 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
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JOAN OF ARC.
THE ARGUMENT.
Joan was the daughter of a shepherd who dwelt on the northeastern frontier of France. As she kept her father's sheep Three Voices of Saints ever and anon conversed with her of things divine; but the Saints themselves she saw not. Later these Voices said to her: ‘It is God's will that thou should'st go unto Dauphin Charles at Chinon, and next deliver Orleans, and after that take the Dauphin to Rheims that he may be crowned King.’ These Three Tasks being accomplished, the Maid desired greatly to return to her parents, but was wrought on to fight yet longer. After that she was taken prisoner, and condemned to death as a sorceress. Then all France, reverencing great deeds and yet more her holy death, rose up and drove the invaders forth from the realm.
‘Maid, more a maid than all the maids of France
Who ever kissed, then plucked, her fleur-de-lys,
Leave on that bank thy crook of shepherdess,
That lamb whose head is couched upon thy knee.
Get thee to Chinon: heedless there abides
Thy prince, a weakling 'mid a wanton court.
Tell him that, since nor valiant man nor wise
Avails to raise him to his father's throne,
God lays on thee that mission—thee who ne'er
Hast lifted sword, since strength is God's alone.
To Vaucouleurs! There speak with Baudricourt.’
Then answered she whom all men called ‘The Maid,’
The slight, pale damsel with the naked feet,
Red lips, red kirtle, visionary eyes:
‘The worthier see thy Face; thy Voice alone
I hear, and oft have heard, and love it well,
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That hurled Rebellion forth from Heaven, I go.’
Then 'twixt the eyes she kissed her little lamb
And laid it down; and on her homeward way
She heard a second voice, yet nothing saw:
‘Maid, when thou seest that prince thou think'st on ever,
Arouse his nobler nature speaking thus:
“Sleepest thou, my Prince? If so, to me, a maid,
Grant horse and arms! To Orleans I must ride;
With me true men alone. Thy foes shall vanish;
And France, that sign discerned, shall right thy wrong.”’
Listening that voice the maid had knelt. It ceased.
She rose and spake: ‘Great Alexandrian Saint,
Catherine! Full well I recognize that voice
Which drew to Christ the famed Egyptian seers.
Of all the legends in that blazoned book
I love that tale the best. I see thee not;
But when I hear that Voice I dream that Face,
That smile which o'er it spreads, while slowly, slowly,
That Babe, forth leaning from His Mother's arms,
Adown thy finger draws His bridal ring.
Thy mandate I obey.’
She walked once more;
Not far: for soon a voice long loved had reached her.
‘Maid, when the foe hath fled before thy face,
Orleans is free, ride thou beside that prince
Who should be, yet who is not, King of France,
To Rheims! and when the crown is on his head
Give thanks; and to thy parents' roof return.’
Not far: for soon a voice long loved had reached her.
‘Maid, when the foe hath fled before thy face,
Orleans is free, ride thou beside that prince
Who should be, yet who is not, King of France,
To Rheims! and when the crown is on his head
Give thanks; and to thy parents' roof return.’
Again the kneeler, rising, spake: ‘Great Queen,
Thou too didst crown a King; for through thy prayers
Winning thy lord, thou gavest his realm to Christ.
Margaret of Scotland, I obey thy word!’
Thou too didst crown a King; for through thy prayers
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Margaret of Scotland, I obey thy word!’
She spake, then sought, quick-paced with brightening eye
Her parents' home beside its murmuring brook
Its ‘fairy tree’—she oft had danced beneath it—
And church five centuries old.
She told them how those Voices, wont till then
To say, ‘Work hard, be strong, be not a dreamer—
Eternity suffices for repose—’
Their great behest, long promised, had imposed.
Her parents bade her thrice repeat her tale.
They liked it not. They willed her to remain
And tend their flock. Not less they knew their child;
Had ofttimes marked in her some touch divine,
Oftenest when tendering alms, or rapt in prayer.
They knew no wish for praise had touched her ever,
The world for her existed not; ‘the body’—
Hers seemed but ‘spirit draped.’ God and His Church,
Her King, her country,—she had lived for these
Her seventeen years. Oft seemed she younger far;
For as, death past, the dead grow beautiful,
And youth in part returns, tenderly thus
Sleep dealt with her. Each night her lids scarce dropt
When maiden face had changed to face of child,
A child of twelve years old. At dawn of day
The old Priest who best had known her bade her speed:
She lingered long, back gazing. Thus she spake:
‘Ah, loving parents mine, how much I owe you!—
Ah, little sister mine, thy loving heart
Will beat no more 'gainst mine for many a night.’
