Even to inglorious ease, to honour me.
But pure of heart and high of self-esteem
I must be honoured by myself: all else,
The breath of Fame, is as the 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 the well-temper'd blade. I gazed upon it,
And shuddering as I felt its edge, exclaim'd,
'It is most horrible with the keen sword
To gore the finely-fibred human frame!
I could not strike a lamb.'
'Maiden, thou hast said well. I could not strike
A lamb. But when the invader's savage fury
Spares not grey age, and mocks the infant's shriek
As he does writhe upon his cursed lance,
And forces to his foul embrace the wife
Even on her murder'd husband's gasping corse!
Almighty God! I should not be a man
If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling
Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down.
Think well of this, young man!' he cried, and seiz'd
The hand of Theodore; think well of this,
As you are human, as you hope to live
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 aid, and see her dragg'd, and hear her scream
In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful arms,
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 for food. Oh God! I would not lose
These horrible feelings tho' they rend my heart.'
"When we had all betaken us to rest,
Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolv'd
The high-soul'd warrior's speech. Then Madelon
Rose in remen brance; over her the grave
Had closed; her sorrows were not register'd
In the rolls of Fame: but when the tears run down
The widow's cheek, shall not her cry be heard
In Heaven against the oppressor? will not God
In sunder smite the unmerciful, and break
The sceptre of the wicked? Thoughts like these
Possess'd my soul, till at the break of day
I slept; nor then reposed my heated brain,
For visions rose, sent as I do believe
From the Most High. I saw a high-tower'd town
Hemmed in around, with enemies begirt,
Where Famine, on a heap of carcases,
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: the loud lewd laugh
Burst on my ears, and I beheld the chiefs
Even at their feast plan the device of death.
My soul grew sick within me: then methought
From a dark lowering cloud, the womb of tempests,
A giant arm burst forth, and dropt a sword
That pierced like lightning thro' the midnight air.
Then was there heard a voice, which in mine ear
Shall echo, at that hour of dreadful joy
When the pale foe shall wither in my rage.
"From that night I could feel my burthen'd soul Heaving beneath incumbent Deity.
I sat in silence, musing on the days
To come, unheeding and unseeing all
Around me,
in that dreaminess of soul
When every bodily sense is as it slept,
And the mind alone is wakeful.
Strange voices in the evening wind; strange forms
Dimly discovered throng'd the twilight air.
They wondered at me who had known me once
A cheerful, careless damsel. I have seen
Mine uncle gaze upon me wistfully,
A heaviness upon his aged brow,
And in his eye such meaning, that my heart
Sometimes misgave me. I had told him all
The mighty future labouring in my breast,
But that methought the hour was not yet come.
"At length I heard of Orleans, by the foe
Wall'd in from human succour; to the event
All look'd with fear, for there the fate of France
Hung in the balance. Now my troubled soul
Grew more disturb'd, and shunning every eye,
I loved to wander where the forest shade
Frown'd deepest; there on mightiest deeds to brood
Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart
Throb loud: anon I paused, and in a state
Of half expectance, listen'd to the wind.
"There is a fountain in the forest, call'd
The fountain of the Fairies: when a child,
With most delightful wonder I have heard
Tales of the Elfin tribe that on its banks
Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak,
The goodliest of the forest, grows beside;
Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat,
By the woods bounded like some little isle.
It ever hath been deem'd their favourite tree;6
They love to lie and rock upon its leaves,
And bask them in the moonshine. Many a time
Hath the woodman shown his boy where the dark round
On the green-sward beneath its boughs, bewrays
Their nightly dance, and bade him spare the tree.
Fancy had cast a spell upon the place
And made it holy; and the villagers
Would say that never evil thing approached
Unpunish'd there. The strange and fearful pleasure
That fill'd me by that solitary spring,
Ceas'd not in riper years; and now it woke
Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe.
'Lonely the forest spring: a rocky hill Rises beside it, and an aged yew
Bursts from the rifted crag that overbrows
The waters; cavern'd there, unseen and slow
And silently they well. The adder's tongue,
Rich with the wrinkless of its glossy glen,
Hangs down its long lank leaves, whose wavy dip
Just breaks the tranquil surface. Ancient woods
Bosom the quiet beauties of the place,
Nor ever sound profanes it, save such sounds
As Silence loves to hear, the passing wind,
Or the low murmuring of the scarce-heard stream.
"A blessed spot! oh, how my soul enjoy'd
Its holy quietness, with what delight,
Escaping humankind, I hastened there
To solitude and freedom!
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,
Seem'd as they rock'd my senses. Soon the night
Darken'd around, and the large rain-drops fell
Heavy; anon with tempest rage the storm
Howl'd o'er the wood. Methought the heavy rain
Fell with a grateful 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 fill'd my soul.
And when the thunders peal'd, and the long flash
Hung durable in heaven, and to mine eye
Spread the grey forest, all remembrance left
My mind, annihilate was every thought,
A most full quietness of strange delight;
Suspended all my powers; I seem'd as though
Diffused into the scene.
At length a light Approach'd the spring; I saw my uncle Claude; His grey 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,
Ay, Chieftain, and the world Shall soon believe my mission; for the Lord Will raise up indignation, and pour out
His wrath, and they shall perish who oppress."
Dunois and the Maid rest at a cottage. Their host speaks of the battle of Azincour, and the siege of Roan.
AND now, beneath the horizon westering slow,
Had sunk the orb of day: o'er all the vale
A purple softness spread, save where the tree
Its giant shadow stretch'd, or winding stream
Mirror'd the light of heaven, still traced distinct
When twilight dimly shrouded all beside.
A grateful coolness freshen'd the calm air,
And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song
Sung shrill and ceaseless, as the dews of night
Descended. On their way the travellers wend,
Cheering the road with converse, till far off
They mark a cottage taper's glimmering light
Gleam through the embower'd gloom: to that they turn.
An aged man came forth; his thin grey locks
Waved on the night breeze, and on his shrunk face
The characters of age were written deep.
Them, louting low with rustic courtesy,
He welcom'd in; on the white-ember'd hearth
Heapt up fresh fuel; then, with friendly care,
Spread out the homely board, and fill'd the bowl
With the red produce of the vine that arched
His evening seat; they of the plain repast
Partook, and quaff'd the pure and pleasant bowl.
Strangers, your fare is homely," said their host,
"But such it is as we poor countrymen
Earn with hard toil: in faith, ye are welcome to it!
I love a soldier! and at sight of one
My old heart feels as it were young again.
Poor and decrepit as I am, my arm
Once grasp'd the sword full firmly, and my limbs
Were strong as thine, sir warrior! God be with thee,
And send thee better fortune than old Bertram !
I would that I were young again, to meet
These haughty English in the field of fight;
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