with suck a look as though she feared The thing she sought. With a dumb silence seeming that it fears The thing it went about to effectuate. Daniel. Note 134, p. 44, cnl. 2, — One loose Jock Plaifd o^er his cheek''s black paleness. " JVoire pasleur.^^ Le MoTfue. St. Louis. Liv. xvi. Note 135, p. 45, col. 1. — The barbican. Next th'i bayle was the ditch, foss, graff, or mote : generally where it could be a wet one, and pretty deep. The passage over it was by a draw-bridge, covered by an advance work called a barbican. The barbican was sometimes beyond the ditch that covered the draw-bridge, and in towns and large fortresses had frequently a ditch and draw-bridge of its own. Grose. Note 133, p. 45, col. 1. — Tlie embattled icall. The outermost walls enclosing towns or fortresses were commonly perpendicular, or had a very small external talus. They were tl.inked by semi-circular, polygonal, or square towers, commonly about forty or fifty yards distant from each other. Within were steps to mount the terre-pleine of the walls or rampart, which were always defended by an embat- tled or crenellated parapet. — Orose. The tbrtifications of the middle ages differed in this respect from those of the ancients. When the besiegers had gained the summit of the wall, the descent on the other side was safe and easy. But " the ancients did not generally support their walls on the inside with earth in the manner of the talus cr slope, which made the attacks more dangerous. For though the enemy had gained some footing upon them, he could not assure himself of taking the city. It was necessary to get down, and to make use of some of the ladders by which he had mounted; and that descent exposed the soldier to very great danger." — Rvtlin. Note 137, p. 45, cnl. 1. — Behind tlie g-uardiaa pavais fenced. The pavais, or pavache, was a large shield, or rather a port- able mantlet, capable of covering a man from head to foot, and probably of sufBcient thickness to resist the missive weapons then in use. These were in sieges carried by ser- vants, whose business it was to cover their masters with them, whilst they, with their bows and arrows, shot at the enemy on the ramparts. As this must have been a service of danger, it was that perhaps which made the office of scutifer honora- ble. The pavais was rectangular at tlie bottom, but rounded off above : it was sometimes supported by props. — Grose. Note 138, p. 45, col. 1. — With all their mangonels. Mangonel is a term comprehending all the smaller engines. Note 139, p. 45, col. 1. — ToHoises The tortoise was a machine composed of very strong and solid timber work. The height of it to its highest beam, which sustained the roof, was twelve feet. The base was square, and each of its fronts twenty-five feet. It was covered with a kind of quilted mattress made of raw hidcR, and prepared with different drugs to prevent its being set on fire by combustibles. This heavy machine was supported upon four wheels, or perhaps upon eight. It was called tor- toise from its serving as a very strong covering and defence against the enormous weights thrown down on it ; those under it being safe in the same manner as a tortoise under his shell It was used both to fill up the fosse, and for sapping. It may not be improper to add, that it is believed, so enormous a weight could not be moved from place to place on wheels, and that it was pushed forward on rollers. Under these wheels or rollers, the way was laid with strong planks to facilitate its motion, and prevent its sinking into the ground, from wJience it would have been very difficult to have removed it. The ancients have observed that the roof had a thicker cover- ing, of hides, hurdles, sea-weed, &c. than the sides, as it was exposed to much greater shocks from the weights thrown upon it by the besieged. It had a door in front, which was drawn up by a chain as far as was necessary, and covered the soldiers at work in filling up the fosse with fascines. — Rollin. This is the tortoise of the ancients, but that of the middle ages differed from it in nothing material. Note 140, p. 45, col. 9. — M dreadful train. " The besiegers having carried the bayle, brought up their machines and established themselves in the counterscarp, began under cover of their cats, sows, or tortoises, to drain the ditch, if a wet one, and also to fill it up with hurdles ana fascines, and level it for the passage of their movable tower* Whilst this was doing, the archers, attended by young men carrying shields (pavoises), attempted with their arrows iO drive the besieged from the towers and rampans, being them- selves covered by these portable mantlets. The garrison on their part essayed by the discharge of machines, cross and long bows, to keep tlie enemy at a distance." — Grose. Note 141, p. 45, col. 2. — He bare an arhalist himself^ A weapon for its sure dcstrmXwemss Jibojninated once. The cross-bow was for some time laid aside in obedience to a decree of the second Lateran council held in 1139. " Ar- NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 79 tem illam mortiferam et Deo odibilem ballistariorum adversus ckristianos et catJioUcos ezcrcere de catcro sub anatlicmate pro- hibcmus.^'' This weapon wiia again introduced into our armies by Kichard I., who being slain with a quarrel shot from one of them, at the siege of the castle of Chaluz in Normandy, it was considered as a judgment from heaven inflicted upon him for his impiety. Guillaurae le Breton, relating the death of thia king, puts the following into the mouth of Atropos : Hcic voloy non ali& Riclmrdum marte perirc, Ut qui Francigenis ballUttB primitus tisuiti lyadidity ipse sui rem primitus cxperUitur^ Q^uemque alios docuit in se vim sentiat artt^, Grose. Note 143, p. 45, col. 2. — . . . wko kneeling- by the trebucket^ C/iarged its long sling with death. From the trebuchet they discharged many stones at once by a sling. It acted by means of a great weight fastened to the short arm of a lever, which being let fall, raised the end of the long arm with a great velocity A man is represented kneel- ing to load one of these in an ivory carving, supposed to be of tlie age of Edward II. — Orose. Note 143, p. 45, col. 2. — He in the groove Vie feaihiT'd quarrel placed. Quarrels, or carreaux, were so called from their heads, which were square pyramids of iron. Note 144, p. 46, col. 1. — some tJie watery fence .... Drain painfuL The tortoises, &c. and movable towers having reached the walls, the besiegers under them either began to mine, or batter them with the ram. They also established batteries of balis- tas and mangonels on the counterscarp. TJiese were opposed by those of the enemy. Note 145, p. 46, col. 1. — Or charging with huge stones the murderous sling. The matafunda. Note 146, p. 46, col. 1. — or in the espringal Fix Vie brass-winged arrows. The espringal threw large darts called muchetxa^ sometimes winged with biass instead of feathers. Procopius says that because feathers could not be put to the large darts discharged from the balista, the ancients used pieces of wood stx inches thick, which had the same effect. Note 147, p. 46, col. 1. — ^ ponderous stone from some huge martinet. Le lendemain vindrent deuz maistres engingneurs au due de JVitrmandiey qui dirent que, si on leur vouloit livrer bays et ou- vriers, ill feroient quatre eschauffaulx et hautz que on, menfroit auz murs du chastel, et seroicnt si hauh q''lz surmonteroient les murs. Le due commanda q'lz lefeissent, et Jist prendre tous les charpentiers da pays, et payer largement. Si furent faitz ces quatre escliauffauXx en quatre grosses uefz, mais on y mL^t lovgue- mcni et counter ent grans deniers. Si y fist on /m gens entrer q'a ccidz du cliastcl devoicnt combattre. Q_uant ilz eurcnt passe la moitie de la riviere, ceulz du chastel desclinquerent quatre mar- tinetl gV: avoient faiti nouvellement pour remedter contre le^ditz e^rhauffaulx. Ces quatre martinetz gettoicnt si grosses pierres et si gimvent sur sfs eschauffaulx g'/: furent bien tost froisscz tant qva le.-i gensdarmes et ceulz que les conduisoient ne scpeurent de- dans garantir. Si se retirerent arriere le plus tost quilz peurent. El aingois qHzfussent oultre la riviere lung des eschauffaulx fat enfondre au foils de leaue. — Froissart, Lff. 83. Note 148, p. 46, col. 1. — ^ moving tower the men of Orleans ■wheel. The following extract from the History of E{lward III. by Joshua Barnes contains a full account of these moving towers. 1^ Now the earl of Darby had layn before Reule more than nine weeks, in which time lie hud made two vest belfroys oi bastilles of massy timber, with three stages or floors ; each of the belfroys running on four huge wheels, bounJ about wiih thick hoops of iron ; and the sides and other parts tliat any ways respected the town were covered with raw hides, lliick laid, to defend the engines from fire and shot. In every one of these stages were placed an hundred archers, and between the two bastilles, there were two hundred men with pickaxes and mattocks. From these six stiiges six hundred arcliers slial s(i fiercely all altogetlier, that no man could appear at his defence without a sufficient punishment: so that the belfroys liciiig brought upon wheels by the strength of men over a part ol'tbo ditch, which was purposely made plain and level by the faggots and earth and stones cast upon them, the two hundred pioneers plyed their work so well under the protection of these engines, that they made a considerable breach through the walls of the town." Note 149, p. 46, col. 1. — Jirchcnt, through the opening, shot their sJtafts. The archers and cross-bowmen from the upper stories in the movable towers essayed to drive away the garrison from the parapets, and on a proper opportunity to let fall a bridge, by that means to enter the town. In the bottom story was often a large ram. — Grose, Note 150, p. 46, co\.^.~^nd from the arbalist the frc-tipt dart Shot burning through the shj. .^gainst the movable tower there were many modes of defence. The chief was to break up the ground over which it was to pass, or by undermining it to overthrow it. Attempts were likewise made to set it on fire, to prevent which it was covered with raw hides, or coated over with alum. — Grose. Note 151, p. 46, col. 2.. ■ On the ramparts lowered from above lite bridge reclines. These bridges are described by RoHin in the account of the moving towers which he gives from Vegetius: — "The moving towers are made of an assemblage of beams and strong planks, not unlike a house. To secure them against tlie fires thrown by the besieged, they are covered with raw hides, or with pieces of cloth made of hair. Their height is in proportion to their base. They are sometimes thirty feet square, and some- times forty or fifty. They are higher than the walls or even towers of the city. They are supported upon several wheels according to mechanic principles, by the means of wiiieh the machine is easily made to move, how great soever it may be. The town is in great danger if this tower can approacli the walls ; for it has stairs from one story to another, and includes different methods of attack. At bottom it has a ram to batter the wall, and on the middle story a draw-bridge, made of two beams with rails of basket-work, which lets down easily upon the wall of a city, when within the reach of it. The besiegers pass upon this bridge, to make themselves masters of the wull Upon the higher stories are soldiers armed with partisans and missive weapons, who keep a perpetual discharge upcit the works. When affairs are in this posture, a place seldom held nut long. For what can they hope who have nothing to con- fide in but tlie height of their ramparts, when they see others suddenly appear which command them.'' " The towers or belfreys of modern times rarely exceeded three or four stages or stories. Note 152, p. 47, col. 1. — the brass-wing'^d darts IVliirl as they pierce the victim. These darts were called viretons, from their whiiling nbout in the air. Note 153, p. 47, col. 1. — Corineus. " And here, with leave bespoken to recite a grand fable, though dignified by our best poets, while Brutus on a certain festival day, solemnly kept on that shore where he first landed, was with the people in great jollity and mirth, a crew of lliese savages breaking in among Ihem, began on the sudden another 80 NOTES TO JOAN OP ARC. sort of game than at such a meeting was e.\|)ected. But at length by muny hands overcome, Goemagog the hugest, in height twelve cubits, h reserved aHve, that with liim Corineua who ilesired nothing more, might try his slrengtli; wliom in a wrestle the giant catching uloft, with a terrible iiugg broke three of his ribs : nevertheless Corineus enraged heaving him up by main force, and on his shoulders bearing him to the next high rock, threw kirn headlong all shattered into the 5ca,and left iiis name on the cliff, called ever since Langoemagog, which is to say, the giant's leap." — MiUon'a Hist, of England. The expression brute vastncss is taken from the same work of Milton, where he relates the death of Morindus. "Well fitted to such a beastial cruelty was his end ; for hearing of a huge monster that from the Irish sea infested the coast, and in the pride of his strength foolishly attempting to set manly valor against a brute vastness, when his weapons were ail in vain, by that horrible mouth ho was calched up and de- voured." Note 154, p. 47, col. 2. — This is a favor. "The tournelles adjoining to the bridge was kept by Gla- cidas (one of the most resolute captains among the English,) having well encouraged his men to defend themselves and to fight for their lives. " The skirmish begins at nine of the clock in the morning, and the ladders are planted. A storm of English arrows falls upon our men with such violence as they recoiled. ' How now I ' saith the Virgin, ' have we begun so well to end so ill ? let us charge ! they are our own, seeing God is on our side ! ' so every one recovering his forces, flocks about the Virgin. The English double the storm upon the tliickest of the troops. The Virgin fighting in the foremost ranks and encouraging her men to do well was shot through the arm with an arrow ; she, nothing amazed, takes the arrow in one hand and her sword in llie other, 'This is a favor I ' says she, ' lot us go on I they cannot escape tlie hand of GOD ! ' " Chn[ielam has dilated this exclamation of the Maid into a ridiculous speech. Quay! valeiireux Guerriers, qiioij ! daiis vostre avantage Un pea de sang perdu vousfait perdre courage '. Pour motj^je le repute a supreme boyihcur, Et dans ce petit malje trouve un grand honneur ; Le succes, Hen qu^hetirntx, n^etist en rien d^konnorahle, Si le Ciel n'enst permis un coup si favorable ,• yoas 7tVH verrez pas moins vos bras rnctorieuZj J^cn vcrraij scuhment man nom plus gloneiu. — L. III. Note 155, p. 47, col. 2. — Olactdus. I can make nothing English of this name. Monstrellet calls him Clacedas and Clasendas. Daniel says the principal leaders of the English were Suff'olk, Talbot, Scales, Fastolffe, ct un nommc Qlactdas oti Clacidas, dont le inerite svpplcant d la vaissanne^ Vavoit fait parvenir aax premtires charges de Parmce. The importance attached to a second name is well exempli- fied by an extract in Selden, relating to "the creation of Robert oarle of Glocester natural sonne to king Henry I. The king having speech with Mabile tlie sole daughter and heire of Robert Fitz Hayman lord of Glocester, told her (as it is re- ported in un old English rithmical story attributed to one Robert of Glocester,) that — he seold his sone to her spousing avonge, This maid was ther agen, and witlisaid it long. The king of sought her suilhe ynou, so that atten ende Mabile him answered, as gode maide and hende, Syre, heo sede, well ichot, that your liert op me is. More vor mine eritage than vor my sulve iwia. So vair eritage as ich abbe, it were me grete shame, Vor to abbe an louerd, bote he had an tuoname. Sir Rolierd le Fit/. Haim my faders name was. And that ne might noght be his that of his kunne noght nas. Therefore, syre, vor Godes love, ne let me non mon owe, Bote he abbe an tuoname war thoru he be yknowe. Damaysale, quoth the king, thou seist well in this cas, Sir Roberd le Fitz Haim tliy faders name was ; And as vayr name he shall abbe, gif me him may byse Sir Roberd le Fitz Roy is name shall be. Sire, quoth tliis maid tho, tliat is vayr name As woo seith all his life and of great fame. Ac wat shold his sone hote thanne and other that of him come, Sone might hii hote noght thereof nameth gone. The king understood that the rnaid ne sede non outrage, And that Gloucestre was chief of hyre eritage Damaseile he syde tho, thi louerd shall abbe a name Vor him and vor his heirs vayr without blame Vur Roberd earle of Gloucestre is name sliall be and yiH, Vor he shall be earle of Gloucestre and his heirs ywis. Sire, quoth this maid tho, well liketh me this, In this forme ichole that all my thyng be his. Thus was earle of Gloucestre first yniade there As this Roberd of all thuike tliat long byvore were. This was enleve hundred yeare, and in the ninth yeer right After that ure louerd was in his moder alygt." Seldcn's Titles of Honor, Note 156, p. 48, col. 1. — Seeking the inner court. On entering the outer gate, the next part that presented itself was the outer ballium or bailey, separated from the inner ballium by a strong embattled wall and towered gate. Note 157, p. 43, col. 9. — The engines showered their sheets of liquid fire. When the Black Prince attacked the castle of Komorantin, " there was slain hard by him an English esquire named Jacob Bernard, whereat the prince was so displeased, that he took liis most solenm oath, and sware by his father's soul not to leave the siege, till he had the castle and all within at his mercy. Then tiie assault was renewed much hotter than ever, till at last the prince saw there was no likelihood of prevailing that way. Wherefore presently he gave order to raise certain engines, wherewith they cast combustible matter enflamed after the manner of wild fire into Ilie base court so fast, and in such quantities, that at last the whole court seemed to be one huge fire. Whereupon the excessive heat prevailed so, that it took hold of the roof of a great tower, which was covered with reed, and so began to spread over all the castle. Now therefore when these valiant captains within saw, that of necessity they must either submit entirely to the prince's courtesy, or perish by the most merciless of elements, they all together came down and yielded themselves absolutely to his grace." — Joshua Barnes. Note 158, p. 49, col. I. — T7ie oriftamme of death. The oriflamme was a standard erected to denote that no quarter would he given. It is said to have been of red silk, adorned and beaten with very hroad and fair lilies of gold, and bordered about with gold and vermilion. Le Moyne has given it a suitable escort : Ensuite Vorifiamme ardent et lumineuse, Marche sur %m grand char, dont la forme est affrcuse. Quatre enormes dragons d^un or o-mbre ccaillez^ Et depourpre, d^azurj et de vert emaitlez^ Dans quelqiie occasion que le besoin Icporte^ Luyfont une pompeuse et formidable escorte Vans leur terribles yeux des grenas arrondis, De leurfeuj de leur sang, font pcur aut plus hardis^ Et si cefeu paroist allumer leur audace^ Anssi paroist ce sang anitner leur menace. Le char roulant sous eux, il semble au roulcmenty Qu^il lesfasse voler avecque 6iffiement : Et de la poudre, eji Vair^ il sefait des fumees A leur bvuches du vent et dti bruit animces. Philip is said by some historians to have erected the ori- flamme at Cressy, where Edward in return raised up his burn- ing dragon, the English signal for no quarter. The oriflamme was originally used only in wars against the Infidels, for it was a sacred banner, and believed to have been sent from Heaven. Note 159, p. 49, col. 2. — 7Vie tower, the bridge, and all its muhitjideSy Sunk with a mighty crash. At this woman's voice amidst the sound of war, the combat NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 81 grows very hot. Our men, greatly encouriiged by the Virgia, run headlong to the bastion and force a jmint thereof ; then fire and stones rain so violently, as the English heing aniazvd, forsake their defences : some are shiin upon the place, some throw themselves down headlong, and fiy to the tower upon the bridge. In the end this brave Glacidas abandons this quarter, and retires into the base couit upon the bridge, and after him a great number of his soldiers. The bridge greatly shaken with artillery, tryed by fire, and overcharged with tlie weight of this muliitude, sinks into the water with a fearful cry, carrying all this multitude with it. — Dt Scrre^. This circumstance has been magnified into a miracle. " The French, for the most part, draw the institution of the order of St, Michael principally from a purpose that Charles had to make it, after the apparition of the archangel upon Or- leans bridge, as the tutelary angell of France assisting against the English in 1428."— Selden^s Titles of Honor. The e-^pressions are somewhat curious in the patent of this crdre de Monsieur St. Michael Archange. Louis XI. insti- tuted it " d la gloire et htiange de Dieu nostre crcateur tout puissant, et reverence de la glorieuse vierge Marie, d Vhonueur €t reverence de St. Michael, premier chevalier, qui par la querelle de Dieuy battaile conlre l^ancien enemy de Vhumain lignage, et lejit tresbucker de Ciel." Note J60, p. 49, col. 2. — the ascending flames Blaze up. Les dictes bastiles et fortresses furent ■prcstevient arses et de- Tnolies jusques en terre, affin que nulles gens de guerre de quel- conque pays quilz soient ne si peussent plus loger. Monstrellel, II. f. 43. Note 161, p. 49, col. 9 Silence itself was dreadful. Un cry, que le besoin ov, la peur fait jetter, Et tes airs agites les peuvent agiter, Une kaleine, un sousper et mesmc le silence Aaz chefs, comme auz soldate font per dre Vassnrance. Chapelainy L. \\. Note 169, p. 59, col. 1. — . . . . the proud prelate, that blood- guilty man. Who, trembling for the church's ill- got wealth. Bade our F^fUi Henry claim the crown of Prance. But the first terrible blow in England given generally to all Orders, was in the Lay Parliament, as it is called, which did wholly ff'iccliftze, kept in the twelfth year of king Henry the Fourth, wherein the J^Tobles and Commons assembled, signified to the King, that the temporal possessions o(j9bhots, Priors, &.c. lewdly spent within tho Realm, would suffice to find and sustain 150 EarU, 1500 Knights, 6300 Esquires, 100 Hospitals, more than there were. But this motion was maul'd with the king^s own hand, who dash'd it, personally interposing Himself contrary to that character, which the jealous Clergy had con- ceived of Him, that coming to the Crown He would be a great enemy to the Church. But though Henry Plantagenet Duke of Lancaster was no friend to the Clergie, percliance to ingra- tiate himself with the people, yet the Bamo. Henry kingof i^no-- /anrf, His interest being altered, to strengthen Him with the considerable power of the Clergy, proved a Patron yea a Champion to defend them. However we may say, that now the .