Her parents' home beside its murmuring brook
Its ‘fairy tree’—she oft had danced beneath it—
And church five centuries old.
She told them how those Voices, wont till then
To say, ‘Work hard, be strong, be not a dreamer—
Eternity suffices for repose—’
Their great behest, long promised, had imposed.
Her parents bade her thrice repeat her tale.
They liked it not. They willed her to remain
And tend their flock. Not less they knew their child;
Had ofttimes marked in her some touch divine,
Oftenest when tendering alms, or rapt in prayer.
They knew no wish for praise had touched her ever,
The world for her existed not; ‘the body’—
Hers seemed but ‘spirit draped.’ God and His Church,
Her King, her country,—she had lived for these
Her seventeen years. Oft seemed she younger far;
For as, death past, the dead grow beautiful,
And youth in part returns, tenderly thus
Sleep dealt with her. Each night her lids scarce dropt
When maiden face had changed to face of child,
A child of twelve years old. At dawn of day
The old Priest who best had known her bade her speed:
She lingered long, back gazing. Thus she spake:
‘Ah, loving parents mine, how much I owe you!—
Ah, little sister mine, thy loving heart
Will beat no more 'gainst mine for many a night.’
To Vaucouleurs she passed; saw that brave man,
Its ruler, Baudricourt. He never doubted;
The maid was no impostor. Keenly he marked
That ever with her soarings wisdom joined
Insight with zeal. All northern France, he said,
O'er-swarmed that hour with wild and wandering bands
Lawless alike, all false, all sanguinary,
That sang chivalrous courtesy, then fired
Castle and cot alike. The old warrior spake
With reverence, not with condescending kindness,
With reverence such as eld feels oft for youth,
Knowing how great a thing is innocence.
He ended thus: ‘I am no preacher, Maid:
Counsellors more sage, I think, have told you sometimes
That strong illusions mock at times high aims.
Yet this is true not less, that faith when humble
Hath power to chase them. God hath given you faith:
Pray God it walk beside you all your life,
Sustain you at your death.’ The old man's eyes
Grew misted as he spake that last word ‘death.’
She marked it and remembered oft. Next morn
He blessed her, and they parted.
On she pushed
Its ruler, Baudricourt. He never doubted;
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That ever with her soarings wisdom joined
Insight with zeal. All northern France, he said,
O'er-swarmed that hour with wild and wandering bands
Lawless alike, all false, all sanguinary,
That sang chivalrous courtesy, then fired
Castle and cot alike. The old warrior spake
With reverence, not with condescending kindness,
With reverence such as eld feels oft for youth,
Knowing how great a thing is innocence.
He ended thus: ‘I am no preacher, Maid:
Counsellors more sage, I think, have told you sometimes
That strong illusions mock at times high aims.
Yet this is true not less, that faith when humble
Hath power to chase them. God hath given you faith:
Pray God it walk beside you all your life,
Sustain you at your death.’ The old man's eyes
Grew misted as he spake that last word ‘death.’
She marked it and remembered oft. Next morn
He blessed her, and they parted.
Through fields and thorny woodlands. Some aver
That, tasked by stoniest paths, her slender feet
Bled never, 'mid the miry showed no stain;
That on green downs the lambs around her played;
The bird sole-singing on the quivering spray
Cheered her, while furry shapes peered out from holes:
That cottage inmates gave her bread and placed
Their infant in her arms and bade her bless it
And watched her long departed. Yea, 'tis said
A boy of six years old from hill to hill
Tracked her six hours and more.
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Her head oft rested on a wild-deer's flank.
When flocked the hinds to Mass from field and farm
Noting the corn-stacks near the household trees
She wept, for still her heart was with the poor:—
‘Alas, must all their little humble store
Be prey to fire and sword?’
The twentieth eve
Her travel reached its term. Majestic Loire
By sunset flushed rolled on in massive flood
Solemn though swift. O'er it the countless towers
Of Tours sent forth their tender vesper chimes,
Echoes of vesper chimes in ages past
That smoothed Time's pathway to eternity.
She passed to Chinon's gates; then stood in prayer,
Her wont ere yet she crossed each threshold new;
For thus she mused, perchance some dying man
Lies here; perchance some pretty babe new-born;—
Then entered them unbid.
A music strain
Far heard, her guide, she passed from hall to hall,
Some armour-hung to where rich doors flung wide
Shewed a long gallery thronged by knights and dames.
Some talked, some laughed; at times a lady held
One finger o'er the chess-board hovering long,
Then dropped it down on castle, queen, or knight,
Yet hesitated still and marked whose eyes
Pursued the ivory wanderer. At her harp
Sat Agnes Sorel singing. As the song
Soared from her lips the smile around them brightened
And larger beamed her azure eyes. The Maid
Glanced on her lightly, and, misliking, passed
To where, with many near him, stood a youth
In velvet black. Irresolute was his face
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Scarce marked, a lady pale that widow seemed;
Yet was both Wife and Queen.
The Maid addressed him:
‘God save thee, gentle Dauphin: may His grace
Accord thee holy life.’ The prince replied—
News he had heard of her from Baudricourt,
And willed to test her—‘Maid, the King is yon!’
He spake, and pointed to a warrior tall
And stately, starred with emblems of his greatness,
Dunois, best soldier deemed that day in France.
She answered: ‘Gentle Prince, that may not be;
God tells me thou art King and not another.’
‘Damsel, thy name?’—‘Men call me “Joan the Maid.”
Dauphin, this word I bear thee from thy God,
He yields thee back thy realm! God reigns: in thee
He sees His France's heir.’ Again she spake:
‘Dauphin, provide me armour and a horse:
At once the siege of Orleans I must raise,
And later see thee crowned in holy Rheims.
These tasks discharged my mission is fulfilled,
And I, to happy lowliness restored,
Clasp my young sister. This shall be the sign.
Bend low that I may whisper.’
Near her lips,
Red rose-leaves by light zephyrs agitated,
He stooped his ear. Her whisper lasted long
As when a young child says his ‘Ave Mary’
With recollection. Charles' cheek grew pale:
He cried: ‘Of all who tread the earth not one
Had cognisance of that vow! Maid, I believe!
To Orleans with my standard in thy hand!
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Those hard by
Clapped hands obsequious in enthusiasm.
All save Dunois. In silence stood the Maid
A little bowed with palms upon her breast;
While Agnes Sorel glancing from afar
With sideway forehead leaning on her harp
In tone her royal lover could not hear
Spake splenetic; ‘Yon girl's foot-bare! Alas!
I fear those rushes hurt her dainty feet!’
Last Citaux's hoary Abbot rose; he spake:
‘Sir and my King, at Poitiers three days hence
A spiritual Council meets honouring that field
Whereon Charles Martel smote that Moslem host
Else lords ere now of earth! That Maid send thither.
They'll speak the truth as Martel fought for truth;
No ambling half-breeds they!’
The King agreed,
And she, that sad, sweet lady clothed in black
Advancing clasped in hers the Maid's slight hands;
Then looking on them said: ‘No ring; so best!’
Thus adding: ‘Maid, be guest and friend this night
Of one not rich in friends.’ But near a casement—
Through it a low wind brushed at times her harp—
Sat Agnes Sorel with sad eyes averse
Fixed on a glittering stream that girt remote
Her little islet home ablaze with flowers,
A place of tombs hard by.
The Maid that night
Reposed the first time on a perfumed pillow.
She mused—how mournful seemed that youthful prince!
How angel-like yet childlike that old monk!
Ere long she saw in dream her parents' house
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She oft had danced. A rose o'er-trailed that wall
Painted with warlike deeds a century later.
She trod its floor. The cottage inmates slept;
The old mastiff guarding still in sleep that cradle
Which had not held its babe for seventeen years.
She sought the garden; hid in apple-bloom
A bird half wakened chirped. She clomb a rock
And eastward saw among the woody hills
The upper waters of the silver Meuse
Winding relaxed down from the dawn-touched Vosges.
She saw; and sighed to wake.
Three days passed by:
The Council met at Poitiers. In the midst
The Maid stood up. Briefly she told her tale.
The Council next made question of her Faith:
Her answers pleased it. Insight keen they shewed
Humble albeit, and joined with lofty mind
Strange soberness of heart. Great Truths to her,
Thus spake those Elders whispering each to each,
Shone through a diamond air: what others saw
She touched with naked hand. They sent to Arc;
Made inquest of her life. The peasants answered
She was the lamb's best friend against the wolf:
The answer of her parents was more brief:—
‘The child is good enough.’
Thus to the King
The Council judgment sent: ‘That Maid is true:
In her we find no ill but good alone,
Faith, courage, love, pure life and upright heart.
Your Grace instructs us that, untaught by men,
She knew you, and that vow divulged to none.
Next you demand, were these things miracles?