^ze is laid to the root of the tree of .Abbeys ; and this stroke for the present, though it was so far from hurting tlie body, that it scarce pierced the bark thereof, yet bare attempts in such matters are important, as putting into people's heads a fea- sibility o^the project formerly conceived altogether impossible. Few years after, namely, in the second year of king Henry the Fifth, another nhrewd thrust was made at English Abbeys, but it wiis finely and cleverly put aside by that skilful State- Fencer Henry Chicheshf Archbishop of Canterbury. For the former Bill against Abbeys, in full Parliament was revived, when the Archbishop minded king Henry of his undoubted Title to the fair and flourishing kingdom of France. Hereat, that king who was a spark in Himself, was enflamed to that design by this Prelate's persuasion: and his native courage I ran fiercely on the project, especially when clapt on with conscience and encouragement from a church-man in the law- fulness thereof. An undertaking of those vast dimensions, that the greatest covetousness miglit spread, and highest am- bition reach itself within the bounds tliereof. If to promote this project, the Abbeys advanced not only large and liberal, hut vast and incredible sums of money, it is no wonder if ihey were contented to have their nails pared close to the quick tliereby to save their fingers. Over goes king Henry into France, with many martial spirits attending him, so that put- ting the king upon the seeking of a new Crown, kept tin- Ab- bots' old Mitres upon their heads ; and Monasteries tott:ring at this time, were (thank a politic Archbishop) refixed on tin' firm foundations, though this proved rather a reprieve llian a pardon unto them. — FiilUr''s Church History, B. C, p. 302. The archbishop of Bourges explained to the king, in the hall of the bishop of Winchester, and in the presence of the dukes of Clarence, Bedford and Gloucester, brothers to the king, and of the lords of the council, clergy, chivalry and populace, the objects of his embas'^y. Tlie archbishop spoke first in Latin, and then in the Walloon language, so eloquently and wisely, that both English and French wlio heard him were greatly surprised. At the conclusion of his harangue he made otTers to the king of a large sum of ready money on liis marriage with the princess Catherine, but on condition that he would disband the army he had collected at Southamp- ton, and at the adjacent seaports, to invade France ; and tliat by these means an eternal peace would be established between the two kingdoms. The assembly broke up when the archbishop had ended his speech, and the French ambassadors were kindly entertained at dinner by the king, who then appointed a day for them to receive Iiis answer to their propositions by the mouth of the archbishop of Canterbury. In the course of the archbishop's speech, in which he replied, article by article, to what the archbishop of Bourges had ofl^ered, he added to some and passed over others of them, so that he was sharply interrupted by the archbishop of Bourges, who exclaimed, " I did not say go, but such were my words." The conclusion, however, was, that unless the king of France would give, as a marriage-portion with his daughter, the duchies of Acquitaine, of Normandy, of Anjou, of Tours, (he counties of Ponthieu, Maine and Poitou, and every other part that had formerly belonged to the English monarclis, the king would not desist from his intended invasion of France, but would despoil the whole of that kingdom which had been un- jnstly detamed from him ; and that he should depend on his sword for the accomplishment of the above, and for depriving king Charles of his crown. The king avowed what the archbishop had said, and added that thus, with God's aid, he would act ; and promised it on the word of a king. The archbisliop of Bourges then, accord- ing to the custom in France, demanded permission to speak and said, " O king! how canst thou, consistently with honor and justice, thus wish to dethrone and iniquifousiy destroy the most Clirisliim king of the French, our very dear lord ana most excellent of all the kings in Christendom ? O king I with alt due reverence and respect, dost thou think that he has offered by me sucli extent of territory, and so large a sum of money with his daughter in marriage, through any fear of tbce, thy subjects or allies ? By no means ; hut, moved by pity and his love ofpeace, he has made tliese offers to avoid thesliedding of innocent blood, and that Christian people may not be over- whelmed in the miseries of war; for whenever thou shalt make thy promised attemjit he will call upon God, the blessed Virgin, and on all the saints, making his appeal to them for the justice of his cause j and with their aid, and the support of his loyal subjects and faithful allies, thou willbe driven out of his dominions, or thou wilt be made prisoner, or thou wilt there sufler death by orders of that just king whoso am- bassadors we are. " We have now only to intreat of thee that thou wouldst have us safely conducted out of thy realm ; and that tliou wouldst write to our said king, under thy hand and seal, the answer which thou ha«t given to us." The king kindly granted their request ; and the ambassa- dors, having received handsome presents, returned by way of Dover to Calais and thence to Paris. Monstrelet, vol. iv. p. 129. 11 82 NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. Within a few days after the expiration of the truce, king Henry, whose preparations were now completed, sent one of hia heralds, called Glocester, to Paris, to deliver letters to the king, of which the contents were as follows. "To the very noble prince Charles, our cousin and adver- sary of France, Henry, by the grace of God, king of England and of France. To give to every one what is their due, is a work of inspiration and wise council, very noble prince, our cousin and adversary. The noble kingdoms of England and France were formerly united, now they are divided. At that time it was customary for each person to exalt his name by glorious victories, and by this single virtue to extol the lionor of God, to whom holiness belongs, and to give peace to his church, by subjecting in battle the enemies of the public weal ; but alas ! good faith among kindred and brotherly love have been perverted, and Lot persecutes Abraham by human im- putation, and Dissention, the mother of Anger, has been raised from the dead. *' We, however, appeal to the sovereign Judge, who is neither swayed by prayers nor gifts from doing ri^ht, that we have, from pure affection, done every thing in our power to preserve the peace ; and we must now rely on the sword for regaining what is justly our heritage, and those rights which have from old time belonged to us ; and we feel such assurance in our courage, that we will fight till death in the cause of justice. "The written law in the hook of Deuteronomy ordains, that before any person commences an attack on a city he shall first oifer terras of peace ; and although violence has detained from us our rightful inheritances, charity, however, induces us to attempt, by fair means, their recovery; for should justice be denied us, we may then resort to arms " And to avoid having our conscience affected by this mat- ter, we make our personal request to you, and exhort you, by the bowels of Jesus Christ, to follow the dictates of his evan- gelical doctrine. Friend, restore what thou owest, for such is the will of God to prevent the effusion of the blood of man, who was created in his likeness. Such restitution of rights, cruelly torn from us, and which we have so frequently de- manded by our ambassadors, will be agreeable to the supreme God, and secure peace on earth. " From our love of peace we were inclined to refuse fifty thousand golden crowns lately offered us; for being more desirous of peace than riches, we have preferred enjoying the patrimony left us by our venerable ancestors, with our very dear cousin Catlierine, your noble daughter, to iniquitously multiplying our treasures, and thus disgracing the honor of our crown, which God forbid I " Given under our privy seal, in our castle of Southampton, the 5th day of the month of August." jMonstrelet, vol. iv. p. 137. NoT«; 1G3, p.50,col. 1. — Sure that holy hermit spake Tilt Almigklifs biddmg. While Henry V. lay at the siege of Dreux, an honest hermit unknown to him, came and told him the great evils he brought upon Christendom by his unjust ambition, who usurped the kingdom of France, against all manner of right, and contrary to tlie will of God ; wherefore in Iiis holy name he threatened him with a severe and sudden punishment, if he desisted not from his enterprise. Henry took this exhortation either as an idly whimsey, or a suggestion of the Dauphin's, and was but the more confirmed in his design. But the blow soon followed the threatening i for within some few months after, he was smitten in the fundament with a strange and incurable disease. Mezeray. Note 164, p. 50, col. 1. — Viey tJwught The spirits of the mothers and their babes Famish''d at Roan sat on the clouds of night. Reseraverat antrum Tartareus Rector pallens, utque arma nefandcL Spectarent, caperentque sui solatia fati^ Invlsas illuc Libyes emiserat umbras ; Undique consedere arvis, nigr&gue coron& J7\f€cire diem, veraatiUs Kmfrra JugurthtEj .^nnibalis S(Bvi Manes^ captique Sypfiacis, Q«i nunc tversas secum Carthaginis arces Ignovire Deis, postquam feralia campi Pralia Tliapsiacif et Lalios viderc furores. Supplementiim Lticani, Lib. IH. lam not conscious of having imitated these lines; but I would not lose the opportunity of quoting so fine a passage from Thomas May, an author to whom I owe some obligations, and who is not remembered as his merits deserve. May him- self has imitated Valerius Flaccue in this passage, though he has greatly surpassed him. Et pater orantes ccssorum Tartans umbras, JVube cav&, tandem ad mcrita: speclacuta pvgnis Emittiti summi nigrescunt culmina mi/ntis. Note 165, p. 50, col. I. — nor aught avails Man unassisted Against infernal powers To dare the conjlict. To some, says Speed, it may appear more honorable to our nation, that they were not to be expelled by a human power, but by a divine, extraordinarily revealing itself. Note 166, p. 50, col. 2. — By their numbers now made bold in fear. JVec paoidum murmur; consensu audacta rrevit, Tantaque turba metu pmnarum solvit ab omni. May, Sup. Lucani. Note 167, p. 50, col. 2. —Joy ran Uirough all the troops. In Rymer's Fcedera are two proclamations, one " contra capitaneos et soldoTios tergiversantes, incantationibus Puella terri/icatos ;" the other, ^^ defugitivis ab czercitu quos terri' eulamenta PueUtE exanimavcrant, arestandis.^^ Note 168, p, 50j col. 2, — The social bowl. Ronsard remarks, Rien /i'eai meilleur pour Vkomme soulager Apres le mal, que le boire etmanger. — Franciado. Note 169, p. 51, col. 2. — A casquetel. A lighter kind of helmet. Note 170, p. 51, col. 2. — Hung from her neck the shield. The shield was often worn thus. *' Among the Frenchmen there was a young lusty esquire of Gascoigne, named William Marchant, who came out among the foremost into the field, well mounted, his shield about his neck, and his spear in bis hand." — Barnes. This is frequently alluded to in romance. " Then the kniglit of the burning sword stept forward, and lifting up his arm as if he would strike Cynocephal on the top of his head, seized with his left hand on the shield, which he pulled to him with so much strength, that plucking it from his neck he brought him to the ground." — Ainadis de Greece. Sometimes the shield was laced to the shoulder. The shield nf the middle ages must not be confounded '.vith that of the ancients. The knight might easily bear his small shield around his neck ; but the Grecian warrior stood pro- tfcting his thighs and his legs, his breast also and his shonldrrs with the body of his broad shield. Mf/pot'S TC Kfrjftag re Kart.} koi arcpva xai upovi Aarrc^os tvpeirti yaarpi KaXvipapcvos. — Tyrtaus But the most convenient shields were used by — Ccux qu'^on voit dcmeurer dans les ties Alandes, Qja portent pour pacois, des escailles si grandes, Que lors qu^ilfaut camper, le soldat qui s'ch sert En fail comme vne hutte, et s'y met d couvert. — Alaric. Note 171, p. 52, col. 1. — An artnet The arraet or chapelle de fer was an iron hat, occasionally put on by knights when they retired from the heat of the battle to take breath, and at times when Ihey could not witl, propriety go unaxmed. NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 82 NoT£ 172, p. 53, col. 1. — Fix''d their lust kisses on their armed hand3. Sed contra (Enotriii pube3 J^t/n vllas voces duds out prxccpta requirit. Sat matres stimulant^ Tiatique, et cara supinas Tendentum palmas lacrimantxaque ora parentam. OsUniant parvos, va^ituquc incitapulsant Corda virftm, armatis vijigunt oscula dextris. SUiits ItalicuSj xii. 587. Note 173, p. 54, coL 2, — He brake a sullen smile. " She sterrily shook her dewy locka, and brake A melancholy smile." — Q^aarles. Note 174, p. 55, col. 1. — then on Vie herald A robe rich-furred and broider''d he bestow'd. When the armies of England and France lay in the plain between Vironfosse and Flemenguere, 1339, Edward sent to demand a day of battle of the French king. " An herald of the duke of Gueldrea, being well skilled in the French tongue, was sent on this errand: he rode forth till he came to the French host, where being admitted before tlie king and big council, ho spake aloud these words, ' Sir, tlie king of England is here hard by in the fields, and desires to tight you power against power ; and if you please to appoint him a day he will not tail to meet you upon the word of a king.' This message being thus delivered, king Philip yielded either to give or take battle two days after, and in token of his acceptance of tbe news, richly rewarded the herald with furred gowns, and other gifts bestowed on him, as well by himself as others, the princes and lords of his host, and so dismissed him again." — Barnes. Note 175, p 55, col. 1. — and at. the third long sound They ranged them in their ranks. Every man was warned to rise from sleep at the first sound of the trumpet ; at the second to arm without delay, and at the third to take horse in his due place under the colors. — Barnes. Note 176, p. 55, col. 1. — To shrive tliem. Religious ceromonies seem to have preceded all settled en- gagements at this period. On the night before the battle of Cressy, " King Edward made a supper in his royal pavilion for all his chief barons, lords and captains : at which he appeared wonderful chearful and pleasant, to the great encouragement of his people. But when they were all dismissed to their several quarters, the king himself retired into his private ora- tory, and came before the altar, and there prostrated himself to almighty God and devoutly prayed, ' That of his infinite goodness he would vouchsafe to look down on the justice of his cause, and remember his unfeigned endeavors for a recon- cilement, although they had all been rendered frustrate by his enemies : that if he should be brought to a battle the nextday, it would please him of his great mercy to grant him the vic- tory, as his trust was only in him, and in the right which he had given him.* Being thus armed with faith, about midnight he laid himself upon a pallet or mattress to take a little re- pose ; but he arose again betimes and heard mass, with his son the young prince, and received absolution, and the body and blood of his Redeemer, as did the prince also, and most of the lords and others wbo were so disposed." — Barnes. Thus also before the battle of Agincourt " after prayers and supplications of the king, his priests and people, done with great devotion, the king of England in the morning very early sot forth his hosts in array." — Stowe. Note 177, p. 55, col. 1. — The shield of dignity. The roundel. A shield too weak for service, which was borne before the general of an army. Note 178, p. 55, col. 1. — that in undiminished strength Strongj they might meet the battle. The conduct of the English on the morning of the battle of Creasy is followed in the text. " All things being thus order- ed, every lord and captain under his own banner and pennon. and the ranks duly settled, the valourous young king mounted on a lusty white hobby, and with a white wand in his hand, rode between his two marshalls from rank to rank, and from one battalia unto another, exhorting and encouraging every man that day to defend and maintain his right and honour : and this he did with so chearful a countenance, and with such sweet and obliging words, that even the most faint-hearted of the army were sufficiently assured thereby. By that time tbe English were thus prepared, it was nine o'clock in the morning, and then the king commanded them all to take their refreshment of meat and drink, which being done, with small disturbance they all repaired to their colours again, and then laid themselves in their order upon the dry and warm grass, with their bows and helmets by their side, to be more fresh and vigorous upon the approach of the enemy." — Barnes. The English before the battle of Agincourt "fell prostrate to the ground, and committed themselves to God, every of them tooke in his mouth a little piece of earth, in remem- brance that they were mortall and made of earth, as also in remembrance of the holy communion." — Stowe. Note 179, p. 55, col. 2 —The pennons rolling Vieir long waves Before the gale^ and banners broad and bright. The pennon was long, ending in two points, the banner square. " Un seigneur n'etott banneret et ne pouvoit porter la banniere quarree, que lors qu^il pouvoit entretenir a ses depens un certain nombre de clievaliers et d^Ecuyers^ avec leur suite a la guerre -. jusquesla son etendard avoit deux queues oufanonsy et quand il deoenoit plus puissant, son souverain coupoit lui- meme les fanons de son etendard, pour le rendre quarrc." — Tressan. An incident before the battle of Najara exemplifies this. " As the two armies approached near together, the prince went over a little hill, in the descending whereof he saw plainly his enemies marching toward him: wherefore when the whole army was come over thia mountain, he commanded that there they should make an halt, and so fit themselves for fight. At that instant the lord John Chandos brought his ensign folded up, and offered it to the prince, saying, ' i?ir, here is my guidon j I request your highness to di8j)lay it abroad, and to give me leave to raise it this day as my banner ; for I thank God and your highness, I have lands and posses- sions sufficient to maintain it wtthall.' Then the prince look the pennon, and having cut off the tail, made it a square ban- ner, and this done, both he and king Don Pedro for the greater honour, holding it between their hands displayed it abroad, it being Or, a sharp jule Gules : and then the prince delivered it unto the lord Chandos again, saying, * Sir John, behold here is your banner. God send you much joy and honour with it.' And thus being made a knight banneret, the lord Chandos returned to the head of his men, and said, * Here, gentlemen, behold my banner and yours 1 Take and keep it, to your honour and mine I ' And so tliey took it with a shout, and said by the grace of God and St. George they would defend it to the best of their powers. But the banner remained in the hands of a gallant English esquire named William Allcs- try, who bore it all that day, and acquitted himself in the ser- vice right honourably." — Barnes. Note 180, p. 55, col. 2. — Fidames. This title frequently occurs in the French Chronicles ; it was peculiar to France, '* the vidame or vicedominus being to the bishop in his temporals as the vicecomes or vicount an- ciently to the earle, in his judiclals.'' — Peter Heylyn Note 181, p. 55, col. 2.- ■ And silken surcoats to the mid-day Olittering. Joshua Barnes seems to have been greatly impressed with the splendor of such a spectacle. *' It was a glorious and ravishing sight, no doubt," says he, "to behold these two armies standing thus regularly embattled in tbe field, their banners and standards waving in the wind, their proud horses barded, and kings, lords, knights, and esquires richly armed, and all shining in their surcoats of satin and embroidery." Thus also at Poictiers, •* there you might have beheld a moit 84 NOTES TO JOAN OP ARC. oeautiful si^ht of fair harness, of shining steel, featliered crests of glittering lielmets, and tlie rich embroidery of silken Burcoata of arms, together with golden standards, banners and pennons gloriously moving in the air." And at Najara " the sun being now risen, it was a ravishing siglit to behold the armies, and the sun reflecting from tlieir briglit steel and shining armour. For in those days the cav- alry were generally armc'd in mail or polished steel at alt points, and besides that, the nobility wore over their armour rich surcoats of silk and satin embroidery, whereon was curi- ously sticht or beaten, the arms of their house, whether in colour or metal." Note 182. p. 55, col. 2. — For not to brutal strength tlieij deem'd it right To trust their cowntrifs weal. J\ros anceslreSf etnotamment dii temps de la guerre des Anglais ^ en combats solemnels etjournees assignees^ se mettoient la phis- part da temp toiLS d pied ; pour ne se Jier d autre, chose qu'd leur force propre et vigueur de Icur courage et de leur membres, de chose si chere que Vhonncur et la vie. — Montaigne^ Liv. \. C.48. In the battle of Patay, Monstrellet says, " Ics Francois moult dc- pres mirint pied d terre, et descendirent la plus grand partie de leur ckevaidz.'*^ In El CavaUtro Determinado, an allegorical romance trans- lated from the French of Olivier de la Marclie by Hernando de Acuna, Barcelona, 1565, this custom is referred to by Un- derstanding, when giving the knight directions for his combat with Atropos. En esto es vxi pnrecer Que en carallo no te Jics : For lo qual has de eittcndcr Que de nivguno conjies Ta bjmosna ij bicn kazer. Note 183, p. 55, col. 2. — Their javelins shortened to a wieldy length. Thus at Polctiers, " the three battails being all ready ranged in the field, and every lord in his due place imder his own banner, command was given that all men should put off their Gpurs, and cut their spears to five foot length, as most com- modious for such who had left their horses." — Barnes. Note 184, p. 56, col. I. — HriFsvelger starting. Hrssvdger vacatur Qui sedet in extremitate cali, Oigas exavias amictus aqtiihs : Ez ejus alls Ferunt venire veiitiim Omnes super homines. — Vafthrudnisvial. Where the Heaven's remotest bound With darkness is encompassed round, There Hrresvelger sits and swings The tempest from his eagle wings. The Edda of Si^mund, translated by .^mos Cottle. Among the idols of Aitutaki, {one of the Ilervey Islands,) sent liome among other trophies of the same kind to the Mis- •ienary Museum, is the God of Thunder, Taau. The natives used to believe that when Taau was flying abroad. Thunder was produced by the flapping of his wings. — JVdtiams^s Mis- sionary Enterpriser in the South Sra Islands, p. 109. At the promontory of Malea on the ruins of the Temple of Apollo, Ihero is a chapel built to the honor of Michael the archangel. Here we could not but laugh at the foolish supcr- Btition of the sailors, wlio say, when tlie wind blows from that place, that it is occasioned by the violent motion of Michael's wings, because forsooth, he is painted with wings. And for that reason, when they sail by Michael they pray to him that he may hold his wings still. — Baumgarten. Note 185, p. 56, col. 1. —Or with the lance protended from his front. In a combat fought in Smithfield, 1467, between the lord Scales and the bastard of Burgoyne, " the lord Scales' horse had on his chafron a long sharp pike of Steele, and as the two champions coaped together, the same horse thrust his pike into the nostrills of the bastard's horse, so that for verypaine, he mounted so high that he fell on the one side with hie mas- ter." — Stowe. This weapon is mentioned by Lope de Vega, and by an old Scotch poet. Unicoimia el cavatlo pareaa Con elfaerte pyramide delanie ^ Q«e en medio del bo^al resplandecia Como sifuera punta de diamante. Jerusalen Conquistada, I. 10. His horse in fyne sandel was trapped to the hele, And, in his clieveron biforne, Slode, as an unicorne, Als sharp as a thorne. An anlas of stele. Sir Oawan and Sir Oalaron. Fiorisel found this part of his horse^s armour of good ser- vice, when in the combat of eighteen against eighteen, he en- countered the king of the Scythians, ^fOHf dcmesur^ ; il chc- vanchoit un grand animal dc sonpmjs, dnqucl nous ne s^avons le nom .- aussi etoit-il tant corpulent ct membru, qa^on ji^cust s^eufournir roussin qui Veitstpeu porter. The first encounter fat tris belle jouste d voir, et aujoindre des corps mourut trcize chevaui^ compris Vanimal du Roy de Scythie, qui fat si lourde- ment recontrc par Ic destrier dc Fiorisel, portant bardcs de fcr^ et une poiucte aceree sur Ic chanfrain quHlfourra si avantparmy lesfiunci dc ceste grosse beste, qiOd atterrace avec les autrcs^ et layimbe de son maistre dessoui. — .Smadis, L. x. ff. 51, 59. The Abyssinians use it at tliis day ; Bruce says it is a very tiO'iblcfiome useless piece of their armor. Note 186, p. 56, col. 2. — To snatch the shield of death. Thus did Juba catch up the shield of death to defend him- self from ignominy. — Cleopatra. Note 187, p. 56, col. 2.— 77mr tower of strength. Slairep yap pnv vvpyov ev otpdaXfioiaiv opoiffiv. — 7)frtaus. Quarles has made this expression somewhat ludicrous by calling Samson Great army of men, the wonder of whose power Gives thee the title of a walking tower. Note 183, p. 57, col. 1. — and when the boards head. . . Smoked on the Christmas board. Two carols for this occasion are preserved in Mr. Ritson's valuable collection of Ancient Songs. The first of these, here alluded to, is as follows : Caput apri defero Reddens laudc-s domino. The bore's heed in hand bring I With garlands gay and rosemary, I pray you all synge merely Qui estis in convivio. The bore's heed I understands Is the chefe servyce in this landc, Loke where ever it be fande Servite cum cantico. Be gladde lordea bothc more and lasse For this natli ordeyned our stewarde, To chere you all this christmasse The bore's heed with mustarde. When Henry II. had his eldest son crowned as fellow with him in the kingdom, upon the day of coronation, king Henry, the father, served his son at the table as sewer, bringing up the bore's head with trumpets before it, according to the man ner ; whereupon (according to the old adage, Immutant mores homines cum dantur honorcs) the young man conceiving a pride in his heart, beheld the standers-by with a more stately countenance than he had been wont. The archbishop of York who sat by him, marking hii NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 85 behaviour, turnt-'il unto him and said, *' He glad, my good son, there is not anotlier prince in the world that hath such a sewer at his table." To this tlie new king answered as it were dis- dainfully thus : " Why doest tliou marvel at that ? my father in doing it thinketh it not more tlian becoraeth him, he being horn of prin&ely blood only on the mother's side, serveth me that am a king born, having both a king to my father and a queen to my mother." Thus the young man of an evil and pr'n-erse nature, was pufi'ed up in pride hy his father's unseemly doings. But the king liis father hearing his talk was very sorrowful in his mind, and said to the archbisliop softly in his ear, " It repenteth me, it repentelh me, my lord, that I have thus ad- vanced the boy." For he guessed hereby what a one he would prove afterward, that shewed himself so disobedient and for- ward already. — Heliushed, Note 1o9, p. 57, coi, 1. — his old limbs jSre not like yours so supple in tkefiigfU. Thus Sc TraXatOTcpovs, oiw ovKZTt yowar' eXa^oa, Mn KaraXuravTCs iptvyCTe Tovi yepaiavs. Aiaxpov yap 61 tovto piCra Trpopaxotai jrc^rovra, Keitrdai TTpoaOc rciov ar6pa TraXapoTCpov, Hdn }^cvKi)v Exocra Kaprj, ttoXiov te yeveiov^ Qvnov a-iTOTTvtiovT^ aXKipov cv Koeirj. — Tyrtmus. Note 190, p. 57, col. 2. — He from Vie saddle-bow his falddon caug/it. In the oambat between Francus and Pliouere, Ronsard says — ■ — de la mam, leurs coutelas trouverent Bien. aig'iiistx. qui de Var^on paidoyeiiL On this passage the commentator observes, *' V autheur arme CCS deax chevaliers d la mode de 7ws gendarmes Francois, la tance en la riuUnj la coulelace ov. la mace d l*argoH, et Pespe eau coste. Thu3 Desmarests says of the troops of Clovis — A Uius pend de Par^oti, d leur mode guerrierre, Et la baehe traitckante, et la masse meurtriere. And when Clovis, on foot and witiiout a weapon, hears the ehrieks of a woman, he sees his horse, JetU Vail sur PargoTLf et void luire sa hache. Lope de Vega speaks of the sword being carried in the same manner, when he describes Don Juan de Aguiia as — dcsatojudo del ar^on la espada. Note 191, p. 57, col. 2. — she bared T7ie lightning of her sword. Dcsnudo el ra^o dc la ardienlt espadtu Jerasalen Conquistada. Note 193, p. 57, col. 2. — The sword of TalhoU Talbot's sword, says Camden, was found in the river of Dor- don, and sold l)y a peasant to an armorer of Bourdeaux, with this tncription, Sum Talboti^ M. IIII. C. XLTH Pro vincere inimicos mcos. But pardon the Latin, for it was not his, but his carajjing chaplain's. — A sword with bad Latin upon it, but good 8tf;el within it, says Fuller. It was not uncommon to bear a motto upon the sword. Lope de Vega describes that of Aguilar as bearing inlaid in gold, a verse of the psalms. It was, he says, Masfamosa quefite de hombre cenidOy Para ocasiones del honor gaardada^ Y en. ultima defense dc la vida^ Y desde cuija guarnicion dorada Hasta la puata la canal brnnida Tenia cscrito de David un verso. JVielado de oro en el azero terso. Jerujsalen Conquistada. Note 193, p. 57, col. 2. — Fastolffe.j all fierce and haughty us he was. In the Paston letters, jmblished by Rlr. Fenn, Fastolffo ap- pears in a very unfavorable light. Henry Windsor writes thus of liim, " hit is not unknown that cruellc and vengible he hath byn ever, and for the most part with oute pile and mercy I can no more, hut vade et corripe enm, for truly he cannot bryng about his matiers in this word (world) for the word is not for him. I suppose it wolnot chaunge yett be likelenes, hut i beseche you sir help not to amend liym onely, but every otiier man yf ye kno any mo raysse disposed." Tlie order of the garter was t;iken from Fastolfte for bis conduct at Patay. He suffered a more material loss in the money he expended in the service of the state. In 1455, 4083/. 15. 7. were due to him for costs and charges during his services in France, " whereof the sayd Fastoltie hath had nouther payement nor assignation." So he complains. Note 194, p. 57, col. 2. — Battle-axe. In a battle between the Burgundians and Dauphinois near Abbeville (1421) Monstrellet especially notices the conduct of John Villain, who had that day been made a knight. He was a nobleman from Flanders, very tall, and of great bodily strength, and was mounted on a good horse, holding a battle- axe in both hands Tims he pushed into tlie thickest part of the battle, and throwing the bridle on his horse's neck, gave such blows on all sides with his battle-axe, that whoever was struck was instantly unhorsed and wounded past recovery. In this way he met Poton de Xaintrailles, who, after Ihe battle was over, declared the wonders he did, and that he got out of his reach as fast as he could. — Vol. v, p. 294 Note 195, p. 58, col. 1. — The buckler^ now splintered with many a stroke. L^icu des chevaliers ctait ordiuairement un bouclier de forme d pen pris triangulaire, large par le liaut pour couvrir le corps, et se tcrminant en pointe par le bas, ofin d^ctre moins lourd. On Ics faisait de bois qu^on recouvrait avec do, cuir bouilli^ avec rfes nerfs on atitres viaticres dures, mais jamais de fer on d'^acier. Sculement il etait permis, pour Ics empSclwr d^Slre coupes trop aisement par le-s epces, d'y mettre un ccrcle d'or, d'argentj ou defer, qui Ics entourat. — Le Orand. Note 196, p. 53, col. 2. — Threw o^er the slaughtered chief his btazon'd coat. This fact is mentioned in Andrews's History of England. I have merely versified the original expressions, " Tlie herald of Talbot sought out his body among the slain. * Alas, my lord, and is it you ! I pray God pardon you all your misdoings. I have been your olhcer of arms forty years and more : it is time that I should surrender to you the ensigns of my office.' Thus saying, with the tears gushing from his eyes, he threw his coat of arms over the corpse, thus performing one of the ancient rites of sepulture." Note 197, p. 59, col. 1. — Poured on Vie monarches head the mystic oil. " The Frenchmen wonderfully reverence tins oyle ; and at the coronation of their kings, fetch it from the church where it is kept, with great solemnity. For it is brought iaith Sleiden in his Commentaries) by the prior sitting on a white ambling palfrey, and attended by his monkes ; the archbishop of the town (Rheiina) and sucli bishops as are present, going to the church door to meet it, and leaving for it with the prior some gage, and tlie king, when it is by the archbishop brought to the altar, bowing himself before it with great reverence." — Peter Heylijn. m THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. JETJit UCsCon of tJje J^atir of ^vUan», In the first edition of Joan of Arc this Vision formed the ninth book, allegorical machinery having been introduced tluoughout the poem as originally written. All that remained of such machinery was expunged in the second edition, and the Vision was then struck out, as no longor according with the general design. 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 eyelids; not reposing then. For busy phantasy in other scenes Awaken'd : whether that superior powers, Bv wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, Instructing best the passive faculty ; ' Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, And all things are that $ccm.- Along a moor. Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate, She roam'd, a wanderer through the cheerless night. Far through the silence of the uubroken plain The l>ittcrn's boom was heard ; Jioarse, heavy, deep, It made accordant music to the scene. Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, Swept shadowing; through their broken folds the moon Struggled at times with transitory ray, And made the moving darkness visible. And now arrived beside a fenny lake She stands, amid whose stagnate waters, lioarse The long reeds rustled to tiie gale of night. A time-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd By powers unseen ; then did the moon display Where tlirough the crazy vessel's yawning side The muddy waters oozed. A Woman guides. And spreads the sail before the wind, which moan'd As melancholy mournful to her ear. As ever by a dungeon'd wretch was heard Howling at evening round his prison towers. Wan was the pilot's countenance, her eyes Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrow'd deep, Channell'd by tears ; a few gray locks hung down Beneath her hood ; and through the Maiden's veins Chill crept the blood, when, as the night-breeze pass'd. Lifting her tatter'd mantle, coll'd around She saw a serpent j^nawing at her heart. The plumelessbats with short, shrill note flit 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 Leapt, 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 through its fretted windows : the dark yew. Withering with age, branch'd there its naked roots. And there the melancholy cypress rear'd Its head ; the earth was heaved 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 Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man Sate near, seated on wliat in long-past da3's Had been some sculptured monument, now fallen And half-obscured by moss, and gather'd heaps Of wither'd yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones. His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full Upon the Maid ; the tomb-fires on his face Shed a blue light; his face was of the hue Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. Then witli a deep heart-terrifying voice, Exclaim'd the spectre : " Welcome to these realms. These regions of Despair, O thou whose steps Sorrow hath guided to my sad abodes ! Welcome to my drear empire, to this gloom Eternal, to this everlasting night. Where never morning darts the enlivening ray. Where never shines the sun, but all is dark. Dark as the bosom of their gloomy Kkig.''* So saying, he arose, and drawing on, Her to the abbey's inner ruin led, Resisting not his guidance. Through the roof Once fretted and emblazed, but broken now In part, elsewhere all open to the sky, The moon-beams enter'd, checker'd here, and here With unimpeded light. The ivy twined P».ound the dismantled columns; imaged forms Of saints and warlike chiefs, moss-canker'd now And mutilate, lay strown upon the ground. With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen. And rusted trophies. Meantime overhead Roar'd the loud blast, and from the tower the ow Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. He, silent, led her on, and often paused, And pointed, that her eye miglit contemplate At leisure the drear scene. He dragg'd her on THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 87 Througli a low iron door, down broken stairs ; Then a cold horror through the Maiden's frame Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw. By the sepulchral lamp's dim, glaring light, The fragments of the dead. " Look here ! " he cried, " Damsel, look here ! survey this house of death ; O, soon to tenant it; soon to increase These trophies of mortality — for hence Is no return. Gaze here ; behold this skull. These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws. That with their ghastly grinning seem to mock Thy perishable charms ; for thus thy cheek Mustmoulder. Childof grief ! shrinks not thy soul. Viewing these horrors .' trembles not thy heart At the dread thought that here its life's-blood soon Shall stagnate, and the finely-fibred frame. Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon With tlie cold clod.' thing horrible to think, — Yet in thouglit only, for reality Is none of suffering here ; here all is peace ; No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. Dreadful it is to think of losing life. But having lost, knowledge of loss is not. Therefore no ill. Oh, wherefore then delay To end all ills at once ? " So spake Despair. The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice. And all again was silence. Quick her heart Panted. He placed a dagger in her hand. And cried again, " Oh, wherefore then delay 1 One blow, and rest forever ! " On the fiend Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye. And threw the dagger down. He next his heart Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid Along the downward vault. The damp earth gave A dim sound as they pass'd ; the tainted air Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. " Behold ! " the fiend exclann'd, " how loathsomely The fleshly remnant of mortality Moulders to clay ! " then fixing his broad eye Full on her face, lie pointed where a corpse Lay livid ; she beheld with horrent look The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. "Look Here ! "Despair pursued;" thisloathsome mass Was once as lovely, and as full of life As, Damsel, thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, And where thou seestthe pamper'd flesh-worm trail. Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought That at the hallow'd altar, soon the priest Should bless her coming union, and the torch Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy. Cast on her nuptial evening ; earth to earth That priest consign'd her, for her lover went By glory lured to war, and perish'd there ; Nor she endured to live. Ha I fades thy cheek .' Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale ? Look here I behold the youthful paramour ! The self-devoted hero! " Fearfully [face The Maid look'd down, and saw tlie well-known Of Theodore. In thoughts unspeakable. Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd Her cold, damp hands. " Shrink not," the phantom cried ; " Gaze on ! " and luirelentingly he grasp'd Her quivering arm : " this lifeless, mouldering clay, As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow Of youth and love ; this is the hand that cleft Proud Salisbury's crest, now motionless in deatli. Unable to protect the ravaged frame From the foul offspring of mortality That feed on heroes. Though long years were thine. Yet never more would life reanimate This slaughter'd youth ; slaughter'd for thee ! for thou Didst lead him to the battle from his home, Where else he had survived to good old age : In thy defence he died : strike then ! destroy Remorse with life." The Maid stood motionless. And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, " Avaunt, Despair! Eternal Wisdom deals Or peace to man, or misery, for his good Alike design'd ; and shall the creature cry, ' Why hast thou done this ? ' and with impious pride Destroy the life God gave.'" The fiend rejoin'd, " And thou dost deem it impious to destroy The life God gave ? What, Maiden, is the lot Assign'd to mortal man ? born but to drag. Through life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load Of being ; care-corroded at the heart ; Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills That flesh inherits ; till at length worn out. This is his consummation ! — Think again! What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life, But lengthen'd sorrow ? If protracted long. Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs Stretch out their languid length, oh, think what thoughts. What agonizing feelings, in that hour. Assail the sinking heart ! slow beats the pulse. Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew Tlie sliuddering frame ; then in its mightiest force, Mightiest in impotence, the love of life Seizes the throbbing heart ; the faltering lips Pour out the impious prayer that fain would change The Unchangeable's decree ; surrounding friends Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears. And all he loved in life imbitters death. " Such, Maiden, are the pangs tliat wait the hour Of easiest dissolution ! yet weak man Resolves, in timid piety, to live; And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, He calls her Resignation ! " Coward wretch ! Fond coward, tlius to make his reason war Against his reason ! Insect as he is, This sport of chance, this being of a day. Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast. Believes himself the care of heavenly powers; That God regards man, miserable man, THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. And preaching thus of power and providence, Will crush the reptile that may cross his path! " Fool that thou art I the Being that permits Existence, gives to man the worthless boon ; A goodly gift to tiiose who, fortune-blest. Bask in the sunshine of prosperity, And such do well to keep it. But to one Sick etthe heart with misery, and sore With many a hard, unmerited affliction. It is a hair that chains to wretchedness The slave who dares not burst it ! " Thinkest thou, The parent, if his child should unrecall'd Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, 'Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full Of fleeting joys and heart-consuming cares; I can be only happy in my home With thee — my friend! — my father!' Thinkest thou, That he would thrust him as an outcast forth? Oh ! he would clasp the truant to his heart. And love the trespass." Whilst he spake, his eye Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul Struggling within. la trembling doubt she stood. Even as a wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave Supply, before him sees the poison'd food In greedy horror. Yet, not silent long, "Eloquent tempter, cease ! " the Maiden cried; " What though affliction be my portion here, Thinkest thou 1 do not feel high thoughts of joy. Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back Upon a life of duty well perform'd, Then hft mine eyes to heaven, and there in faith Know my reward.^ — I grant, were this life all. Was there no morning to tlie tomb's long night, If man did mingle with the senseless clod. Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed A wise and friendly comforter ! — But, fiend. There is a morning to the tomb's long night, A dawn of glory, a reward in heaven. He shall not gain who never merited. If thou didst know the worth of one good deed In life's last hour, tliou wouldst not bid me lose The precious privilege, while life endures To do my Father's will. A miglity task Is mine, — a glorious call. France looks to me For her deliverance. " Maiden, thou hast done Thy mission here," the unbaffled fiend replied : " The foes are fled from Orleans : thou, perchance Exulting in the pride of victory, Forgettest him who perish'd : yet albeit Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth, That hour allotted canst thou not escape. That dreadful hour, when contumely and shame Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid ! Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, Even to its dregs, — England's inhuman chiefs Shall scoff thy sorrows, blacken thy pure fame, Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, And force such burning blushes to tlie cheek Of virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish The earth might cover thee. In that last hour. When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains That link thee to the stake, a spectacle For the brute multitude, and thou shalt hear Mockery more painful than the circling flames Which then consume thee ; wilt thou not in vair. Then wish my friendly aid ? then wish tliine ear Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand Had grasp 'd the dagger, and in death preserved Insulted modesty?" Her glowing cheek Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy Was fix'd ; her breath short panted. The cold fiend Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "Too timid Maid, So long repugnant to the healing aid My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold The allotted length of life." He stamp'd the earth And dragging a huge coffin as his car. Two Gouls came on, of form more fearful-foul Than ever palsied in her wildest dream Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair Seized on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still And placed her in the seat, and on they pass'd Adown the deep descent. A meteor light Shot from the demons, as they dragged along The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethrer. feast On carcasses. Below, the vault dilates Its ample bulk. "Look here I " — Despair addrcsl The shuddering Virgin; "see the dome of Death!" It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid The entrails of the earth, as though to form A grave for all mankind ; no eye could reach Its distant bounds. There, throned in darkness, dwelt ] The unseen power of Death. Here stopt the Gouls, Reaching the destined spot. The fiend stept out, And from tlie coffin as he led the Maid, Exclaim'd, " Where mortal never stood before, Thou standest : look around this boundless vault; Observe tlie dole that Nature deals to man. And learn to know thy friend." She answer'd not, Observing where the Fates their several tasks Plied ceaseless. "Mark how long the shortest web Allow'd to man ! " he cried ; "observe how soon. Twined round yon never-resting wheel, they change Their snowy hue, darkening through many a shade, Till Atropos relentless shuts the shears." Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, Or as the spotless lily of the vale, Was never one beyond the little span Of infancy untainted; few there were But lightly tinged : more of deep crimson hue, Or deeper sable dyed.^ Two Genii stood, Still as the web of being was drawn forth, Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn. The one unsparing dashd the bitter drops Of woe ; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 89 Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form Shed less profusely there his lesser store ; Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, Compassionating man ; and happy he Who on his thread those precious tears receives ; If it be happiness to have the pulse That throbs with pity, and in such a world Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches With anguish at the sight of human woe. To her tlie fiend, well hoping now success, " This is thy thread ; observe how short the span ; And little doth the evil Genius spare His bitter tincture there." The Maiden saw Calmly. "Now gaze ! " the tempter fiend exclaim'd. And placed again the poniard in her hand. For Superstition, with a burning torch, Approach'd the loom. ** This, Damsel, is thy fate ! The Iiour draws on — now strike the dagger home ! Strike now, and be at rest ! " The Maid replied, *' Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, Impious I strive not : let that will be done ! " THE SECOND BOOK. She spake, and lo ! celestial radiance beam'd Amid the air, such odors wafting now As erst came blended with the evening gale, From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form Stood by the Maid ; his wings, ethereal white, Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, Dazzling her mortal eye : all else appear'd Her Theodore. Amazed she saw : the fiend Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice Sounded, though now more musically sweet Than ever yet had thrill'd her soul attuned, When eloquent affection fondly told The day-dreams of delight. " Beloved Maid ! Lo ! I am with thee, still thy Theodore ! Hearts in the holy bands of love combined, Deatii has no power to sever. Thou art mine ' A little while and tiiou shalt dwell with me, In scenes where sorrow is not. Cheerily Tread tliou tiie path that leads lliee to the grave, Rough though it be and painful, for the grave Is but the threshold of eternity. "Favor'd of Heaven, to thee is given to view These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss Thou treadest. Maiden. Here the dungeons are Where bad men learn repentance. Souls diseased Must have their remedy ; and where disease Is rooted deep, the remedy is long Perforce, and painful." Tlius the spirit spake. And led the Maid along a narrow path, Dark gleaming to the light of far-otf flames, More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound Of clanking anvils, and the lengthen'd breath 12 Provoking fire are heard; and now they reach A wide expanded den where all around Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, Were burning. At the heaving bellows stood The meagre form of Care ; and as he blew To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd His wretched limbs; sleepless forever thus He toil'd and toil'd, of toil no end to know But endless toil and never-ending woe. An aged man went round the infernal vault, Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task ; White were his locks, as is the wintry snow On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff His steps supported : powerful talisman. Which whoso feels shall never feel again The tear of pity, or the throb of love. Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way. The buttress trembles, and tiie guarded wall, Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few. Even though our blessed Savior hath himself Told us, that easier through the needle's eye Shall the huge camel pass,"* than the rich man Enter the gates of heaven. " Ye cannot serve Your God and worship Mammon." " Mission 'd Maid! ' So spake the spirit, " know that these, whose hands Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare To wring from poverty the hard-eam'd mite; Tliey robb'd the orphan's pittance ; they could see Want's asking ej'e unmoved; andtlierefore these, Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere In Mammon's service, scorch'd by these fierce fires. Nor seldom by the overboiling ore Caught; yet retaining still, to punishment Converted here, their old besetting sin. Often impatiently to quench their thirst Unquenchable, large draughts of molten gold ^ They drink insatiate, still with pain renew'd, Pain to destroy." So saying, her he led Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugafed walls Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore In milder radiance shone. The carbuncle There its strong lustre like tlie flamy sun Shot forth irradiate ; from tlie earth beneath. And from the roof there stream'd a diamond lif^ht Rubies and amethysts their glows commix"d With the gay topaz, and the softer ray Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's nuo. And bright pyropus. There, on golden seats, A numerous, sullen, melancholy train Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore, "Are they who let the love of wealth absorb All other passions ; in their souls that vice Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree That with its shade spreads barrenness around. These, Maid ! were men by no atrocious crime Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence ; 90 THE VISION OF THE MAID OP ORLEANS. Men of fair dealing, and respectable On earth, but such as only for themselves Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, To bless them only t therefore here they sit, Possess'd of gold enough, and by no pain Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour Of general restitution." Thence they past, And now arrivM at such a gorgeous dome, As even the pomp of Eastern opulence Could never equal : wandered through its halls A numerous train ; some with the red-swollen eye Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek ; Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step. And eyes lack-lustre. " Maiden ! " said her guide. These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, Curst with their wish enjoy 'd. The epicure Here pampers his foul frame, til! the pall'd sense Loathes at the banquet ; the voluptuous here Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight. And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth Possessing here, whom have tliey to accuse But tlieir own folly, for tlie lot they chose .' Yet, for that these injured themselves alone. They to the house of Penitence may hie. And, by a long and painful regimen, To wearied Nature her exhausted powers Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish Of wisdom, and Almighty Goodness grants That prize to him who seeks it." Whilst he spake. The board is spread. Witli bloated paunch, and eyes Fat-swollen, and legs whose monstrous size dis- graced The liuiiian form divine, tlieir caterer, Hight Gluttony, set forth the smoking feast. And by his side came on a brother form, With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red And scurty-white, mi.x'd motley; his gross bulk, Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. Him had antiquity with mystic rites Adored ; to him the sons of Greece, and thine, Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd The victim blood, with god-like titles graced, Bacchus, or Dionusus ; son of Jove, Deem'd falsely, for from Folly's idiot form He sprung, what time Madness, with furious hand, Seized on the laughing female. -\t one birth She brought the brethren, menial here below, Tliou flushing fear that cheek o'erspread, Wien stern he strode o'er heaps of dead : THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. 101 Strange tumult now his bosom moves, — T)ie Warrior fears because he loves. Why does the Youtli delight to rove Aoid the dark and lonely grove ? Why in the throng where all are gay, Witii absent eyes from gayety distraught. Sits he alone in silent thouglit? Silent he sits, for far away His passion'd soul delights to stray ; Recluse he roves as if he fain would shun All human-kind, because he loves but One ! Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest! But not because the sparkling bowl To rapture elevates thy waken'd soul ; But not because of power possestj Nor that tlie Nations dread thy nod, And princes reverence thee their earthly God ! Even on a monarch's solitude Will Care, dark visitant, intrude; The bowl brief pleasure can bestow J The purple cannot shield from woe ; But, King of Persia, thou art blest. For Heaven who raised thee thus the world above. Hath made thee happy in Apame's love ! Oh ! I have seen him fondly trace The heavenly features of her face. Rove o'er her form with eager eye. And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh. See ! from his brow with mimic frown Apame talvcs the sacred crown j Those sparkling eyes, that radiant face. Give to the diadem new grace : And subject to a Woman's laws, Darius sees, and smiles applause ! He ceased, and silent still remain'd the throng. While rapt attention own'd the power of son o-. Then, loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow. From every voice the thundering plaudits flow ; Darius smiled, Apame's sparkling eyes Glanced on the King, and Woman won the prize. Now silent sate the expectant crowd : Alone The victor Hebrew gazed not on the throne ; With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows, With statelier stature loftier now lie rose ; Heavenward he gazed, regardless of the throncf. And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song. " Ancient of days ! Eternal Truth ! one hymn. One holier strain the Bard shall raise to Thee, Thee Powerful ! Thee Benevolent ! Thee Just ! Friend! Father! All in all!— The Vine's rich blood, [charms. The Monarch's might, and Woman's conquering These shall we praise alone ? — O ye who sit Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour The healthful bowl, remember Him whose dews. Whose rains, whose sun, matured the growing fruit. Creator and Preserver ! — Reverence Him, O Thou who from thy throne dispensest life And death, for He hath delegated power, And thou shalt one day at the tlirone of God Render thy strict account ! — And ye who gaze Enrapt on Beauty's fascinating form. Gaze on with love ; and loving beauty, learn To shun abhorrent all the mental eye Beholds deform'd and foul ; for so shall Love Climb to the source of goodness. God of Truth! All Just! All Mighty : I should ill deserve Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song. If, so content with ear-deep melodies To please all-profitless, I did not pour Severer strains, — of Truth — eternal Truth, Unchanging Justice, universal Love. Such strains awake the Soul to loftiest thoughts ; Such strains the blessed Spirits of the Good Waft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven." The dying notes still niurmur'd on the string. When from his throne arose the raptured King. About to speak he stood, and waved his hand. And all expectant sate the obedient band. Tlien just and generous, thus the Monarch cries, " Be thine, Zorobabel, the well-earn'd prize. The purple robe of state thy form shall fold. The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold, The golden couch, the car, and honor'd chain. Requite the merits of thy favor'd strain. And raised supreme the ennobled race amoncr, Be call'd My Cousin for the victor song. Nor these alone the victor song shall bless ; Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt possess. ' " Fallen is Jerusalem ! " the Hebrew cries, And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes, " Hurl'd to the earth by Rapine's vengeful rod. Polluted lies the temple of our God ; Far in a foreign land her sons remain, Hear the keen taunt, and drag the galling chain ; In fruitless woe they wear the weary years. And steep the bread of bitterness in tears. O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men. Restore us to those ruin'd walls again ' Allow us to rebuild that sacred dome. To live in liberty, and die at Home." So spake Zorobabel. — Thus Woman's praise Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise, Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod. And freed the Nation best beloved of God. BrLvton Causeway, 1793. WAT TYLER A DRAMA. Twenty years ago, upon tlie surreptitious publication of this notable Drama, and the use which was made of it, I said what it then became me to say in a letter to one of tho3e gentlemen wlio thought proper to revile me, not for having entertained democratical opinions, but for having outgrown them, and learnt to appreciate and to defend the institutions of my country. 102 WAT TYLER. Had I written lewdly in niy youtli, like Beza,— like Beza, I would ask pardon of God and man ; and no considerations should induce inc to reprint what I could never think of without sorrow and sliame. Had I at any lime, like St. Augustine, tauglit doctrines which I afterwards perceived to be erroneous, — and if, as in his case, my position in society, and the estimation in which I was held, gave weight to what I had advanced, and made those errors dangerous to others, — like St, Augustine, I would puhlish my retrac- tations, and endeavor to counteract the evil which, though erringly, with no evil intention, [ had caused. Wherefore then, it may he asked, have I included Wat Tyler in this authentic coHection of my poetical works? For tliese reasons, — that it may not be supjtosed 1 think it any reproach to have written it, or that I am more ashamed of having been a republican, than of having been a boy. Qui- cunqueista hcturi simty iton me imitentur erraiiteni^sed ininelias proficiejUem. Invenirt enimfuHasse, quomodo scribendo pro- feceritn, tjitisqiiis opitscida mea, ordine quo scripta sunt, Icgerit.* i have endeavored to correct in my other juvenile pieces such faults as were corrigible. But Wat Tyler appears just as it was written, in the course of three mornings, in 1794 ; tlie stolen copy, which was committed to the press twenty- three years afterwards, not having undergone the slightest correction of any kind. ACT 1. Scene. jJ Blacksmith's shop ; Wut Tyler at work within; a Maii-pole before the door. Alice, Piers, &.c. SONG. Cheerful on this holiday, Welcome we llie merry May, On every svmny hillock spread, The pale primrose lifts her Iiead ; Rich with sweets, the western gale Sweeps along the cowslip'd dale ; Every bank, with violets gay, Smiles to welcome in the May. The linnet from the budding grove Chirps her vernal song of love. The copse resounds tlie throstle's notes ; On each wild gale sweet music floats ; And melody from every spray Welcomes in the merry May. Cheerful on this holiday, Welcome we the merry May. [^Dance. [During the dancr^ Ti/lcr lays down his hummer., and sits Tnournfulhj down before the door. Hob Carter. Why so sad, neighbor? — do not tliese gay sports, Tliis revelry of youth, recall the days When we too mingled in the revelry, And lightly tripping in the morris dance, Welcomed the merry montli ? Tyler. Ay, we were young; No cares had quell'd the heyday of the blood ; We sported deftly in the April morning, * St. Augustine. Nor mark'd the black clouds gathering o'er oni Nor fear'd the storm of night. [noon, f Hob. Beshrew me, Tyler, But my heart joys to see the inij^ so cheerful ! Young, hale, and happy, why should they destroy These blessings by reflection ? Tyler. Look ye, neighbor — You have known me long. Hob. Since we were boys together, And play'd at barley -brake, and danced tiie morr"'4». Some five-and-twenty years ! Tyler. Was not / young, And hale, and happy .^ Hob. Ciieerful as the best. [man? Tyler. Have not I been a staid, hard-working Up with the lark at labor ; sober, honest, Of an unblemishM character? Hob. Who doubts it .' There's never a man in Essex bears a better. Tyler. And shall not these, though young, and hale, and happy, Look on with sorrow to the future hour.^ Shall not reflection poison all their pleasures.^ When I — the honest, staid, hard-working Tyler, Toil through the long course of the summer's day, Still toiling, yet still poor! when with hard labor Scarce can I furnish out my daily food, And age comes on to steal away my strength, And leave me poor and ^vretched ! Why should this be ? My youth was regular — my labor constant — I married an industrious, virtuous woman; Nor while I toil'd and sweated at the anvil. Sat she neglectful of her spinning-wheel. Hob ! 1 have only six groats in the world, And they must soon by law be taken from me. Hob. Curse on these taxes — one succeeds an other — Our ministers, panders of a king's will, Drain all our wealth away, waste it in revels, And lure, or force away our boys, who should be The props of our old age, to fill their armies, And feed the crows of France. Year follows year. And still we madly prosecute the war ; Draining our wealth, distressing our poor peasants. Slaughtering our youths — and all to crown our chiefs With glory ! — I detest the hell-sprung name. Tyler. What matters me who wears the crown of France .'' Whether a Richard or a Charles possess it.^ They reap the glory — they enjoy the spoil — We pay — we bleed! The sun w^ould shine as The rains of lieaven as seasonably fall, [cheerly. Though neither of these royal pests existed. Hob. Nay, as for that, we poor men should fare better ; No legal robbers tlion should force away The hard-earn'd wages of our honest toil. The Parliament forever cries more mon^y ; The service of the stdte detnatids more money. Just heaven ! of what service is the state ? Tyler. Oh, 'tis of vast importance I who shoulo The luxuries and riots of the court.' [pay for Who should support the flaunting courtier's pride. WAT TYLER. 103 Pay for their midnight revels, their ricli garments, Did not the state enforce ? — Think ye, my friend. That I, a humble blacksmith, here at Deptford, Would part with these six groats — earn'd by hard toil, All that I have ! to massacre the Frenchmen, Murder as enemies men I never saw ! Did not the state compel me ? ( Tax-gatherers pass by.) There they go, Privileged ruffians ! [Piers ^ Altec advance to him. Alice. Did we not dance it well to-day, my fa- ther? You know I always loved these village sports. Even from my infancy, and yet methinks I never tripp'd along the mead so gayly. You know they chose me queen, and your friend Piers Wreathed me this cowslip garland for mj- head — Is it not simple ? — You are sad, my father ! You should liave rested from your work to-day, And given a few hours up to merriment — But you are so serious ! Tyler. Serious, my good girl ! I may well be so : when I look at thee. It makes me sad ! thou art too fair a flower To bear the wintry wind of poverty. Piers. Yet I have often heard you speak of riches Even with contempt ; they cannot purchase peace, Or innocence, or virtue ; sounder sleep Waits on the weary ploughman's lowly bed. Than on the downy couch of luxury Lulls tlie rich slave of pride and indolence. I never wish for wealth ; my arm is strong. And I can purchase by it a coarse meal. And hunger savors it. Tyler. Young man, thy mind Has yet to learn the hard lesson of experience. Thou art yet young : the blasting breath of want Has not yet froze the current of thy blood. Piers. Fare not the birds well, as from spray to spray, Blithesome they bound, yet find their simple food Scatter' d abundantly ? Tyler. No fancied boundaries of mine and thine Restrain their wanderings. Nature gives enough For all ; but Man, with arrogant selfishness. Proud of his heaps, hoards up superfluous stores Robb'd from his weaker fellows, starves the poor. Or gives to pity what he owes to justice ! Piers. So I have heard our good friend John Ball preach. [prison'd ? .nice. My father, wherefore was John Ball im- Was he not charitable, good, and pious .' 1 have heard him say that all mankind are brethren. And that like brethren they should love each other ; Was not that doctrine pious ? Tyler. Rank sedition — High treason, every syllable, my child ! The priests cry out on him for heresy. The nobles all detest him as a rebel. And this good man, this minister of Christ, This man, the friend and brother of mankind, Lingers in the dark dungeon ! — My dear Alice, Retire awhile. [Exit Mice. Piers, I would speak to thee, Even with a father's love ! you are much with rae, And I believe do court my conversation ; Thou could'st not choose thee forth a truer friend. I would fain see thee happy, but 1 fear Thy very virtues will destroy thy peace. My daughter — she is young — not yet fifteen : Piers, thou art generous, and thy youthful heart Warm with aff'ectionj this close intimacy Will ere long grow to love. Piers. Suppose it so ; Were that an evil, Walter ? She is mild. And cheerful, and industrious : — now methinks With such a partner life would be most happy ! Why would ye warn me then of wretchedness ^ Is there an evil that can harm our lot.^ I have been told the virtuous must be happy, And have believed it true : tell me, my friend, What shall disturb the virtuous ? Tyler. Poverty, A bitter foe. Piers. Nay, you have often told me That happiness does not consist in riches. Tyler. It is most true ; buttell me, my dear boy, Could'st thou be happy to behold thy wife Pining with want.^ the children of your loves Clad in the squalid rags of wretchedness ? And, when thy hard and unremitting toil Had earn'd with pain a scanty recompense, Could'st thou be patient when the law should rob thee. And leave thee without bread, and penniless .' Piers. It is a dreadful picture. Tyler. Tis a true one. Piers. But yet methinks our sober industry Might drive away the danger ! 'tis but little That I could wish ; food for our frugal meals. Raiment, however homely, and a bed To shield us from the night. Tyler. Thy honest reason Could wish no more ; but were it not most wretched To want the coarse food for the frugal meal ? And by the orders of your merciless lord. If you by chance were guilty of being poor. To be turn'd out adrift to the bleak world. Unhoused, unfriended.' — Piers, I have not been idle, I never ate the bread of indolence ; Could Alice be more thrifty than her mother.' Yet with but one child, — and that one how good, Thou knowest, — I scarcely can provide the wants Of nature : look at these wolves of the law. They come to drain me of my hard-earn'd wages. I have already paid tlie heavy tax Laid on the wool that clothes me, on my leatlic, On all tlie needful articles of life ! And now three groats (and I work'd hard to earn them) The Parliament demands — and I must pay them, Forsooth, for liberty to wear my head. [Enter Tax-gatherers. Collector. Three groats a head for all your family. Piers. Why is this money gather'd ' 'tis a hard tax 104 WAT TYLER. On tiie poor laborer ! It can never be That Government sliould thus distress the people. Go to the rich for money — honest labor Ought to enjoy its fruits. Collector. Tlie state wants money ; War is expensive — 'tis a glorious war, A war of honor, and must be supported. — Three groats a head. Tyler. There, three for my own head, Three for my wife's ; what will the state tax next.^ Collector. You have a daughter. Tyler. She is below the age — not yet fifteen. Collector. You would evade the tax. Tyler. Sir Officer, I have paid you fairly what the law demands. [Alice and her vwther enter the shop. The Tax- gatherers go to her. One of them lays hold of her. She screams. — Tyler goes hi. Collector. You say slie's under age. [Alice screams again. Tyler knocks out the Tax- gatherer's brains. His companions fly. Piers. A just revenge. [law Tyler. Most just indeed; but in the eye of the 'Tis murder : and the murderer's lot is mine- [Piers goes out — Tyler sits down viournftilhj. Alice. Fly, my dear father ! let us leave this place Before they raise pursuit. Tyler. Nay, nay, my child. Flight would be useless — I have done my duty ; 1 have punish'd the brute insolence of lust, And here will wait my doom. Wife. Oh, let us fly. My husband, my dear husband ! Alice. Quit but tiiis place, And we may yet be safe, and happy too. Tyler. It would be useless, Alice ; 't would but lengthen A wretched life in fear. [Cry without., Liberty, Liberty ! Enter Mob., Hob Carter, S^c. crying Liberty ! Liberty ! No Poll-tax ! No War ! Hob. We have broke our chains ; we will arise in anger ; The mighty multitude shall trample down The handful that oppress them. Tyler. Have ye heard So soon tlien of my murder? Hob. Of your vengeance. Piers ran throughout the village : told the news — Cried out, To arms ! — arm, arm for liberty ; For Liberty and Justice ! Tyler. My good friends, Heed well your danger, or be resolute ! Learn to laugh menaces and force to scorn, Or leave me. I dare answer the bold deed — Death must come once ; return ye to your lioraes, Protect my wife and child, and on my grave Write why I died ; perhaps the time may come. When honest Justice shall applaud the deed. Hob. Nay, nay, we are oppress'd, and have too long Knelt at our proud lords' feet we have too long Obey'd their orders, bow'd to their caprices, Sweated for them the wearying summer's day. Wasted for them the wages of our toil, Fought for thera,conquer*d for them, bled for them, Still to be trampled on, and still despised ! But we have broke our chains. Tom Miller. Piers is gone on Through all the neighboring villages, to spread The glorious tidings. Hob. He is hurried on To Maidstone, to deliver good John Ball, Our friend, our shepherd. [Mob increases. Tyler. Friends and countrymen, Will ye then rise to save an honest man From the fierce clutches of the bloody law ? Oh, do not call to mind my private wrongs, [me, That the state drain'd my hard-earn'd pittance from That, of iiis office proud, the foul Collector Durst with lewd hand seize on my darling child, Insult her maiden modesty, and force A father's hand to vengeance ; heed not this ; Think not, my countrymen, on private wrongs ; Remember what yourselves have long endured j Think of the insults, wrongs, and contumelies, Ye bear from your proud lords — that your hard toil Manures their fertile fields • — you plough the earth. You sow the corn, you reap the ripen'd harvest, — They riot on the produce ! — that, like beasts, They sell 3'ou with their land, claim all the fruits Wliich the kindly earth produces, as their own, The privilege, forsooth, of noble birth! On, on to freedom ; feel but your own strength, Be but resolved, and these destructive tyrants Shall shrink before your vengeance. Hob. On to London, — The tidings fly before us — the court trembles, — Liberty — Vengeance — Justice. ACT II. Scene 1. Blachheath. Tyler, Hob, &c. SONG. * When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman ? ' Wretched is the infant's lot, Born within the straw-roofd cot ; Be he generous, wise, or brave. He must only be a slave. Long, long labor, little rest. Still to toil to be oppress'd; Drain'd by taxes of his store, Punish'd next for being poor: This is the poor wretch's lot, Born within the straw-roofd cot. While the peasant works, — to sleep. What the peasant sows, — to reap, On the couch of ease to lie, Rioting in revelry ; Be he villain, be he fool, Still to hold despotic rule, Trampling on his slaves with scorn ' This is to be nobly born. WAT TYLER. 