Sir, miracles will glorify God's Church
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But to distinguish miracles unquestioned
From others fancy-feigned is hard. Your Grace
Fitliest will act trusting at once this Maid
And testing her. Let counsellors none approach her:
Loose rein concede her. If her work be God's
'Twill tell its tale ere long.’
The King obeyed:
Thus he addressed her: ‘Maid, thy suit is won:
To Orleans lead ten thousand men—my best—
Since there thou sayest that God will shew a sign.’
She answered: ‘Ere I march I claim three things:
The first is this: the men who share that march
Must be unhired; true men whose wage is God.
My next demand is this: that standard old
In the first Crusade the glory of old Tours:
The world's Creator stands 'mid fleurs-de-lys
Blazoned thereon—a gold sphere in His hand:
That standard I must bear. My last demand—
A sword there lies within Saint Catherine's Church
At Fierbois: record of it none remains:
Yet thrice in vision I have seen that sword:
That sword must go before us on our march.’
The King complied. On the third night at twelve
They found that sword she spake of; on its hilt
That gravure she had seen.
Swift as a blast
Of hymns in rapture of thanksgiving borne
O'er lands long parched when rain dissolves the drought,
Rushed the great tidings. Edward the Black Prince
And that fifth Henry, Crecy, and Agincourt
Had done their work; and now an alien babe
Lorded the realm. At last the shout had risen
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A Maid shall save her;’ and the land believed.
While marched that Maid along the bank of Loire
'Mid pastures green new lit with fires of spring
Thousands around her flocked. Round Orleans' walls
The chiefest captains of that age were camped:
Warnings she sent them. Mad with merriment
They flung her missives on the winds: but some
Who laughed not, whispered: ‘Brothers, bide the event!
What God decrees shall come!’
On the third eve
That Host triumphant eyed the foe they spurned;
Ten thousand men fronted the setting sun
Alone—the first—that standard in her hand,
The Maid! Like men in dream they stood: ere long
Divided. Through the lane thus formed she passed,
She and her host unhired. No shout was heard:
Like frozen men they stood. Vainly that hour
Old warriors urged them on. The Maid and hers
Through city-gates self-opening as might seem,
Their summits thronged by starvelings pale and mute
Rode to the minster; kneeling there gave thanks
The in-rushing townsfolk sang aloud ‘Te Deum.’
In Orleans there was feast that night. Next day
Their panic past that leaguering foe fought hard:
Again the battle-cries of Salisbury rose
Of Talbot and of Suffolk. In a week
Again was silence.
Six thousand lay in death beyond the walls:
The remnant made retreat.
Not unpursued—
The Maid and her Ten Thousand followed fast.
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Though borne before her in the battle's van
She wielded never. In her sword-hand flamed
The Oriflamme alone.
Each battle won clothed her with light as when
Miriam sole standing by the Red Sea raised
Her cymbal, singing, ‘The Lord hath triumphed.’
Oft o'er the noble dead she wept; yet laughed
To hear how Suffolk on the red grass lay
Wounded, and how above him towered Renaud:
‘Art thou a knight?’ the old warrior made demand:
Renaud replied, ‘Not yet.’ Then Suffolk laid
On the young man's shoulder knighthood with his blade
And said, ‘Your prisoner, Sir.’ She heard, and cried
‘Brave man and true! God grant him speedy ransom!
All good men should be friends!’
There are who swear
'Twas not her faith alone which bore her on:
By gift divine the science of the wars
Was hers, infused; yet all confess alike
Hers was besides some loftier inspiration.
Later by thirty years thus Dunois witnessed:
‘Whate'er she wrought, or spake, or looked, in her
A something supernatural still I noted.
She seemed to live in God. The superstitions
At which I laughed in peasant and in prince
In her possessed no place. She spake not oft,
And still her uttered words however great
Seemed less than others which remained unuttered,
Breed of the same high stock.’
Three months went by:
Then to the King she sent. Her words were these:
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Sir, Heaven has done its part, and many a land
Looks round amazed: and asks, “The King, where is he?”
Sir, and my King, fulfilled is half my mission;
Share with me the remainder. March to Rheims!’
The King obeyed. Girt by twelve thousand men
She made that marvellous march — two hundred miles—
Whereon each castled crag still frowned upon her
Each city sent a host to bar her way.
At last her mission's bourne, old holy Rheims,
Shone from afar. Ere set of sun it sent
Its best and noblest in procession long
To greet the conqueror with the city's keys.
That Conqueror was the Maid. The King it was
Who thanked them with such grace, that all men cried,
A Charlemagne restored! But verily
No Charlemagne was he!