105 ' When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then tlie gentleman ? ' Jack Straw. The mob are up in London — the proud courtiers Begin to tremble. Tom Miller. Ay, ay, 'tis time to tremble : Who'll plough their fields, who'll do their drud- gery now, And work like horses to give them the harvest? Jack Straw. 1 only wonder why we lay quiet so long. We had always the same strengtli ; and we deserved The ills we met with for not using it. Hob. Why do we fear those animals call'd lords ? What is there in the name to frighten us.' Is not ray arm as mighty as a Baron's.' Enter Piers and John Ball. Piers, {to Tyler.) Have 1 done well, my father ? I remember'd This good man lay in prison. Tyler. My dear child. Most well ; the people rise for liberty, And their first deed should be to break the chains That binds the virtuous : — Oh, thou honest priest, How much hast thou endured ! John Ball. Why, ay, my friend '. These squalid rags bespeak what I have suffer'd. I was reviled, insulted, left to languish In a damp dungeon ; but I bore it cheerily — My heart was glad — for I had done my duty. I pitied my oppressors, and I sorrow'd For the poor men of England. Tyler. They have felt Their strength; look round this heath ; 'tis throng'd with men Ardent for freedom : mighty is the event That waits their fortune. John Ball. I would fain address them. Tyler. Do so, my friend, and preach to them their dut}^. Remind them of their long-withholden rights. What ho ! there ; silence ! Piers. Silence, there, my friends ; This good man would address you. Hob. Ay, ay, hear him ; He is no mealy-mouth'd court-orator. To flatter vice, and pamper lordly pride. John Ball. Friends, brethren ! for ye are my brethren all ; Englishmen, met in arms to advocate The cause of freedom, hear me ; pause awhile In the career of vengeance! — It is true I am a priest, but, as these rags may speak. Not one who riots in tlie poor man's spoil. Or trades with his religion. I am one Wlio preach the law of Christ; and, in my life. Would practise what he taught. The Son of God Came not to you in power : humble in mien. Lowly in heart, the man of Nazareth Freach'd mercy, justice, love ; '* Woe unto ye. Ye that are rich : if that ye would be saved. Sell that ye have, and give unto the poor." 14 So taught the Savior. Oh, my honest friends, Have ye not felt the strong, indignant throb Of justice in your bosoms, to behold The lordly Baron feasting on your spoils .' Have you not in your hearts arraign'd the lot That gave him on the coucli of luxury To pillow his head, and pass the festive day In sportive feasts, and ease, and revelry .' Have you not often in your conscience ask'd. Why is the difference ; wherefore should that man, No worthier than myself, thus lord it over me. And bid me labor, and enjoy the fruits.' The God within your breasts has argued thus : The voice of truth has murmur'd. Came ye not As helpless to the world .' Shines not the sun With equal ray on both ? Do ye not feel The self-same winds of heaven as keenly parch ye .' Abundant is the earth — the Sire of all Saw and pronounced that it was very good. Look round : the vernal fields smile with new flowers. The budding orchard perfumes the sweet breeze, And tlie green corn waves to the passing gale. There is enough for all ; but your proud Baron Stands up, and, arrogant of strength, exclaims, " I am a Lord — by nature I am noble ; These fields are mine, for I was born to them ; I was born in the castle — you, poor wretches, Whelp'd in the cottage, are by birth my slaves." Almighty God ! such blasphemies are utter'd : Almighty God ! such blasphemies believed ! To7n Miller. This is something like a sermon. Jack Straw. Where's the bishop Would tell you truths like these ? [apostles Hob. There never was a bishop among all the John Ball. My brethren ^ Piers. Silence ; the good priest speaks Joh7i Ball. My brethren, these are truths, and weighty ones ; Ye are all equal : nature made ye so. Equality is your birthright. — When I gaze On the proud palace, and behold one man In the blood-purpled robes of royalty. Feasting at ease, and lording over millions. Then turn me to the hut of poverty, And see the wretched laborer, worn with toil. Divide his scanty morsel witli his infants, I sicken, and, indignant at the sight, " Blush for the patience of humanity. " Jack Straw. We will assert our rights. Tom Miller. We'll trample down These insolent oppressors. John Ball. In good truth. Ye have cause for anger : but, my honest friends. Is it revenge or justice that ye seek? Mob, Justice I Justice ' John Ball. Oh, then remember mercy ; And though your proud oppressors spare not yoU; Show you excel them in humanity. They will use every art to disunite you ; To conquer separately, by stratagem. Whom in a mass they fear ; — but be \-e firm; Boldly demand your long-forgotten rights. Your sacred, your inalienable freedom. Be bold — be resolute — be merciful 106 WAT TYLER. And while you spurn the hated name of slaves, Siiow you are men. Moh. Long hve our honest priest, Jack Straw. He shall be made archbishop. John Ball. My brethren, I am plain John Ball, your friend, Your equal : by the law of Christ enjoin'd To serve you, not command. Jack Straw. March we for London. Tyler. Mark me, my friends — we rise for Lib- erty — Justice shall be our guide : let no man dare To plunder in the tumult. Mob. Lead us on. Liberty ! Justice ! [^Exeunt, with cries of Liberty ! No Poll-tax ! No War. Scene II. The Toiccr. King Richard, Archbishop of Canterbury, Sir John Tresilian, Walworth, Philfot. Kino^. What must we do? the danger grows more 'imminent. The mob increases. Phtlpot. Every moment brings Fresh tidings of our peril. King. It were well To grant them what they ask. Archbishop. Ay, that, my liege Were politic. Go boldly forth to meet them, Grant all they ask — however wild and ruinous — Meantime, the troops you have already gummon'd Will gather round them. Then my Christian power Absolves you of your promise. [the rabble IValworth. Were but their ringleaders cut off. Would soon disperse. Philpot. United in a mass. There's notliing can resist them — once divide them, And they will fall an easy sacrifice. [them fair. Arcfibishop. Lull them by promises — bespeak Go fortli, my liege — -spare not, if need requires A solemn oatli to ratify the treaty. Kins'. I dread their fury. Jirchbishop. 'Tis a needless dread ; There is divinity about your person ; It is the sacred privilege of Kings, HoweVr they act, to render no account To man. The people have been taught this lesson, Nor can they soon forget it. King. I will go — I will submit to every thing they ask ; My day of triumpii will arrive at last. [Shouts toithout. Enter Messenger. Messenger. The mob are at the city gates. Archbishop. Haste ! Haste ! Address them ere too late. I'll remain here. For they detest me much. [Shouts again. Enter another Messenger Afess. The Londoners have open'd the city gates ; Ine rebels are admitted. [mayor. King. Fear then must give me courage. My lord Come you with me. [Exeunt. Shouts without. Scene III. Smlthfield. Wat Tvler, John Ball, Piers, ^c. Mob. Piers. So far triumphant are we. How these nobles, These petty tyrants, wlio so long oppressed us, Shrink at the first resistance ! Hob. They were powerful Only because we fondly tliought them so. Where is Jack Straw ? Tyler. Jack Straw is gone to the Tower To seize the king, and so to end resistance. John Ball. It was well judged j fain would I spare tlie shedding Of human blood : gain we that royal puppet, And all will follow fairly ; deprived of him. The nobles lose their pretext, nor will dare Rebel against the people's majesty. Enter Herald. Herald. Riciiard the Second, by the grace of God, Of England, Ireland, France, and Scotland, King, And of the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, Would parley with Wat Tyler. Tyler. Let him know Wat Tyler is in Smilhfield. [Exit Herald.] — I will parley With this young monarch : as he comes to me. Trusting my honor, on your lives I charge you Let none attempt to harm him. John Ball. The faith of courts Is but a weak dependence. You are honest — And better is it even to die the victim Of credulous honesty, than live preserved By the cold policy that still suspects. Enter King, Walworth, Philpot, ^c. King. I would speak to tliee, Wat Tyler : bid Retire awhile. [the mob Piers. Nay, do not go alone — Let me attend you. Tyler. Wherefore should I fear.^ Am I not arm'd with a just cause .'' Retire, And I will boldly plead the cause of Freedom. [Advayices. King. Tyler, why have you kilVd my officer. And led my honest subjects from their homes, Thus to rebel against the Lord's anointed .'' Tyler. Because they were oppress'd. King. Was this tlie way To remedy the ill .'' You should have tried By milder means — petition'd at the throne — The throne will always listen to petitions. Tyler. King of England, Petitioning for pity is most weak — The sovereign people ouglit to demand justice. 1 kiU'd your officer, for his lewd hand Insulted a maid's modesty. Your subjects I lead to rebel against the Lord's anointed. Because his ministers have made him odious ; His yoke is heavy, and his burden grievous. Why do we carry on this fatal war, To force upon the Frcncli a king they hate, Tearing our young men from their peaceful homes, WAT TYLER. 107 Forcing his hard-earn'd fruits from the honest peasant, Distressing us to desolate our neighbors ? Why is this ruinous poll-tax imposed, But to support your court's extravagance. And your mad title to the crown of France ? Shall we sit tamely down beneath these evils Petitioning for pity ? King of England, Why are we sold like cattle in your markets — Deprived of every privilege of man ? Must we lie tamely at our tyrant's feet, And, like your spaniels, lick the hand that beats us ? You sit at ease in your gay palaces ! The costly banquet courts your appetite ; Sweet music soothes your slumbers : we, the while, Scarce by hard toil can earn a little food, [wind ; And sleep scarce shelter'd from the cold night Whilst your wild projects wrest the little from us Which might have cheer'd the wintry hour of age. The Parliament forever asks more money ; We toil and sweat for money for your taxes : Where is the benefit, what good reap we From all the counsels of your government ? Think you that we should quarrel with the French ? What boots to us your victories, your glory ? We pay, we fight, you profit at your ease. Do you not claim the country as your own ' Do you not call the venison of the forest, Tlie birds of heaven, your own .•" — prohibiting us. Even though in want of food, to seize the prey Which nature offers. King! is all this just ? Think you we do not feel the wrongs we suffer ? The hour of retribution is at hand, A nd tyrants tremble — mark me, King of England ! t Walworth^ {comes hehind him^ and stubs him.) Insolent rebel, threatening the King I Piers. Vengeance ! Vengeance ! Hob. Seize the King. King. 1 must be bold. [Advancing.') My friends and loving subjects, I will grant you all you ask ; you shall be free — The tax shall be repeal'd — all, all you wish. Your leader menaced me ; he deserv'd his fate -. Quiet your angers : on my royal word Your grievances shall all be done away ; Your vassalage abolish'd. A free pardon AUow'd to all : So help me God, it shall be. John Ball. Revenge, my brethren, beseems not Christians : Send us these terms, sign'd with your seal of state. We will await in peace. Deceive us not — Act justly, so to excuse 3'our late foul deed. King. The charter shall be drawn out : on mine honor All shall be justly done. ACT m. Scene I. Smithjield. John Ball, Piers, &c. Piers, {to John Ball.) You look disturbed, my father. John Bait. Piers, I am so. [bishop, Jack Straw has forced the tower ; seiz'd the Arch- And beheaded him. Piers. The curse of insurrection. John Ball. Ay, Piers, our nobles level down their vassals. Keep them at endless labor, like their brutes. Degrading every faculty by servitude. Repressing all the energy of mind : We must not wonder, then, that, like wild beasts, When they have burst their chains, with brutal rage They revenge them on their t3'rants. Piers. This Archbishop, He was oppressive to his humble vassals ; Proud, haughty, avaricious John Bull. A true high priest, Preaching humility with his mitre on; Praising uj) alms and Christian charity. Even whilst his unforgiving hand distress'd His honest tenants. Piers. He deserved his fate, then. John Bull. Justice can never link with cruelty. Is there among the catalogue of crimes .\ sin so black that only Death can expiate ? Will reason never rouse her from her slumbers. And darting through tlie veil her eagle eye. See in the sable garments of the law Revenge conceal'd ? This high priest has been haughty ; He has oppress'd his vassals ; tell me. Piers, Does his death remedy the ills he caused .' Were it not better to repress his power Of doing wrong, that so his future life Might remedy the evils of the past. And benefit mankind ? Piers. But must not vice Be punish'd ? John Bull. Is not punishment revenge r The momentary violence of anger May be excused : the indignant heart will tlirob Against oppression, and the outstretch'd arm Resent its injured feelings. The Collector Insulted Alice, and roused the keen emotions Of a fond f\ither. Tyler murder'd him. Piers. Murder'd ! — a most harsh word. John Bull. Yes, murder'd him : His mangled feelings prompted the bad act. And Nature will almost commend the deed [ings That Justice blames ; but will the awaken'd feel- Plead witli their heart-emoving eloquence For the calm, deliberate murder of Revenge.' Would you, Piers, in your calmer hour of reason, Condemn an erring brother to be slain ? Cut him at once from all tlie joys of life, All hopes of reformation — to revenge The deed his punishment cannot recall.' My blood boil'd in me at the fate of Tyler, Yet 1 reveng'd rmt. Piers. Oh, my Christian father, They would not argue thus humanely on us, Were we within their power. John Bull. I know they would not; But we must pity tliem that they are vicious, Not imitate their vice. 1 08 WAT TYLER. Piers. Alus, poor Tyler ! 1 do repent me much that 1 stood back, When he advanced, fearless in rectitude, To meet these royal assassins. John Ball. Not for myself^ Though I have lost an honest, virtuous friend, Mourn 1 the death of Tyler; he was one Gifted with the strong energy of mind, Quick to perceive tlie right, and prompt to act When Justice needed : he would listen to me With due attention, yet not yielding lightly What had to him seem'd good : severe in virtue; He awed the ruder people, whom he led, By his stern rectitude. Piers. Witness that day When they destroy'd the palace of the Gaunt; And hurl'd the wealth liis avarice had amassed. Amid tlie fire : the people, fierce in zeal, Threw in the flames a wretch whose selfish hand Furloin'd amid the tumult. John BalL 1 lament The death of Tyler for my country's sake. 1 shudder lest posterity, enslaved, Should rue his murder. Who shall now control The giddy multitude, blind to their own good. And listening with avidity to the tale Of courtly falsehood.^ Piers. The King must perform His plighted promise. (Cnj toithoul — The Charter ! — the Charter !) Enter Mob and Herald. Tom Miller. Read it out — read it out. Hob, Ay, ay, let's hear the Charter. Herald. Richard Flantagenet, by the grace of God, King of England, Ireland, Francej Scotland, and the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, to all whom it may concern, — These presents : Whereas our loving subjects have complained to us of the heavy burdens they endure, particularly from our late enacted poll-tax ; and whereas they have risen in arms against our officers, and demanded the aboli- tion of personal slavery, vassalage, and manorial rights ; we, ever ready in our sovereign mercy to listen to the petitions of our loving subjects, do annul all these grievances. Mob. Huzza! long live the King ! Heraldy (continues.) And do of our royal mercy grant a free pardon to all who may have been any- ways concerned in the late insurrections. All this shall be faithfully performed, on our royal word ; so help us God — God save the King 1 [Load, and repeated shouts. Herald. Now then depart in quiet to your homes. John Ball. Nay, my good friend, the people will remain Imbodied peaceably, till Parliament Confirm the royal Cliarter : tell your King so : We will await the Charter's confirmation. Meanwhile comporting ourselves orderly. As peaceful citizens, not risen in tumult, But to redress their evils. [Exit Herald^ A|^c. Hob. 'Twas well ordered. I place but little trust in courtly faith [King John Ball. We must remain imbodied ; else the Will plunge again in royal luxury, And when the storm of danger is past over, Forget his promises. Hob. Ay, like an aguish sinner, He'll promise to repent, when the fit's on him; When well recover'd, laugh at his own terrors. Piers. Oh, I am grieved that we must gain so little. Why are not all these empty ranks abolish'd. King, slave, and lord, ennobled into MAN ? Are we not equal all ? — Iiave you not told me Equality is the sacred right of man. Inalienable, tliough by force withheld ? John Ball. Even so: but. Piers, my frail and fallible judgment Knows hardly to decide if it be right Peaceably to return, content with little. With this half restitution of our rights, Or boldly to proceed, through blood and slaughter, Till we should all be equal and all happy. I chose tiie milder way : — perhaps I err'd ! Piers. 1 fear me ! By the mass, tlie unsteady people Are flocking homewards — how the multitude Diminishes ! John Ball. Go thou, my son, and stay them. Carter, do you exert your influence : All depends upon their stay : my mind is troubled, And I would fain compose my thoughts for action. [E.r.eunt Hob and Piers. Father of mercies! 1 do fear me much That I have err'd. Thou gavest my ardent mind To pierce the mists of superstitious falsehood; — Gavest me to know the truth. I should have urged it Through every opposition ; now, perhaps, The seemly voice of pity has deceived me, And all this mighty movement ends in ruin. 1 fear me 1 have been like the weak leech. Who, sparing to cut deep, with cruel mercy Mangles his patient without curing him. [Great tumult What means this tumult.'' hark ! the clang of arms God of eternal justice — the false monarch Has broke his plighted vow. [Enter Piers ^rounded Piers. Fly, fly, my father — the perjured King, - fly, fly- Jolm Ball. Nay, nay, my child ; I dare abide my fate. Let me bind up thy wounds. Piers. 'Tis useless succor. They seek tliy life ; fly, fl}-, my honored father, And let me have the hope to sweeten death That thou at least hast 'scaped. They are mur- dering Our unsuspecting brethren : half unarmd, Trusting loo fondly to the tyrant's word, [blood They were dispersing: — the streets swim with Oh, save thyself [Enter Soldiers. 1st .Soldier. This is that old seditious heretic. 2d Soldier. And here the young spawn of re- bellion : My orders ar'n't to spare him. [Stabs Piers. Come, you old stirrer-up of insurrection. WAT TYLER. 109 You bell-wether of tlie mob — you ar'n't to die So easily. [^Leading him off. [Mobjly across the stage — the troops pursue them — tumult increases — loud cries and shouts. Scene II. Westminster Hall. King, Walworth, Philpot, Sir John Tresilian, &c. Walworth. My liege, 'twas wisely ordered to destroy The dunghill rabble, but take prisoner Tliat old seditious priest ; his strange, wild notions or this equality, when well exposed. Will create ridicule, and shame the people Of their late tumults. Sir John. Ay, there's nothing like A fair, free, open trial, where the King Can choose his jury and appoint his judges. King. Walworth, I must thank you for my de- liverance, 'Twas a bold deed to stab him in the parley. Kneel down, and rise a knight. Sir William Walworth. Enter Messenger. Messenger. I left them hotly at it. Smithfield smoked With the rebels' blood ! your troops fought loyally ; Tliere's not a man of them will lend an ear To pity. Walworth. Is John Ball secured .' Messenger. They have seized him. Enter Guards, with John Ball. Isi Guard. We've brought the old villain. 2d Guard. An old mischief-maker — Why, there's fifteen hundred of the mob are killed. All through his preaching. ■Sir John Tr. Prisoner, are you the arch-rebel John Ball .' John Ball. I am John Ball ; but 1 am not a rebel. Take ye the name, who, arrogant in strength. Rebel against the people's sovereignty. [ring up Sir John Tr. John Ball, you are accused of stir- The poor deluded people to rebellion ; Not having the fear of God and of the King Before your eyes ; of preaching up strange notions, Heretical and treasonous ; such as saying That kings have not a right from Heaven to govern; That all mankind are equal ; and that rank And the distinctions of society, Ay, and the sacred rights of property. Are evil and oppressive : plead you guilty To this most heavy charge .•' John Ball. If it be guilt To preach what you are pleased to call strange notions, That all mankind as brethren must be equal ; That privileged orders of society Are evil and oppressive ; that the right Of property is a juggle to deceive The poor whom you oppress — I plead me guilty. Sir John Tr. It is against the custom of this court That the prisoner should plead guilty. Jolm Ball. Why then put you The needless question ? Sir Judge, let me save The vain and empty insult of a trial. What I have done, that I dare jusliiy. Sir John Tr. Did you not tell the mob they were oppress'd. And preach upon the equality of man. With evil intent thereby to stir them uo To tumult and rebellion.'' John Ball. That 1 told them That all mankind are equal, is most true : Ye came as helpless infants to the world ; Ye feel alike the infirmities of nature ; And at last moulder into common clay. [earth Why then these vain distinctions.' — bears not the Food in abundance .' — must your granaries O'erflow with plenty, while tlie poor man starves ? Sir Judge, why sit you there, clad in yoiu furs.' Why are your cellars stored with choicest wines. Your larders hung with dainties, while your vassal, As virtuous, and as able too by nature, Though by your selfish tyranny deprived Of mind's improvement, shivers in his rags. And starves amid the plenty he creates ? I have said this is wrong, and I repeat it — And there will be a time when this great truth Shall be confess'd — be felt by all mankind. The electric truth shall run from man to man. And the blood-cemented pyramid of greatness Shall fall before the flash. Sir John Tr. Audacious rebel ! How darest thou insult this sacred court. Blaspheming all the dignities of rank.' How could the Government be carried on Without the sacred orders of the King And the nobility .' John Ball. Tell me. Sir Judge, What does the Government avail the peasant? Would not he plough his field, and sow the corn, Ay, and in peace enjoy the harvest too .' Would not the sun shine and the dews descend. Though neither King nor Parliament existed.' Do your court politics ought matter him .' Would he be warring even unto death With his French neighbors.' Charles and Richard contend, The people fight and suffer: — think ye. Sirs, If neither country had been cursed witli a chief. The peasants would have quarrell'd .' King. This is treason The patience of the court has been insulted — Condemn the foul-mouth'd, contumacious rebel. Sir John Tr. John Ball, whereas you are accused before us, Of stirring up the people to rebellion. And preaching to them strange and dangerous doctrines ; And whereas your behavior to the court Has been most insolent and contumacious ; Insulting Majesty — and since you have pleaded Guilty to all these charges ; I condemn you To death : you shall be hanged by the neck, But not till you are dead — your bowels open'd — Your heart torn out, and burnt before your face — Y our traitorous head be severed from your body — 110 POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE. Your body quartered, and exposed upon The city gates — a terrible example — And the Lord God have mercy on your soul. John Ball. Why, be it so. I can smile at your vengeance, For 1 am arm'd with rectitude of soul. The truth, whicli all my life 1 have divulged, And am now doom'd in torments to expire for, Shall still survive. The destined hour must come, Wlien it shall blaze with sun-surpassing splendor, And the dark mists of prejudice and falsehood Fade in its strong effulgence. Flattery's incense No more shall shadow round the gore-dyed throne ; That altar of oppression, fed with rites More savage than the priests of Moloch taught. Shall be consumed amid the fire of Justice; The rays of truth shall emanate around. And the whole world be lighted. King. Drag him hence ; Away with him to death ; order the troops Now to give quarter, and make prisoners — Let the blood-reeking sword of war be sheathed, That the law may take vengeance on the rebels. POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE. SONNET I. Hold your mad hands ! forever on your plain Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood ? Forever must your Niger's tainted flood Roll to the ravenous shark iiis banquet slain ? Hold your mad hands ! and learn at length to know, And turn your vengeance on the common foe, Yon treacherous vessel and her godless crew ! Let never traders with false pretext fair Set on your shores again their wicked feet : With interdict and indignation meet Repel them, and with fire and sword pursue ! Avarice, the white, cadaverous fiend, is there, Who spreads his toils accursed wide and far. And for his purveyor calls the demon War. SONNET H. Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair. And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries? Before the gale the laden vessel flies ; The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair ; Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew ! Hark, how their cannon mock the patient skies ! Why dost thou shriek, and strain thy red-swollen eyes, As the white sail is lessening from tiiy view ? Go, pine in want, and anguish, and despair ; There is no mercy found in human-kind ! Go, Widow, to thy grave, and rest thee there 1 But may the God of Justice bid the wind Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave, And bless with liberty and death the Slave ! SONNET III. On, he is worn with toil ! the big drops run Down his dark cheek; hold— hold thy merciless hand. Pale tyrant 1 for beneath thy hard command O'erwearied nature sinks. The scorching sun. As pitiless as proud Prosperity, Darts on him his full beams ; gasping he lies Arraigning with his looks the patient skies. While that inhuman driver lifts on high The mangling scourge. O ye who at your ease Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage, thoughts like these Haply ye scorn : I thank thee, gracious God, That I do feel upon my cheek the glow Of indignation, when beneath the rod A sable brother writhes in silent woe. SONNET IV. 'Tis night; the unrelenting owners sleep As undisturb'd as Justice ; but no more The o'erwearied slave, as on his native shore. Rests on his reedy couch : he wakes to weep. Though through the toil and anguish of the day No tear escaped him, not one suff'ering groan Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone In bitterness ; thinking that far away While happy Negroes join the midnight song. And merriment resounds on Niger's shore. She whom he loves, far from the cheerful tliromr Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door With dim-grown eye, silent and woe-begone. And weeps for him who will return no more. SONNET V. Did then the Negro rear at last the sword Of vengeance .' Did he plunge its thirsty blade In the hard heart of his inhuman lord .•* Oh, who shall blame him .' in the midnight shade There came on him the intolerable thought Of every past delight; his native grove. Friendship's best joys, and liberty and love, Forever lost. Such recollections wrought His brain to madness. Wherefore should he live Longer with abject patience to endure His wrongs and wretchedness, when hope can give No consolation, time can bring no cure .'' But justice for himself he yet could take. And life is then well given for vengeance' sake. POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE. Ill SONNET VI. High in tlie air exposed the slave is hung, To all the birds of heaven, their living food '. He groans not, though awaked by thai? fierce sun New torturers live to drink their parent blood : He groans not, though the gorging vulture tear The quivering fibre. Hither look, O ye Who tore this man from peace and liberty ! Look hither, ye who weigia with politic care The gain against the guilt ! Beyond the grave There is another world ! — bear ye in mind. Ere your decree proclaims to all mankind The gain is worth the guilt, that there the Slave, Before the Eternal, " thunder-tongued shall plead Against the deep damnation of your deed." Bristol, 179-1. TO THE GENIUS OF AFRICA. O THOU, who from the mountain's height RoUest thy clouds with all their weight Of waters to old Nile's majestic tide ; Or o'er the dark, sepulchral plain Recallest Carthage in her ancient pride, The mistress of the Main ; Hear, Genius, hear thy children's cry ! Not always shouldst thou love to brood Stern o'er tlie desert solitude Where seas of sand heave their hot surges high ; Nor, Genius, should the midnight song Detain thee in some milder mood The palmy plains among. Where Gambia to the torches' light Flows radiant through the awaken'd night. Ah, linger not to hear the song ! Genius, avenge thy children's wrong ! The demon Avarice on your shore Brings all the horrors of his train; And hark ! where from the field of gore Howls the hyena o'er the slain ! Lo ! where the flaming village fires the skies, Avenging Power, awake 1 arise ! Arise, thy children's wrongs redress ' Heed the mother's wrelchedTiess, When in the hot, infectious air O'er her sick babe she bows opprest, — Hear her when the Traders tear The suffering infant from her breast ! Sunk in the ocean he shall rest ! Hear thou the wretched mother's cries. Avenging Power ! awake ! arise ! By the rank, infected air That taints those cabins of despair; By the scourges blacken'd o'er, .\nd stiff and hard with human gore By every groan of deep distress. By every curse of wretchedness ; The vices and the crimes that flow From the hopelessness of woe ; By every drop of blood bespilt. By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt. Awake ! arise ! avenge ! [plains And thou hast heard ! and o'er their blood-fed Sent thine avenging hurricanes, And bade thy storms with whirlwind roar Dash their proud navies on the shore ; And where their armies claim d the fight Wither'd the warrior's might ; And o'er the unholy host, with baneful breath, There, Genius, thou hast breathed the gales of Death. Brislot, n' THE THEATRE AT OXFORD, UPON THE INSTALLATION OF LORD GRENVILLE. Grenville, few years have had their course, since last Exulting Oxford view'd a spectacle Like this day's pomp; and yet to those who throng'd These walls, which echo'd then with Portland's praise, [spring What change hath intervened ! The bloom of POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE. 113 Is fled from many a cheek, wliere roseate joy And beauty blooni'd ; tlie inexorable Grave Hath claim'd its portion; and tlie band of youths, Who then, collected here as in a port. From whence to launch on life's adventurous sea. Stood on the beach, ere this have found tlieir lots Of good or evil. Thus the lapse of years. Evolving all things in its quiet course, Hath wrought for them ; and though those years have seen fearful vicissitudes, of wilder change Than history yet had learnt, or old romance In wildest mood imagined, yet these too. Portentous as they seem, not less have risen, Each of its natural cause the sure effect. All righteously ordain'd. Lo ! kingdoms wreck'd. Thrones overturn'd, built up, then swept away Like fabrics in the summer clouds, dispersed By the same breath that Iteap'd them; rightful kings. Who, from a line of long-drawn ancestry, Held the transmitted sceptre, to the axe Bowing the anointed head ; or dragg'd away To eat the bread of bondage ; or escaped Beneath the shadow of Britannia's shield. There only safe. Such fate have vicious courts. Statesmen corrupt, and fear-struck policy. Upon themselves drawn down ; till Europe, bound In iron chains, lies bleeding in the dust. Beneath the feet of upstart tyranny : Only the heroic Spaniard, he alone Yet unsubdued in these degenerate days. With desperate virtue, such as in old time Hallow'd Saguntum and Nuniantia's name. Stands up against the oppressor undismay'd. So may the Almighty bless the noble race. And crown with happy end their holiest cause ' Deem not these dread events the monstrous birth Of chance ! And thou, O England, who dost ride Serene amid the waters of the flood. Preserving, even like the Ark of old. Amid the general wreck, thy purer faith. Domestic loves, and ancient liberty. Look to thyself, O England I for be sure. Even to the measure of thine own desert, The cup of retribution to thy lips Shall soon or late be dealt! — a thought that well Might fill the stoutest heart of all thy sons With awful apprehension. Therefore, they Who fear the Eternal's justice, bless thy name, Grenville, because the wrongs of Africa Cry out no more to draw a curse from Heaven On England ! — for if still tlie trooping sharks Track by the scent of death the accursed ship Freighted with human anguish, in her wake Pursue the chase, crowd round her keel, and dart Toward the sound contending, when they hear The frequent carcass, from her guilty deck. Dash in the opening deep, no longer now The guilt shall rest on England ; but if yet There be among her children, hard of heart And sear'd of conscience, men who set at nought Her laws and God's own word, upon themselves Their sin be visited! — the red-cross flag, 15 Redeera'd from stain so foul, no longer now Covereth the abomination. This thy praise, O Grenville, and while ages roll away This shall be thy remembrance. Yea, when all For which the tyrant of these abject times Hath given his honorable name on earth. His nights of innocent sleep, his hopes of heaven When all his triumphs and his deeds of blood. The fretful changes of his feverish pride. His midnight murders and perfidious plots. Are but a tale of years so long gone bj', That they who read distrust the hideous truth, Willing to let a charitable doubt Abate their horror ; Grenville, even then Thy memory will be fresh among mankind ; Afric with all her tongues will speak of thee. With Wilberforce and Clarkson, he whom Heaven, To be the apostle of this holy work, Raised up and strengthen'd, and upheld through all His arduous toil. To end the glorious task. That blessed, that redeeming deed was thine ; Be it thy pride in life, thy thought in death. Thy praise beyond the tomb. The statesman's fame Will fade, the conqueror's laurel crown grow sear; Fame's loudest trump upon the ear of Time Leaves but a dying echo ; they alone Are held in everlasting memory. Whose deeds partake of heaven. Long ages hence Nations unborn, in cities that shall rise .\long the palmy coast, will bless thy name ; And Senegal and secret Niger's shore, And Calabar, no longer startled then With sounds of murder, will, like Isis now, Ring with the songs that tell of Grenville's praise Keswick, 1810. BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUES. Where a sight shall shuddering sorrow 6nd, Sad as the ruins of the human mind Bowles. ELINOR. Time, Morning. Scene, The Shore. Once more to daily toil, once more to wear The livery of shame, once more to search With miserable task this savage shore ! O thou, who mountest so triumphantly In yonder Heaven, beginning thy career Of glory, O thou blessed Sun ! thy beams Fall on me with the same benignant light Here, at the farthest limits of the world, And blasted as I am with infamy, As when in better years poor Elinor Gazed on thy glad uprise with eye undimm'd By guilt and sorrow, and the opening mom 114 BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUES. Woke her from quiet sleep to days of peace. In other occupation then I trod The beach at eve ; and then, when I beheld The billows as they roU'd before the storm Burst on the rock and rage, my timid soul Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep, And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners ; — Ah ! little thinking I myself was doom'd To tempt the perils of the boundless deep, An outcast, unbeloved and unbewail'd. Still wilt thou haunt me. Memory ! still present The fields of England to my exiled eyes. The joys which once were mine. Even now I see The lowly, lovely dwelling; even now Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls, Where fearlessly tlie red-breasts chirp'd around To ask their morning meal : and where at eve I loved to sit and watch the rook sail by. And hear his hollow tone, what time he sought The church-yard elm, that with its ancient boughs Full-foliaged, half-conceal'd the house of God ; That holy house, where I so oft have heard My father's voice explain the wondrous works Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah I little dcem'd His virtuous bosom, that his shameless child So soon should spurn the lesson, — sink, tiie slave Of Vice and Infamy, — the hireling prey Of brutal appetite ; — at length worn out With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt. Should share dishonesty, — yet dread to die ! Welcome, ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes, Where angry England sends iier outcast sons ; I hail your joyless shores ! My weary bark. Long tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea. Here hails her haven ; welcomes tlie drear scene. The marshy plain, the brier-entangled wood, And all the perils of a world unknown. For Elinor has nothing new to fear From cruel Fortune; all her rankling shafts Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease. Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me. Welcome, ye marshy heaths, ye pathless woods. Where the rude native rests his wearied frame Beneath the sheltering shade ; where, when the storm Benumbs his naked limbs, he flics to seek The dripping shelter. Welcome, ye wild plains Unbroken by the plough, undelved by hand Of patient rustic ; where for lowing herds. And for tlie music of tlie bleating flocks. Alone is heard tlie kangaroo's sad note Deepening in distance. Welcome, wilderness. Nature's domain ! for here, as yet unknown The comforts and tlie crimes of polish'd life. Nature benignly gives to all enough. Denies to all a superfluity. What though the garb of infamy I wear, Though day by day along the echoing beach I gather wave-worn shells; yet day by day I earn in honesty my frugal food. And lay me down at night to calm repose ; No more condemned, the mercenary tool Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart Abhorrent, and self-loathed, to fold my arms Round the rank felon, and for daily bread To hug contagion to my poison'd breast ! On these wild shores the saving hand of Grace Will probe my secret soul, and cleanse its wounds And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven. Oxford. 1794. 11 HUMPHREY AND WILLIAM. Time, J^oon. HUMPHREY. See'st thou not, William, that the scorching sun By this time half his daily race hath run ? The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore, And hurries homeward with his fishy store. Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil, To eat our dinner and to rest from toil. WILLIAM. Agreed. Yon tree, whose purple gum bestows A ready medicine for the sick man's woes, Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat. .'\h, Humphrey ! now upon old England's shore The w'eary laborer's morning work is o'er. The woodman there rests from his measured stroke. Flings down his axe, and sits beneath the oak ; Savor'd with hunger there he eats his food. There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood. To us no cooling streamlet winds its way. No joys domestic crown for us the day ; The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear, Toil all the day, and all the night despair. HUMPHREY. Aye, William ! laboring up the furrow'd ground, I used to love the village clock's old sound, Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done, And trudge it homeward when the clock went one. 'Twas ere I tiirn'd a soldier and a sinner ! Pshaw ! curse this whining — let us fall to dinner. I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot Tlie household comforts of my little cot ; For at this hour my wife with watcliful care Was wont her humble dainties to prepare; The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied. And my poor children prattled at my side. Methinks I see the old oak table spread, [bread • The clean white trenclier, and tlie good brown The cheese, my daily fare, which Mary made. For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade ; The jug of cider, — cider I could make ; — And then the knives, — I won 'em at the wake. Another has them now ! I toiling here Look backward like a child, and drop a tear. BOTANY BAY ECLOGUES. 115 HOMPHREy. I love a dismal story : tell me thine : Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine : I too, my friend, can tell a piteous story When I turn'd hero how I purchased glory. But, Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known ""he comforts of a little home thine own; A home so snug, so cheerful too, as mine ; 'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine. For there King Charles's Golden Rules were seen. And there — God bless 'em both ! the King and Queen. The pewter plates, our garnish'd chimney's grace. So bright, that in them you might see your face ; And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung. Well clean'd, although but seldom used, my gun. Ah ! that danin'dgun ! I took it down one morn, — A desperate deal of harm they did my corn ! Our testy Squire, too, loved to save the breed, So covey upon covey ate my seed. I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim ; I fired, they fell, and — up the keeper came. That cursed morning brought on my undoing; I went to prison, and my farm to ruin. Poor Mary ! for her grave the parish paid ; No tomb-stone tells where her remains are laid ! My children — my poor boys — HUMPHREY. Come '. — grief is dry — Vou to your dinner ; — to my story I. For you, my friend, who happier days have known, And each calm comfort of a home your own. This is bad living: I have spent my life In hardest toil and unavailing strife, And here, (from forest ambush safe at least,) To me this scanty pittance seems a feast. I was a plough-boy once, as free from woes And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose. Each evening at return a meal I found ; And though my bed was hard, my sleep was sound. One Whitsuntide, to go to fair I drest. Like a great bumpkin, in my Sunday's best ; A primrose posy in my hat I stuck. And to the revel went to try my luck. From show to show, from booth to booth I stray. See, stare, and wonder all the live-long day. A sergeant to the fair recruiting came, Skill'd in man-catching, to beat up for game ; Our booth he enter'd, and sat down by me ; — Methinks even now the very scene I see ! The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store, The old blind fiddler seated next the door. The frothy tankard passing to and fro, And the rude rabble round the puppet-show. The sergeant eyed me well ; the punch-bowl comes. And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums. And now he gives a bumper to his wench ; God save the King ! and then, God damn the French ! Then tells the story of his last campaign. How many wounded and how many s ain. Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating, TheEnglisli marching on, the French retreating — " Push on — push on, my lads I they fly before ye ; March on to riches, happiness, and glory ! '' At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder, Then cried, " 'Tis a fine tiling to be a soldier ! " "Aye, Humphrey!" says the sergeant, — "that's your name .•' 'Tis a fine tiling to fight tlie Frencli for fame ! March to tlie field, — knock out a Mounseer's brains, And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains. Come, Humphrey, come ! thou art a lad of spirit; Rise to a halbert, as I did, — by merit ! Wouldst tliou believe it .'' even I was once As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce ; But courage raised me to my rank. How now, boy! Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough- boy ? A proper-shaped young fellow ! tall and straight ! Why, tiiou wert made for glory ! — five feet eight ! The road to riches is the field of fight ! — Didst ever see a guinea look so bright.'' Why, regimentals, Numps, would give thee grace ; A hat and feather would become that face ; The girls would crowd around thee to be kiss'd ! — Dost love a girl .' " — " Odd Zounds ! " I cried, "I'll list!" So pass'd tlie night ; anon the morning came, And off" I set a volunteer for fame. " Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head. Stand easy ! " — so I did — till almost dead. O how I long'd to tend the plough again. Trudge up tlie field, and whistle o'er the plain. When tired and sore, amid the piteous throng, Hungry, and cold, and wet, I linip'd along. And growing fainter as I pass'd, and colder, Cursed that ill hour when I becanre a soldier ! In town I found the hours more gayly pass, And time fled swiftly with ray girl and glass; The girls were wondrous kind and wondrous fair; They soon transferr'd me to the Doctor's care ; The Doctor undertook to cure the evil. And he almost transferr'd me to the Devil. 'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness, and glory. At last discliarged, to England's sliores I came. Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame ; Found my fair friends, and plunder'd as tliey bade me ; They kiss'd me,coax'd me,robb'd me, andbetray'd me. Tried and condemn'd. His Majesty transports me ; And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me. So ends my dismal and heroic story ; And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory. Ox/orJ, 1791. 116 BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUES. III. JOHN, SAMUEL, AND RICHARD. Time, Evening. JOHN. 'Tis acalm, pleasant evening ; tlie light fades away. And the sun going down has done watch for the day. To my mind we live wondrous well when trans- ported ; It is but to work, and we must be supported. Fill the can, Dick ! Success here to Botany Bay ! RICHARD. Success, if you will, — but God send me away ! \ou lubberly landsmen don't know when you're well ! Hadst thou known half the hardships of which I can tell ! The sailor has no place of safety in store ; From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore I When Roguery rules all the rest of the earth, God bethank'd,in this corner I've got a good berth. SAMUEL. Talk of hardships ! wliat these are the sailor don't know ; 'Tis the soldier, my friend, that's acquainted with woe; Long journeys, short halting, hard work, and small pay, To be popt at like pigeons for sixpence a day ! — Thank God I'm safe quarter'd at Botany Bay. Ah! you know but little : I'll wager a pot 1 have suffer'd more evils than fell to your lot. Come, we'll have it all fairly and properly tried, Tell story for story, and Dick shall decide. SAMOEL. Done. JOHN. Done. 'Tis a wager, and 1 shall be winner; Thou wilt go without grog, Sam, to-morrow at dinner. SAMUEL. I was trapp'd by tile Sergeant's palavering pre- tences. He listed me when I was out of my senses ; So I took leave to-day of all care and all sorrow, And was drill'd to repentance and reason to- morrow. JOHN. 1 would be a sailor, and plough the wide ocean. But was soon sick and sad with t!ie billows' com- motion ; So the boatswain he sent me aloft on tlie mast. And cursed me, and lade me cry there, — and holdfast! SAMUEL. After marching all day, faint and hungry and sore, [nwor, I have lain down at night on the swamps of the Unshelter'd and forced by fatigue to remain. All chill'd by the wind and benumb'd by the rain. JOHN. 1 have rode out the storm when the biJlows beat high. And the red gleaming lightnings flash'd through the dark sky ; When the tempest of night the black sea overcast, Wet and weary I labor'd, yet sung to the blast. I have march'd, trumpets sounding, drums beat- ing, flags flying, Where tlie music of war drown'd the shrieks of the dying ; When the shots whizz'd around me, all dangers defied ; Push'd on when my comrades fell dead at my side ; Drove tlie foe from the mouth of tlie cannon away, Fought, conquer'd, and bled, all for sixpence a-day. And I too, friend Samuel, have heard the shots rattle ! But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle ; Though the chain and the grape-shot roll splintering around, With the blood of our messmates though slippery the ground, The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow ; We heed not our loss, so we conquer the foe ; And the hard battle won, if the prize be not sunk, The Captain gets rich, and the Sailors get drunk. God help the poor soldier when backward he goes. In disgraceful retreat, through a country of foes ! No respite from danger by day or by night. He is still forced to fly, still o'crtaken to fight ; Every step that he takes he must battle his way, He must force his hard meal from tlie peasant away : No rest, and no hope, from all succor afar, — God forgive the poor soldier for going to the war ! JOHN. But what are these dangers to those 1 have past. When the dark billows roar'd to the roar of the blast; When we work'd at the pumps, worn with labor and weak, And with dread still beheld the increase of the .eak .' Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight. From the rocks of the shore, catch the light-house's light; In vain to the beach to assist us they press • We fire faster and faster our guns of distress ; Still with rage unabating the wind and waves roar ; — How tlie giddy \vreck reels, as the billows burst o'er' BOTANY BAY ECLOGUES. 117 Leap, leap ; for she yawns, for she sinks in the wave ! Call on God to preserve — for God only can save ! There's an end of all troubles, however, at last ! And when I in the wagon of wounded was cast, When ray wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted sore, And I thouglit of the friends I should never see more. No hand to relieve, scarce a morsel of bread. Sick at heart 1 have envied the peace of the dead. Left to rot in a jail, till by treaty set free, Old England's white cliiFs with what joy did I see ! I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no good. And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could. When I tliink what I've suffer'd, and where I am now, I curse him who snared me away from the plough. When I was discharged, I went home to my wife, There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life. My wife was industrious ; we earn'd what we spent. And though little we had, were with little content ; And whenever I listen'd and heard the wind roar, 1 bless'd God for my little snug cabin on shore. At midnight they seized me, they dragg'd me away. They wounded rae sore when I would not obey. And because for my country I'd ventured my life, I was dragg'd like a thief from my home and my wife. Then the fair wind of fortune chopt round in my face. And want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace. But all's for the best ; — on the world's wide sea cast, 1 am haven'd in peace in this corner at last. SAMUEL. Come, Dick ! we have done — and for judgment we call. RICHARD. .And in faith I can give you no judgment at all, But that as you're now settled, and safe from foul weather, You drink up your grog, and be merry together. Oxford, 1791. IV. FREDERIC. Time, jXight. Scene, Tlie Woods. Where sliall I turn me? whither shall I bend My weary way ? thus worn with toil and faint. How through the thorny mazes of this wood Attain my distart dwelling? Tliat deep cry Tiiat echoes through tlie forest, seems to sound I\Iv parting knell: it is the midnight howl Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey ! Again ! O save me — save me, gracious Heaven ! 1 am not fit to die '. Thou coward wretch, Why palpitates thy heart? why shake thy limbs Beneath their palsied burden ? Is there aught So lovely in existence ? wouldst thou drain Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life? Stamp'd with tlie brand of Vice and Infamy, Why should the felon Frederic shrink from Death ? Death ! Where the magic in that empty name That chills my inmost heart ? Why at the thought Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb ? There are no terrors to surround the Grave, When the calm Mind collected in itself Surveys that narrow house : the ghastly train That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt Then vanish ; in that home of endless rest All sorrows cease ! — Wouldlmight slumber there ! Why then this panting of the fearful heart? This miser love of life, that dreads to lose Its cherish'd torment? Shall a man diseased Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife. Doubtful of succor, but to rid his frame Of fleshly anguish; and the coward wretch. Whose ulcerated soul can know no help, Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid ? Oh, it were better far to lie me down Here on this cold, damp earth, till some wild beast Seize on his willing victim. If to die Were all, 'twere sweet indeed to rest my head On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death But if the Archangel's trump at the last hour Startle the ear of Death, and wake the soul To frenzy ? — Dreams of infancy ; fit tales For garrulous beldames to aflrighten babes ! What if I warr'd upon tlie world? the world Had wrongd nie first ; I had endured the ills Of hard injustice ; all tliis goodly earth Was but to me one wide waste wilderness ; I had no share in Nature's patrimony ; Blasted were all my morning hopes of youth. Dark Disappointment followed on my ways. Care was my bosom inmate. Penury Gnaw'd at my heart. Eternal One, thou know'st How that poor heart, even in the bitter hour Of lewdest revelry has inly yearn'd For peace. My Father ! I will call on thee. Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer. And wait thy righteous will, resign'd of soul. O thought of comfort ! how the afflicted heart. Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests On you with holy hope ! The hollow howl Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods Comes with no terror to the sober'd sense. If I have sinned against mankind, on them Be tliat past sin ; they made me what I was. In these extremest climes Want can no more Urge me to deeds of darkness, and at length Here I may rest. What tliough my liutbe poor — The rains descend not tlirough its humble roof: — Would I were there again I The night is cold ; And what if in my wanderings I should rouse The savage from his thicket ! 118 SONNETS. Hark ! the gun ! And lo, the fire of safety ! I shall reach jMy little iiut again ! again hy toil Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance, And quick-ear'd Guilt will never start alarm'd Amid the vvell-earn'd meal. This felon's garb — Will it not sliield me from the winds of Heaven? And what could purple more ? O strengthen me Paternal One, in this serener state ! Cleanse thou mine heart, so Penitence and Faith Shall heal my soul, and my last days be peace. Oxford, 1794. SONNETS. I. Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely Maid Whom fancy still will portray to my sight. How here I linger in this sullen shade. This dreary gloom of dull, monastic night; Say, that from every joy of life remote At evening's closing hour I quit the throng. Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note. Who pours like me her solitary song ; Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh ; Say, that of all her charms I love to speak. In fancy feel the magic of her eye, In fancy view the smile illume her cheek. Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove, And heave the sigh of memory and of love. 1794. II. Thi.vk, Valentine, as speeding on thy way Homeward thou hastest light of heart along. If heavily creep on one little day The medley crew of travellers among. Think on thine absent friend ; reflect that here On lite's sad journey comfortless he roves. Remote from every scene his heart holds dear. From him he values, and from her he loves. And when, disgusted with the vain and dull, Whom chance companions of thy way may doom. Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full. Turns to itself and meditates on home. Ah, think what cares must ache within his breast, Who loathes the road, yet sees no home of rest. 1794. III. Not to tliee, Bedford, mournful is the tale Of days departed. Time in his career Arraigns not thee that the neglected year Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale Of years thou journeyest; may the future road Be pleasant as the past , md on my friend Friendship and Love, best blessings, still attend. Till full of days he reach tlie calm abode Where Nature slumber*. Lovely is the age Of virtue : with such reverence we behold The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown old That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage, Now like a monument of strength decay 'd, [shade. With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling 1794. IV. CoRSTON. As thus 1 stand beside the murmurmg stream. And watch its current, memory here portrays Scenes faintly form'd of half-forgotten days, Like far-off woodlands by the moon's bright beam Dimly descried, but lovely. I have worn Amid these haunts the heavy hours away, When childhood idled through the Sabbath-day ; Risen to my tasks at winter's earliest morn; And when the summer twilight darken'd here, Thinking of home, and all of heart forlorn, Have sigh'd and shed in secret many a tear. Dream-like and indistinct those days appear. As the faint sounds of this low brooklet, borne Upon the breeze, reach fitfully the ear. 1794. V. The Evening Rai.nbow. Mild arch of promise, on the evening sky Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray Each in the other melting. Much mine eye Delights to linger on thee ; for the day. Changeful and many-weatherd, seemed to smile, Flashing brief splendor through the clouds awhile, Which deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain ; But pleasant is it now to pause, and view Thy various tints of frail and watery hue, And think the storm shall not return again. Such is the smile that Piety bestows On the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peace Departing gently from a world of woes, Anticipates the world where sorrows cease. 1794. VI. With many a weary step, at length I gain Thy summit, Lausdown ; and the cool breeze plays Gratefully round my l)row, as hence I gaze Back on the fair expanse of yonder plain. 'Twas a long way and tedious ; to the eye Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view The autumnal leaves of many a faded hue, That eddy in the wild gust moaning by. Even so it fared with life; in discontent Restless through Fortune's mingled scenes I went Yet wept to think they would return no more. But cease, fond heart, in such sad thoughts to roam. For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home ; And pleasant is the way tliat lies before. 1794. VII. Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky The orient sun expands his roseate ray, SONNETS. 119 And lovely to the musing poet's eye Fades the soft radiance of departing day ; But fairer is the smile of one we love, Tlian all the scenes in Nature's ample sway, And sweeter than tlie music of the grove, The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight, Edith ! is mine, escaping to thy sight From the cold converse of the indifferent throng : Too swiftly then toward the silent night. Ye hours of happiness, ye speed along, Whilst I, from ail the world's dull cares apart. Pour out the feelings of my burden'd heart. 179-1. VIII. How darkly o er yon far-off mountain frowns The gather'd tempest . from that lurid cloud The deep-voiced thunders roil, awful and loud, Though distant ; while upon the misty downs Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain. I never saw so terrible a storm ! Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain Wraps his thin raiment round his shivering form, Cold even as hope within him. I the while Pause here in sadness, thougli the sun-beams smile Cheerily round me. Ah ! that tiius my lot Might be with Peace and Solitude assign'd, Wliere I might from some little quiet cot Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind. ♦ IX. THOU sweet Lark, who, in the heaven so high Twinkling thy wings, dost sing so joyfully, 1 watch tliee soaring with a deep delight; And when at last I turn mine aching eye That lags below thee in the Infinite, Still in my heart receive thy melody. O thou sweet Lark, that I had wings like thee ! Not for the joy it were in yon blue liglit Upward to mount, and from my heavenly Iieight Gaze on the creeping multitude below ; But that I soon would wing my eager flight To that loved liome where Fancy even now Hath fled, and Hope looks onward tlirougli a tear, Counting the weary hours that hold her here. 1738. Thou lingerest. Spring I still wintry is the scene ; Tlie fields their dead and sapless russet wear ; Scarce doth the glossy celandine appear Starring the sunny bank, or early green Tlie elder yet its circling tufts put forth. The sparrow tenants still the eaves-built nest Where we should see our martin's snowy breast Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north. And from the keener east, still frequent blow. Sweet Spring, thoulingerest; and itshould be so, — Late let the fields and gardens blossom out ! Like man when most with smiles thy face is drest. 'Tis to deceive, and he who knows ye best, When most ye promise, ever most must doubt. Westbury, 1799. XI. Beware a speedy friend, the Arabian said. And wisely was it he advised distrust ; The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. Look at yon Oak that lifts its stately head. And dallies with the autumnal storm, wliose rage Tempests the great sea-waves ; slowly it rose, Slowly its strength increased tlirough many an age. And timidly did its light leaves disclose, As doubtful of the spring, their palest green. They to the summer cautiously expand. And by the warmer sun and season bland Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen, When the bare forest by the wintry blast Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last. 1793. XII. To A Goose If thou didst feed on western plains of yore ; Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor ; Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat From gypsy thieves, and foxes sly and fleet; If tiiy gray quills, by lawyer guided, trace Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race. Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet, Wailing the rigor of his lady fair ; Or if, tlie drudge of housemaid's daily toil, Cobwebs and dust tliy pinions white besoil, Departed Goose ! I neither know nor care. But this I know, tliat we pronounced thee fine, Season'd with sage and onions, and port wine. London, 1798. XIII. I MARVEL not, O Sun ! that unto thee In adoration man should bow the knee, And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love , For like a God thou art, and on thy way Of glory sheddest, with benignant ray. Beauty, and life, and joyance from above. No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud, These cold, raw mists, that chill the comfortless day. But shed tliy splendor through the opening cloud. And cheer the earth once more. The languid flo\Yers Lie scentless, beaten down with heavy rain : Earth asks thy presencevsaturate with showers ; O Lord of Liglit ! put forth thy beams again, For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours. Westburu, 1793. XIV. Fair be thy fortunes in the distant land, Companion of my earlier years and friend ! Go to tlie Eastern world, and may the hand Of Heaven its blessing on thy labor send. 120 SONNETS. And may I, if we ever more should meet, See thee with affluence to thy native shore Return'dj — 1 need not pray that 1 may greet The same untainted goodness as before. Long years must intervene before that day j And what the changes Heaven to each may send. It boots not now to bode : O early friend 1 Assured, no distance e'er can wear away Esteem long rooted, and no change remove The dear remembrance of the friend we love 1798. XV. A -WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee, Old Winter, with a rugged beard as gray As the long moss upon the apple-tree ; Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp, blue nose, Close muffled up, and on tliy dreary way. Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the liigh-heapt hearth, Old Winter ! seated in thy great arm'd chair, Watching tlie children at their Cliristmas mirth; Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire. Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night. Pausing at times to rouse tiie mouldering fire, Or taste tiie old October brown and bright. }Vfstburij, 1799. XVI. PoRLocK, thy verdant vale so fair to sight, Thy lofly hills which fern and furze embrown, The waters that roll musically down Tliy woody glens, the traveller with delight Recalls to memory, and the clianncl gray Circling its surges in tliy level bay. Porlock, I also shall forget thee not, Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined; But often shall hereafter call to mind How here, a patient prisoner, 'twas my lot To wear the lonely, lingering close of day. Making my Sonnet by the aleliouse fire, Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away. Au^st 9j 1799. XVII. Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide, To some far distant land adventurous bound; The sailors' busy cries from side to side, Pealing among tiie echoing rocks, resound : A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band, Joyful tliey enter on their ocean way, With shouts exulting leave their native land. And know no care beyond the present day. But is there no poor mourner left behind, Who sorrows for a child or husband there ? Who at the howling of the midnight wind Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer ? So may her voice be heard, and Heaven be kind' Go, gallant Ship, and be thy fortune fair ! Westbury, 1799. xvni. O God ! have mercy in this dreadful hour On the poor mariner ! in comfort here Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear The blast that rages with resistless power. What were it now to toss upon the waves, The madden'd waves, and know no succor near, The howling of the storm alone to hear, And the wild sea that to the tempest raves ; To gaze amid the Iiorrors of the night. And only see the billow's gleaming light; Then in the dread of death to think of her Who, as she listens sleepless to the gale. Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale ? — O God ! have mercy on the mariner ! Westbury, 1799. XIX. . She comes majestic with her swelling sails. The gallant Ship ; along her watery way Homeward she drives before the favoring gales; Now flirting at their length the streamers play, And now they ripple with the rufiling breeze. Hark to the sailors' shouts ! the rocks rebound. Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound. Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas ; And what a heart-delight they feel at last, So many toils, so many dangers past, To view the port desired, lie only knows Who on the stormy deep for many a day Hath tost, aweary of his watery way, And watch'd, all anxious, every wind that blows Westbziry, 1799. XX. Farewell my home, my home no longer now. Witness of many a calm and happy day ; And tiiou, fair eminence, upon whose brow Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray, Farewell ! These eyes no longer shall pursue The western sun beyond the farthest height, When slowly he forsakes the fields of light. No more tiie freshness of the falling dew, Cool and delightful, here shall bathe my head. As from this western window dear, I lean, Listening, tlie while I watch the placid scene, The martins twittering underneath the shed. Farewell, dear home! where many a day has past In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last Westbiinj, 1799. l»' i3A3^^(Do 1 iJii-- nidged hast:,cii> i.t it u^Jl d i.Mit i-ti lien M will come- '^ MONODRAMAS. 121 MONODRAMAS. SAPPHO. bcENE. The Promontory of Leucadta. This is the spot : — 'tis here, tradition says, That hopeless Love from this high, towering rock Leaps headlong to oblivion or to death. Oh, 'tis a giddy height ! my dizzy head Swims at the precipice ! — 'tis death to fall ! Lie still, thou coward heart ! this is no time To shake with thy strong throbs the frame con- vulsed. To die, — to be at rest, — oh, pleasant thought ! Perchance to leap and live ; the soul all still. And the wild tempest of the passions husht In one deep calm ; the heart, no more diseased By the quick ague fits of hope and fear, Quietly cold ! Presidrag Powers, look down I In vain to you I pour'd my earnest prayers, In vain I sung your praises : chiefly thou, Venus ! ungrateful Goddess, whom my lyre Hymn'd with such full devotion. Lesbian groves. Witness liow often, at the languid hour Of sunmier twilight, to the melting song Ye gave your choral echoes ! Grecian maids. Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek, That lay of love, bear witness ! and ye youths. Who hang enraptured on the impassion'd strain. Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart Sinks in the deep delirium ! And ye, too. Ages unborn ! bear witness ye, how hard Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain ! Ungrateful Goddess ! I have hung my lute In yonder holy pile j my hand no more Shall wake the melodies that fail'd to move Obdurate Phaon ! — yet when rumor tells How, from Leucadia, Sappho cast herself, A self-devoted victim, — he may melt Too late in pity, obstinate to love. Oh ! haunt his midniglit dreams, black Nemesis ! Whom,* self-conceiving in the inmost depths Of Chaos, blackest Night long laboring bore. When the stern Destinies, her elder brood, [birth And shapeless Death, from that more monstrous Leapt shuddering : Haunt his slumbers. Nemesis ! Scorch with the fires of Phlegethon liis heart, Till, helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandon'd wretch. He too sliall seek beneath the unfathom'd deep To hide him from thy fury. How the sea Far distant glitters as the sun-beams smile. And gayly wanton o'er its heaving breast ! Phcebus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mourn His votary's sorrows. God of Day, shine on ! — By man despised, forsaken by the Gods, I supplicate no more. * Ov Ttvl KOtftriOetiTa ^ca rcKt NYH tpsScvvi] Hesiod. 16 How many a day, O pleasant Lesbos I in thy secret streams Dehghted have 1 plunged, from the hot sun Screen'd by the o'erarching grove s delightful shade. And pillow 'd on the waters ! Now the waves Shall chill me to repose. Tremendous height ' Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs Support me. Hark ! how the rude deep below Roars round the rugged base, as if it call'd Its long-reluctant victim ! I will come ! — One leap, and all is over ! The deep rest Of death, or tranquil apathy's dead calm, Welcome alike to me. Away, vain fears ! Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live.' Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one — Thought worse than death ! She throws herself from the precipict. Oxford, 1793 XIMALPOCA. The story of this Mexican King is related by TorqnemacTa ia his J\Iiinar(iuia Indiana^ ]. ii. c. 28, and by tlie Abate Clavi- gero, Sioria Aiitka ihi Messko, t. i. 1. iii. p. 199. The sac- ritice was not coajplcted ; a force sent by liis enemy arrived in time to prevent the catastrophe ; he was carried off cep- tive, and destroyed liimscif in prison. Scene. Tlie Temple of Mcxitli. Subjects ! friends ! children ! I may call you children. For I have ever borne a father's love Towards you ; it is thirteen years since first You saw me in the robes of royalty, — Since here the multitudes of Mexico Hail'd me their King. I thank you, friends, that now, In equal numbers and witli equal love. You come to grace my death. For thirteen years What I have been, ye know ; tliat with all care. That with all justness and all gentleness. Seeking your weal, I govern'd. Is there one Whom I have injured .' one whose just redress I have denied, or baftled by delay ? Let him come forth, that so no evil tongue Speak shame of me hereafter. O my people. Not by my sins have I drawn down upon me The wrath of Heaven. The wrath is heavy on me ! Heavy ! a burden more than I can bear ! 