Three days and more
They venerated that city of Sanctuaries
Where Clovis, earliest Christian king of France,
With him three thousand thousand of his iron race,
Led thither by his saintly wife, Clotilde,
The young, the pure, the beautiful, the good,
To Christ was joined in baptism. There, 'tis said,
Saint Remi preached the Passion; there King Clovis
Leaped to his feet and smote the altar steps
Thrice with his sword, and cried, ‘Had I been there
My Franks and I, that race accurst had perished!’
Upon Saint Osmond's Feast the King was crowned:
The Mass completed, through the minster swelled
Sound as of soft seas crushing sandy shores:
Next with grave feet tuned as to strains in heaven
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Beside that King, steel-clad from brow to foot
And holding high the standard consecrate
Stood up the Maid Elect. The mitred man
Lodged in the monarch's grasp sceptre and globe,
Chaunting that prayer ‘Stand firmly and hold fast.’
Thus was that second prophecy fulfilled:—
‘He shall be crowned at Rheims.’
The Maid Elect
Sank on her knees. Thus spake she: ‘From my birth
I hated those who stained our France with blood:
No man henceforth I hate!’ She rose and spake:
‘Fair King, of kisses on thy hand impressed
In pledge of fealty true the first be mine.’
She kissed his hand. Like homage paid by all
Once more she spake. She spake with lifted hand
That sceptreless appeared itself a sceptre:
‘Most gentle King, attend! Through help of God
Orleans is free once more; the King is crowned.
One duty yet remains. Within this church
I leave this armour worn at God's command:
My parents' home is near; to them I speed;
I yearn to see them and my little sister,
And tend once more our flock.’
A rapid glance
The counsel-loving King around him cast,
The award of all instinctively descried
(Unkingly faculty, and yet his chiefest).
He spake: ‘The coronation feast attends;
We'll treat of this to-morrow.’ As he spake
On the Maid's brow fell shade till then unseen.
Next morning, ere that weariness and chill
Which follows fierce excitements had dispersed
The weight of many a war-field on her still,
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He said, ‘will turn to wreck.’—From the sweet lip
Came answer sad. ‘Dunois! It may not be!
Orleans is free: the King is crowned at Rheims:
These were my Mission: nought was given beside:
A year ends all.’
A bishop rose: ‘A year?
How many a crime a year of war brings forth!
Maid, to thy prince thy duty is fulfilled;
Fight next for France! For this a month suffices.’
Others their supplications joined with his—
An hour went by and more—
The King made entrance. ‘Let the damsel be!
She warned me early—“All shall kiss thy hand;
In pledge of fealty true: the first be mine.”
The first that tendered pledge forsakes me first;
Many will leave me soon.’
Pallid she sat
More than her wont, the rest around her standing:
Then first, then last, she parleyed with a Doubt.
With lips compressed at last she made reply:
‘Be it. This second task may meet from God
Acceptance, yet is not of God's command.’
A trivial sin save that in Souls so great
No sin is trivial—claims a trivial penance:
An Error:—yet it gave the Maid her crown!
More than her wont, the rest around her standing:
Then first, then last, she parleyed with a Doubt.
With lips compressed at last she made reply:
‘Be it. This second task may meet from God
Acceptance, yet is not of God's command.’
A trivial sin save that in Souls so great
No sin is trivial—claims a trivial penance:
An Error:—yet it gave the Maid her crown!
A feastful week the King abode at Rheims
With tournament and dance where brightest eyes
Flashed brighter. Round the monarch nobles flocked
Ice-cold till then. Lorraine's old duke, and Bar,
Damoiseau de Commercy; knights uncounted.
King Charles, long pleasure-fooled, fought well when tested.
Leon and Soisson, Provins, Chateau-Treve,
Willing or forced, submitted: later on
Beauvais right gladly, Sens, and St. Denis.
Bedford's great duke, left regent by King Henry,
At Paris crowned his babe. Vainly with all
Consummate soldiership could work, all craft
Of march and countermarch by him alone
Possessed, that regent kept at bay his fate
Till Beaufort joined him with five thousand men.
Charles triumphed; yet the war had suffered change:
Less music in the camp was heard, less prayer.
The men who first to Orleans marched unhired,
Now sweated in their farms. Its inspiration
Had died from off the countenance of the war,
Failed from its inmost heart. Strategic skill
Supplied its place but scantly. Jealousies
Crept forth. To stifle such the Maid renounced
Sole and supreme command. The Battle's van
Thenceforward was her place.
One night a dream
With tournament and dance where brightest eyes
Flashed brighter. Round the monarch nobles flocked
Ice-cold till then. Lorraine's old duke, and Bar,
Damoiseau de Commercy; knights uncounted.
King Charles, long pleasure-fooled, fought well when tested.
Leon and Soisson, Provins, Chateau-Treve,
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Beauvais right gladly, Sens, and St. Denis.
Bedford's great duke, left regent by King Henry,
At Paris crowned his babe. Vainly with all
Consummate soldiership could work, all craft
Of march and countermarch by him alone
Possessed, that regent kept at bay his fate
Till Beaufort joined him with five thousand men.
Charles triumphed; yet the war had suffered change:
Less music in the camp was heard, less prayer.
The men who first to Orleans marched unhired,
Now sweated in their farms. Its inspiration
Had died from off the countenance of the war,
Failed from its inmost heart. Strategic skill
Supplied its place but scantly. Jealousies
Crept forth. To stifle such the Maid renounced
Sole and supreme command. The Battle's van
Thenceforward was her place.
She dreamed—ah, how unlike that Chinon dream!—
The war was past; to Arc she walked alone,
Less buoyant was her footstep than of old;
Heavy with August sunshine spread the boughs;
The harvest slopes were golden. Near arrived,
Her heart already in her childhood's home,
She clomb a rock which over-gazed the village.
Back she recoiled. There endless winter reigned!
Deep snow hid all. The Maid—so ran her dream—
Thought thus—or heard it from a stranger near
‘The Penance this of some poor soul that sinned.’
Rushed from that rock, pushed knee-deep through that snow:
She found her parents' hut half fallen. One hearth
Remained, a cradle near, a mastiff dead—
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Next day she led
A sally from Compiègne then leaguered long:
A storm burst forth and lightning smote the earth.
Blinded she seemed at first then gazed around.
A panic seized her followers, and they fled.
She scorned to fly; an arrow pierced her horse.
He fell; the battle tempest o'er her rolled.
Some sware 'twas treason's work.
To the end—since shames
There are, such shames 'tis shameful to record them.
By laws of war that Maid, her ransom paid,
Had walked in freedom. Traitors, that law well knowing
Flung soon around their prey the hunter's net.
Beauvais' false prelate from his see expelled
By popular suffrage for conspiracy
With Bedford—Bedford's creature since that day,
Devised that plot,—they tried the Maid for crimes
Unknown to courts of war—not civil treason
But sorcery, magic, and such spiritual sins
As meet their doom in spiritual courts alone.
In Rouen sat that court, Beauvais its head;
Beside him fifty doctors, casuists, lawyers,
With others. Cardinal Beaufort was of these,
That prince world-famous for his terrible end
Who saw the murdered Gloster's spectre near
And cried, ‘Comb down his hair! It stands upright,
Like limed twigs set to catch my winged soul!’
Then passed to judgment.
The Maid stood daily, friendless, unalarmed;
A wild-eyed throng around her raged for joy
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Sworn to Duke William's offspring hated France,
Her most, the Maid, yet half believed her mission.
Unmoved she stood; at times she smiled; at times
Her dark eye rested with a sadness sweet
On brows, some mitred, yet unvenerable,
And wrinkled scribes with hot and hurrying hand
Transmuting Truth to lies. Question on question
They hurled at her in mass. ‘Fair sirs,’ she said
Like one by children's petulance half-amused
‘I pray you put your questions one by one
Not thus at random.’ Some one called her ‘Joan’;
She answered, ‘Gentle lord, men call me “Maid”;
That name I answer best.’ ‘Are you in grace?’
She answered, ‘If I be, God keep me in it;
Better to die than live not loving God.’
Questions doctrinal next they put to snare her.
First gravely, then with sternness she replied,
‘Fair sirs, be wise in questioning! Themes there are
On which I answer not and should not answer.
My gentle lords, ye call yourselves my judges:
Ye are such; therefore judge with judgment just.
This is your trial day!’
That eve at dusk,
Folk issuing slowly from the Judgment Hall,
Thus Beaufort spake to Beauvais: ‘Yonder girl
May be impostor; she's no Visionary.
Her words though strange have pith; and when she walks
Though light her tread her foot takes hold o' the ground.’
Beauvais made answer low: ‘Lord Cardinal
A King's son you and walk the world unquestioned;
There's not one street in Rouen I could tread
If I released that Maid!’ The Cardinal next
With thin lip curled, ‘The better for Barabbas!’
Folk issuing slowly from the Judgment Hall,
Thus Beaufort spake to Beauvais: ‘Yonder girl
May be impostor; she's no Visionary.