1 have endured contempt, insult, and wroncs From that Acolhuan tyrant. Should I seek Revenge ? Alas, my people, we are few, — Feeble our growing state ; it hath not yet Rooted itself to bear the hurricane ; It is the lion-cub tkat tempts not yet The tiger's full-aged fury. Mexicans, He sent to bid me wear a woman's robe, — When was the day that ever I look'd back 122 MONODRAMAS. In battle ? Mexicans, tlie wife I loved, To faith and friendship trusted, in despite Of me, of Heaven, he seized, and spurn'd her back Polluted ! — Coward villain ! and he lurks Beliind his armies and his multitudes. And mocks my idle wrath! — It is not fit — It IS not possible that I should live ! — Live ! and deserve to be tlie finger-mark Of slave-contempt ! — His blood I cannot reach, But in my own all stains may be effaced; It sliall blot out the marks of infamy. And wlien the warriors of the days to come Tell of Ximalpoca, it shall be said He died the brave man's death ! Not of the God Unworthy, do 1 seek his altar thus, A voluntary victim. And perchance The sacrifice of life may profit ye. My people, though all living efforts fail'd By fortune, not by fault. Cease your lament ! And if your ill-doom'd King deserved your love. Say of him to your children, he was one Who bravely bore misfortune; who, when life Became dishonor, shook his body off. And join'd the spirits of the heroes dead. Yes! not in Miclanteuctli's dark abods With cowards shall your King receive his doom: Kot in the icy caverns of the North Suffer through endless ages. He shall join The Spirits of the brave, with them at morn Shall issue from the eastern gate of Heaven, And follow through his fields of light the Sun; With, them shall raise the song and weave the dance ; Sport in the stream of splendor ; company Down to the western palace of his rest The Prince of Glory ; and with equal eye Kndure his centred radiance. Not of you Forgetful, O my people, even then ; But often in the amber cloud of noon Diffused, will I o'erspread your summer fields. And on tlie freshen'd maize and brightening meads Shower plenty. Spirits of my valiant Sires, I come ! Mexitli, never at thy shrine Flow'd braver blood ; never a nobler heart Steam'd up to thee its life ! Priests of the God, Perform your office ! Westbunj, 1798. (Jit : quod ejus factum varie pro cujuatiue ingenio est accep- tum, ac perirule sermonibus celebratum. Buchanan. THE WIFE OF FERGUS. Kcr^iisius 3. periit veneno ab uxore dato. .Mil scribunt cum u-vor sspc e.iprobrasset ei matrimonii contemptum et pelli- cum greges, neque quicquam profecisset, tandem noctu dor- mientem ab ea strangulatum. Uuipstione de morte ejus hiibi1&, cum amicorum plurimi insimularentur, nee quisquam ne in gravissimis quidem tormentis quisquam faterctur, innlier, alioqui ferox, tot inuoxiDrum capitum miscrta, in medium procossit, ac e supcriore loco credent a so factum confessa, ne ad ludibrium supcresset, pectus cultro transfo- ScENE. The Palace Court. The Queen speaking from the Battlements. Cease — cease your torments ! spare the sufferers ' Scotchmen, not theirs the deed; — the crime vraa mine. Mine is the glory. Idle threats ! I stand Secure. All access to these battlements Is barr'd beyond your sudden strength to force ; And lo ! the dagger by which Fergus died ! Shame on ye, Scotchmen, that a woman's hand Was left to do this deed ! Shame on ye, Thanes, Who with slave-patience have so long endured The wrongs and insolence of tyranny ! Cowardly race ! — that not a husband's sword Smote that adulterous King ! that not a wife Revenged her own pollution ; in his blood Wash'd herself pure, and for the sin compell'd Atoned by righteous murder ! — O my God ! Of what beast-matter hast thou moulded them To bear with wrongs like these ? There was a time When if the Bard had feign'd you such a tale. Your eyes had throbb'd with anger, and your hand, In honest instinct would have grasp'd the sword. miserable men, who have disgraced Your fathers, w'hom your sons must blush to name ' Ay, — ye can threaten me ! ye can be brave In anger to a woman ! one whose virtue Upbraids your coward vice ; whose name will live Honor'd and praised in song, when not a hand Shall root from your forgotten monuments The cankering moss. Fools! fools! to think tha> death Is not a thing familiar to my mind ; As if I knew not what must consummate My glory ! as if aught that earth can give Could tempt me to endure the load of life ! — Scotchmen ! ye saw w-lien Fergus to the altar Led mc, his maiden Queen. Ye blest me then, 1 heard you bless me, — and I thought that Heaven Had lieard you also, and that 1 was blest ; For I loved Fergus. Bear me witness, God ! With what a heart and soul sincerity My lips pronounced the unrecallable vow That made me his, him mine ; bear witness. Thou ' Before whose throne I this day must appear Stain'd with his blood and mine! My heart was his, — His in the strength of all its first affections. In all obedience, in all love, I kept Holy my marriage-vow. Behold me. Thanes ! Time hath not changed the face on which iiis eye So oflen dw-elt, when with assiduous care He sought my love, with seeming truth, for one, Sincere herself, impossible to doubt. Time hath not changed that face ! — I speak not now With pride of beauties that will feed the worm MONODRAMAS. 12S To-morrow ; but with honest pride I say, Tliat if tlie truest and tile purest love Deserved requital, such was ever mine. How often reeking from the adulterous bed Have I received him ! and with no complaint. Neglect and insult, cruelty and scorn, Long, hmg did I endure, and long curb down The indignant nature. Tell your countrymen, Scotcnmen, what 1 have spoken ! Say to them Ye saw the Queen of Scotland litl the dagger Red from her husband's heart ; that in lier own She plunged it. Stubs herself. Tell them also, that she felt No guilty fear in death. Westlmnj. 1793. LUCRETIA. Scene. The House of CoUattne. Welcome, my father ! good Valerius, Welcome ! and thou too, Brutus ! ye were both Mv wedding guests, and fitly ye are come. My husband — CoUatine — alas ! no more Lucretia's husband, for thou shalt not clasp Pollution to thy bosom, — hear me on ! F" ' "net *ei; *hee all. 1 sat at eve Spinning amid my maidens as I wont, When from the camp at Ardea Sextus came. Curb down thy swelling feelings, CoUatine ! 1 little liked the man ! yet, for he came From Ardea, for he brought me news of thee, I gladly gave him welcome; gladly listen 'd, — Thou canst not tell how gladly — to his tales Of battles, and the long and perilous siege ; And when I laid me down at night to sleep, 'Twas with a lighten'd heart, — I knew thee safe ; My visions were of thee. Nay, hear me out ! And be thou wise in vengeance, so thy wife Not vainly shall have suffer'd. I have wrought My soul up to the business of this hour. That it may stir your noble spirits, and prompt Such glorious deeds that ages yet unborn Shall bless my fate. At midnight I awoke ; The Tarquin was beside me ! O my husband. Where wert thou then ! gone was my rebel strength — All power of utterance gone ! astonish'd, stunn'd, 1 saw the coward ruffian, heard him urge His wicked suit, and bid me tamely yield, — Yield to dishonor. When he protfer'd death, — Oh, I had leap'd to meet themerciful sword ! But that with most accursed vows he vow'd. That he would lay a dead slave by my side. Murdering my spotless honor. — CoUatine, From what an anguish have I rescued thee ! And thou, my father, wretched as thou art. Thou miserable, childless, poor old man, — Think, father, what that agony had been ! Now thou mayst sorrow for me, thou mayst bless The memory of thy poor, polluted child. Look if it have not kindled Brutus' eye : Mysterious man ! at last I know thee now ; I see thy dawning glories ! — to the grave Not unrevenged Lucretia shall descend ; Not always shall her wretched country wear The Tarquin's yoke ! Ye will deliver Rome, And 1 have comfort in this dreadful hour. Thinkest thou, my husband, that I dreaded death .= O CoUatine ! the weapon that had gored My bosom had been ease, been happiness, — Elysium, to the hell of his hot grasp. Judge if Lucretia could have fear'd to die ! Stabs herself. Bristol, 1799. LA CABA This monodrania was written several years before the aullior had any intention of treating lit greater length the portion of Spanish history to which it relates. It is founded upon the following passage in tlie Ilbtoria Verdadcra del Rey Don Rodrigo, which Miguel de Luna translated from the Arahic. ^viendose despedido en la Ciudad de Cordoba el Coiide Don Julian de aqaellos Generates, recogio toda sii gcnte^ dcti- dos y criados ; y porque sua tterras estavcn tan pcrdidas y viahratadas, scfea a tin Ingar jiequeiio, que estdfubrkado en la ribrra del mar Jilediterruncoy en la provhiria que Hainan Vandalacia, d la qual nombraron los ChTistiaiwi en sii lengu a Villaviciosa. Y aviendo llegudo a ella, did ordcn de euibiar por su muger, y hija, que estavan detenidas ai aquellas partes de ^frica^ en una Ciudad que estd en la ribera del viar^ la qual se llama Tanjer, para deade nlli aguardar el sucesso de la conquista de Espana en que aria de parar .- las guales Uegadas en aquella Vilia, el Covde D. Julian las recibtd con macho contento, porque tenia bien scntida sn larga auscnda. y aviendo descansado ^ dcsde alii el Conde daca orden con muchn diligencia para publar y restaurar sus iiarraSf para ir d virir d ellas. Su hija estaim muy triste y ojiigida ; y por mucho que su padre y madre la regalavan, nnnca la podian contentary vi aUgrar. Imaginava la grande perdida de Espana^ y la grande destruicion de los Cltristianos, can tanias muertcs, y cautivenoSy robadas sus huziendas, y que clla kuinesse sido causa principal^ cabeza^ y ocasuni de oguella pcrdicion ; y sobre todo ellv le crecian mas sus pesadunibres en r'crse deshonrada, y sin e^rperanza de tener estado, segun ella deseara. Con rsta imnginacion, enganada del demoniOy dctcrmind entrcsi de morir desesperada ; y un dia sc subio d una torre, cerrando la puerta della por dedeittroy porque no fuesse estorvada de aquel hecho que queria hazer ; y diio a una ama suya, que le llamasse d an padre y madre, que Ics queria dezir un poco. Y siendo venidos, desde lo alto de aquella torre les hizo un razonamiento muy lastiinosOy diziendoles at Jin del, quemuger tan desdichada camo ella era, y tan desvenlurada, no merecia invir en ei mundii cun tanta dr^honra, mnyormcnte aviendo sido causa de tnntn mal y destruicion. Yluegn Irs dixo, Pudres, en memoria de mi desdicha, de aqui adrlante no se llamc esta Ciudad^ Villiu | vic.iosa, sino Malnca : Oy se acaba en ella la mas mala muger \ que hnro m el mu7iilo. Y acahadas cstas palabras, sin mas oir a sus padres, ni d nndie de Itis que estavan presentes, por miichos rucffos que la kizicron,y amonestacioiies que no se echasse abaro, se dei6 carr en el siielu ; y llerada medio mucrta, nivid como tres dias, y luego murld. — Fue causa este drsnstre y desesperacion de mur.ko escandah, y notable memoria, entre los jMoros y Christiaiios : y desde alle ailelante se llamo aquella Ciudad Malaga corruptamente por los Christianos ; y de los Arabes fue llamada Malum, en memoria de aquellas palabras que diro quando se cehd de la torre, no se llame P'Ulariciosay sino Jilatara, porque ca, en lenguaje Espanol qiiiere dezir por- que ,■ y porque dixo, ca, oy se acaba en ella la mas mala mvgcr que huvo en el mundu, se compuso este iwmbrc de Mala y ca. — Cap. xviii. pp. 81, 83. 124 AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHU FFLEBOTTOM. Bleila, vvlio lias incorporateil Miguel de Luna'a story in his Cranial dc los Moras de Esiiaha, pp 193, 194, has the fol- lowing curious passage concerning La Caba. Ftit la kermosura desta daaia no meitos danosa d Espana, que la de Elena a Troija. Llamaroida los Moras par mat nombre La Cava ; y noUt ti Padre Fray Estaean de Salazar, Carluza, en las discursos doctissiinos sobre el Credo, que e^to no fue sin' mysterio ; porque el nombre de nuestra primera madre en el Hebrea no se pronuncia EKa, sino CavaJi ; de snerte que tuvieran un mesma nombre dos mugeres quefueran ruijna de los hombres, la una en todo el munda, y la atra en Espaiia. — Bleda, p. 146. Morales supposes that the Gate at Malaga derived its name not from tlie death of La Caba, but from her having passed through it on her way to Africa. En Malaga he vista la pnerta en el mura, que llaman de La Cava, y diccn le quedo aqiiel nambre, habienda salido esta vez par ella emltarcarse. Y la gran dcsvcntura que luego sucedtd, deed tristemenle noUble aqucl lagar. — Morales, 1. xii. cap. Isvii. 4 4. Ttie very different view which I have taken of this subject wtien treating it upon a great scale, renders it proper to sub- stitute for Julian, in this earlier production, the name of Illan, for which the Caronira de E'paha affords authority, and to call his daugliter as she is named in that spirited Ode by P. Luis de Leon, of which a good translation may be found in Russell's poems. F-vTHER ! Count Ulan ! liere — what here I say, — Aloft — look up : — ay, father, here I stand, Safe of ray purpose now ! The way is barr'd ; — Thou need'st not hasten hither! — Ho! Count Ulan, 1 tell thee I have barr'd the battlements ! I tell thee that no human power can curb A desperate will. The poison and the knife — These thou couldst wrest from ine ; but here I stand Beyond thy thrall — free mistress of myself. Though thou hadst wings, thou couldst not over- take My purpose. 1 command my destiny. Would I stand dallying on Death's threshold here, If it were possible that liand of man Could pluck me back ? Why didst thou bring me here To set my foot, reluctant as I was, On this most injured and unhappy land ? Yonder in Afric — on a foreign shore, X miirht have linger'd out my wretched life — I might have found some distant lurking place, Wliere my accursed tale was never known; Where Gothic speech would never reach my ear, — Where among savages I might have fled The leprous curse of infamy ! But here — In Spain, — in my own country ; — night and morn Where all good people curse me in their prayers ; Where every Moorish accent that I hear Doth tell me of my country's overthrow, Dotli stab me like a dagger to the soul ; Here here — in desolated Spain, whose fields Yet reek to Heaven with blood, — whose slaugh- ter'd sons Lie rotting in the open light of day, My victims ; — said 1, mine ? Nay — Nay, Count Illan, They are thy victims I at the throne of God Their spirits call for vengeance on thy head ; Their blood is on thy soul, — even I, myself. I am thy victim too, — and this death more Must yet be placed in Hell to thy acconnt. O my dear country ! O my mother Spain ! My cradle and my grave ' — for thou art dear; And nursed to thy undoing as I was, Still, still I am thy child — and love thee still; I shall be written in thy chronicles The veriest wretch that ever yet betray'd Her native land ! From sire to son my name Will be transmitted down for infamy! — Never again will mother call her child La Caba, — an Iscariot curse will lie Upon the name, and children in their songs Will teach the rocks and hills to echo with it Strumpet and traitoress ! This is thy work, father Nay, tell me not my shame is wash'd away — That all this ruin and this misery Is vengeance for my wrongs. I ask'd not this, — I call'd for open, manly, Gothic vengeance. Thou wert a vassal, and thy villain lord Most falsely and most foully broke his faith ; Thou wert a father, and the lustful king By force abused thy child ! — Thou hadst a sword ; Shame on thee to call in the cimeter To do thy work ! Thou wert a Goth — a Chris- tian — Son of an old and honorable house, — It was my boast, my proudest happiness. To think I was the daugliter of Count Illan. Fool that I am to call this African By that good name ! O do not spread thy hands To me ! — and put not on that father's look ! Moor ! turbaned misbeliever ! renegade ! Circumcised traitor ! Thou Count Illan, Thou ! — Thou my dear father ? — cover me, O Earth ? Hell, hide me from tlie knowledge ! Brislol, 1S02. THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. SONNET I. DELIA AT PLAY. She held a Cup and Ball of ivory white, Less white the ivory than her snotcy hand ! Enrapt, I watch'd her from my secret stand, .4s now, intent, in innocent delight, Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball, Now tost it, following still with eagle sigjit. Now on the pointed end infiz'd its fall. Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd. Methought the ball she play'd with was my HEART ; (Alas ! that sport like that should be her pride !) And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart ; Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn Who on that dart impales my bosom's gem ' LOVE ELEGIES. 125 SONNET n. TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA'S PORTRAIT. Rash Painter! canst thou give the orb of day In all its noontide glory ? or portray The DIAMOND, that athwart the taper'd hall Flings the rickjlashes of its dazzling light ? Even if thine art could boast such magic might. Yet if it strove to paint my Angel's eye, Here it perforce must fail. Cease ! lest I call Heaven's vengeance on thy sin. Must thou be told Tlie CRIME it is to paint divinity .' Rash Painter ! should the world her charms behold, Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be, They to their old idolatry would fall, And bend before her form the pagan knee. Fairer than Vencs, DAncHTER of the sea. SONNET in he proves the existence of a sodl from HIS LOVE for DELIA. Some have denied a soul I they never loved. Far from my Delia now by fate removed. At home, abroad, I viewed her every where ; Her ONLY in the flood of noon I see. My Goadess Maid, my omnipresent fair. For love annihilates the icorld to me! And when the weary Sol around his bed Closes the sable curtains of the night. Sun of my slumbers, on my dazzled sight She shines confest. When every sound is dead, The spirit of her voice comes then to roll The surge of music o'er my wavy brain. Far, far from her my Body drags its chain, But sure with Delia / exist a soul ' SONNET IV. the poet expresses his feelings respecting A portrait in Delia's parlor. 1 WOULD I were that portly Gentleman With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane. Who hangs in Delia's parlor ! For whene'er From book or needlework her looks arise, On him converge the sun-beams of her eyes. And he nnblamed may gaze upon my fair. And oft MY FAIR h\sfavor'd form surveys. HAPPY PICTURE ! Still on HER to gaze ; 1 envy him ! and jealous fear alarms. Lest the strong glance of those divincst charms Warm him to life, as in the ancient days, When marble melted in Pygmalion's arms. I would I were that portly Gentleman Witli gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane. LOVE ELEGIES. ELEGY I. the poet relates how he obtained Delia's pocket-handkerchief. 'Tis mine ! what accents can my joy declare ? Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair. That left the tempting corner hanging out ! I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, After long travel to some distant shrine, When at the relic of his saint he kneels, For Delia's pocket-handkerchief is mine. When first with filching fingers I drew near. Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein And when the fnish'd deed removed my fear. Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain What though the Eighth Commandment rose to mind. It only served a moment's qualm to move ; For thefts like this it could not be design'd ; [love ! Tltc Eighth Commandment was not made for Here when she took the macaroons from me. She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet ! Dear napkin ! yes, she wiped her lips in thee ! Lips sicecter than the macaroons she eat. And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw, That made my Love so delicately sneeze. Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw. And thou art doubly dear for things like these. No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er. Sweet pocket-handkerchief ! thy worth pro- fane ; For thou hast touch'd the rubies of my fair. And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again. ELEGY 11. THE POET INVOKES THE SPIRITS OF THE ELEMENTS TO APPROACH DELIA. HE DESCRIBES HER SINGING. Ye Sylphs, who banquet on my Delia s blush. Who on her locks of floating gold repose. Dip in her cheek your gossamery brush. And with its bloom of beauty tinge the rose. Hover around her lips on rainbow icing. Load from her honey 'd breath your j!icWes5 feet, Bear thence a richer fragrance for the Spring, And make the lily and the violet sweet. 126 LOVE ELEGIES. Ye Gnomes, whose toil through many a dateless year Its nurture to the infant gem supphes, From central caverns bring your diamonds here, To ripen In the sun of Delia's eyes. And ye wlio bathe in Etna's lava springs. Spirits of fire I to see my love advance ; Fly, Salamanders, on Asbestos' wings, To wanton in my UeWn's fiery glance. She weeps, she weeps ! her eye with anguish swells, Some tale of sorrow melts my feeling girl! Nymphs I catch the tears, and in your lucid shells Enclose them, embryos of the orient pearl. She sings ! the Nightingale with envy hears. The Cherub listens from his starry throne, And motionless are stopp'd the attentive Spheres, To hear yreore heavenly music than their own. Cease, Delia, cease ! for all the angel throng. Hearkening to thee, let sleep their golden wires I Cease, Delia, cease that too surpassing song. Lest, stung to envy, they sliould break their lyres. Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven By the strong joy ! Cease, Delia, lest my soul, Enrapt, already think itself in heaven, .^nd burst the feeble Body's frail control. ELEGY in. the poet expatiates on the beauty of DELIA S HAIR. The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright, Not spotless merely from tlie touch remains. But issues forth vwre pure, more milky tvhite. The rose-pomatum that the Friseur spreads Sometimes with honor'd fingers for my fair i\o added perfume on her tresses sheds. But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair. Happy the Friseur who in Delia's hair With licensed fingers uncontroU'd may rove ! And happy in his death the dancing bear. Who died to make pomatum for my love. Oh could I hope that e'er my favor'd lays Might curl (Aosc/orf/y/oc/15 with conscious pride. Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherd's praise, I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside. Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, Tlie bow that in my breast impell'd his dart ; From you, sweet locks ! he wove the subtile line Wherewith the urchin angled for my heart. Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, proceed ; Fine as the gleamt Gossamer that spreads Its filmy web- work o'er the tangled mead. Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate My captive heart has handcuff d in a chain. Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, That bears Britannia's thunders o'ek the main. The Sylphs that round her radiant locks repair, Inflowing lustre bathe their brightening wings ; And Elfin Minstrels with assiduous care The ringlets rob for faery fiddle-strings. ELEGY IV. the poet relates how he stole a lock of Delia's hair, and her anger. Oh ! be the day accurst that gave me birth ! Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise ! Fall on me. Mountains! and thou merciful Earth, Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes ! Let universal Chaos now return. Now let the central fires their prison burst, .4nd earth, and heaven, and air, and ocean burn — For Delia frowns — she frowns, and /am mrs(.' Oh ! I could dare the fury of the fight. Where hostile millions sought my single life ; Would storm volcano batteries with delight. And grapple with grim death in glorious strife. Oh ! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies : What is his wrath to that of her I love ? What is his lightning to my Delia's eyes.' Go, fatal lock ! I cast thee to the wind ; Ye serpent curls, ye poison-tendrils, go ! Would I could tear thy memory from my mind. Accursed lock, — thou cause of all my woe ! Seize the curst curls, ye Furies, as they fly ! Demons of Darkness, guard the infernal roll. That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die. May knit the knots of torture /or my soul. Last night, — Oh hear me. Heaven, and grant my prayer ! The book of fate before thy suppliant lay. And let me from its ample records tear Only the single page of yesterday ! Or let me meet old Time upon his flight. And I will STOP him on his restless way ; Omnipotent in Love's resistless might, ni force him bach the road of yesterday. Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair, My Delia bent deliciously to grieve, LYRIC POEMS. 127 I stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair, And drew the fatal scissors from my sleeve : And would that at that instant o'er my thread The SHEARS OF Atropos had open'd then; And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, Had cut me sudden from the sons of men ! She heard the scissors that fair lock divide, And whilst my heart with transport panted big, She cast a fdry frown on me, and cried, " Youstupid Puppy, — you have spoil'd my Wig ! " Westiury, 1799. LYRIC POEMS TO HORROR. Tlv yap TTOra ctao/iat Tav Kcil a