Her words though strange have pith; and when she walks
Though light her tread her foot takes hold o' the ground.’
Beauvais made answer low: ‘Lord Cardinal
A King's son you and walk the world unquestioned;
There's not one street in Rouen I could tread
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With thin lip curled, ‘The better for Barabbas!’
Abortive thus nine days the judges met.
No witnesses were called or none made answer.
They baited her; 'twas vain. Not once she shewed
Distempered mind. It was not thus with them:
Writhing in wrath at last they shouted thus:
‘Full adjuration or the death by fire!’
She answered: ‘Sirs, deceive not your own hearts:
Sirs, it was God Who sent me. I appeal
To God, the Pope, and all the Church of Christ.’
The judges whispered; next advanced a clerk;
That clerk read low an act of abjuration
Suppressing half that act. She waived it back.
He read her next a brief unmeaning scroll;
It pledged her but to ride thenceforth no more
In war a knight steel-clad. Smiling she took it;
Glanced at it lightly; signed it with a cross;
That cross they placed upon a parchment new,
An abjuration full. The lie thus forged
Lived, a tradition long.
The murder craft
No witnesses were called or none made answer.
They baited her; 'twas vain. Not once she shewed
Distempered mind. It was not thus with them:
Writhing in wrath at last they shouted thus:
‘Full adjuration or the death by fire!’
She answered: ‘Sirs, deceive not your own hearts:
Sirs, it was God Who sent me. I appeal
To God, the Pope, and all the Church of Christ.’
The judges whispered; next advanced a clerk;
That clerk read low an act of abjuration
Suppressing half that act. She waived it back.
He read her next a brief unmeaning scroll;
It pledged her but to ride thenceforth no more
In war a knight steel-clad. Smiling she took it;
Glanced at it lightly; signed it with a cross;
That cross they placed upon a parchment new,
An abjuration full. The lie thus forged
Lived, a tradition long.
Ended not there. Next morning she awoke
Roused by a sun-flash from her knightly mail
In malice filched from her when captured first,
In malice worse restored. With beating heart
She gazed upon those arms. She mused: ‘I feared
At first to wear them though at God's command.
How soon that maiden fear was changed to joy
At Orleans late delivered, then at Rheims
Rheims where I longed to leave them—that is past!
Armour no more I wear in war for ever.
What then? My task is wrought, my King is King!
351
I wear them one hour more.’
Steel panoplied
She sang her last ‘Te Deum.’ It was heard
By angel ears.
Not theirs alone—‘Relapsed!’
The spies rushed forward crying: ‘Renegade false
Who swore'st to bear no arms!’ Upon their leader
She fixed her gaze. ‘Bishop, by you I die:
Last eve you veiled your plot; you now divulge it!
Your charge is false. I swore last eve to bear
Thenceforth no arms in war: I keep that oath.
I swore those Voices were authentic Voices
The Voices of God's Saints. That oath is true;
I disobeyed those Voices once alone,
Sore tempted then. That sin they have forgiven;
Not two months since they promised me deliverance
How that may come I know not. Be it so:
Not seeing, I believe.
“Relapsed.” That word bears meaning—“Death by fire!”
Farewell, my lord!’
The man dismissed retired
Incensed yet glad to go.
That morn by one,
A beauteous English boy—her sword had saved him
In battle's fiercest, and he loved her well—
She sent a message to old Baudricourt,
A message, for she ne'er had learned to write:
‘Farewell, true friend! That eve we spake together
You thus addressed me: “God has given you Faith:
Pray God it walk beside you all your life,
Sustain you at your death!”
At that word “death” a tear was in your eye;
352
I thank you for it now.’ To those her dearest
Her words were few:—‘God's work is worked, thank God!
O what a meeting will be ours in heaven!
Till then rejoice! O father! and O mother!
O sister mine, farewell!’
In the market-place
That synod of the unholy met once more.
Beauvais and Beaufort shouldered through the crowds:
(Men honour least the priest that courts their suffrage).
The Cardinal spake: ‘Bishop, those varlets flout you!
Look well before you! When you've burned yon Maid,
The noblest spirit this land has ever bred,
Be sure you drown her ashes in the Seine!
They'll quicken else more late to fiery snakes
And sting your France to death!—
I joined your hunting-match for England's sake
Remembering those two lands were ever foes:—
With you compared I seem but half a villain.’
That synod of the unholy met once more.
Beauvais and Beaufort shouldered through the crowds:
(Men honour least the priest that courts their suffrage).
The Cardinal spake: ‘Bishop, those varlets flout you!
Look well before you! When you've burned yon Maid,
The noblest spirit this land has ever bred,
Be sure you drown her ashes in the Seine!
They'll quicken else more late to fiery snakes
And sting your France to death!—
I joined your hunting-match for England's sake
Remembering those two lands were ever foes:—
With you compared I seem but half a villain.’
They reached the court; the twain together sat.
A summary of the trial duly read,
Beauvais kept silence long. A Norman cried,
‘No friend art thou to Henry's babe late crowned
If thou release that Traitress!’ Beauvais rose:
With fear in haught demeanour veiled he spake:
‘This day at dawn I saw her in her cell;
She watched the hour; she waited some deliverance;
Those Voices she revered were pledged to one.
Scorning her sacred vow of yestereve
The sorceress stood steel-mailed!’ Again he sat:
In thunder roared the hall. Death-pale he rose:
‘Relapsed! All know the sentence—Death by fire.’
A summary of the trial duly read,
Beauvais kept silence long. A Norman cried,
‘No friend art thou to Henry's babe late crowned
If thou release that Traitress!’ Beauvais rose:
With fear in haught demeanour veiled he spake:
‘This day at dawn I saw her in her cell;
She watched the hour; she waited some deliverance;
Those Voices she revered were pledged to one.
Scorning her sacred vow of yestereve
The sorceress stood steel-mailed!’ Again he sat:
In thunder roared the hall. Death-pale he rose:
‘Relapsed! All know the sentence—Death by fire.’
353
At morn the Maid, her last confession ended,
Christ's Body had received. Unmoved she stood,
Unmoved as Mary by the Saviour's cross:
Unmoved she heard the preacher's funeral sermon.
Full sorely he descanted on her crimes,
Next on the King's. That second censure moved her.
High as she might she raised her arm —'twas chained—
She spake: ‘I pray you, sir,’ gainst me alone
Launch your rebuke, the King is no offender.
The King he is of France; her Christian King.’
Again she spake: ‘I pray for those who slay me,
I pray for Charles the rightful King of France,
For God's good pardon, and for grace to pass
Gladly to Him; not caitiff-like, nor coward.’
That moment from the pyre the flames burst up:
Then first the Maid wox white and trembled sorely;
And from the crowd a soldier stept, and brake
A slender staff in twain and made a cross
And placed it in her hand. She kissed that cross
And pressed it to her heart. In agony
She wept, ‘O any death save death by fire!’
Noting that many wept—there are who say
That Beauvais' self was of them—shivering she cried
‘Pray for me all ye Christian people, pray!’
Then fell from God a wonder. At her word
That multitude, late raging, knelt on the earth
And prayed for her who could no longer pray;
And o'er the Maid there came an answering change:
Raptured she raised her hands; a splendour fell
Full on her face; she seemed to grow in stature;
A wingèd Spirit she looked nor Maid, nor Woman.
Then first she heard the Bridal Song of Heaven;
Heard last those Voices heard so oft of old:
‘We promised thee deliverance in two months;
This thy deliverance is, and this we promised—
Deliverance to thy God.’ The flames rose high;
A sweet and sudden gust blew them towards her:
Aloud she cried, ‘He makes His angels flames!
Cleanse me, my God!
My Voices were true voices; true my Mission!
All praise to Him Who sent it! Jesus! Jesus!’
Forward she bent her to that flame, and died.
Then horror fell on all; and from those seats
In circle reared where still the judges sat
That hour by thickening smoke-clouds veiled from man
Rang forth a piercing, solitary cry;
‘All lost! We've slain a Saint! She reigns in Heaven!
Who wrought that sin, on them the doom shall fall.’
And wild through Rouen's streets till set of sun
Thousands there ran with hands high tossed, and cried,
‘We've slain a Saint! On us the doom shall fall!’
Christ's Body had received. Unmoved she stood,
Unmoved as Mary by the Saviour's cross:
Unmoved she heard the preacher's funeral sermon.
Full sorely he descanted on her crimes,
Next on the King's. That second censure moved her.
High as she might she raised her arm —'twas chained—
She spake: ‘I pray you, sir,’ gainst me alone
Launch your rebuke, the King is no offender.
The King he is of France; her Christian King.’
Again she spake: ‘I pray for those who slay me,
I pray for Charles the rightful King of France,
For God's good pardon, and for grace to pass
Gladly to Him; not caitiff-like, nor coward.’
That moment from the pyre the flames burst up:
Then first the Maid wox white and trembled sorely;
And from the crowd a soldier stept, and brake
A slender staff in twain and made a cross
And placed it in her hand. She kissed that cross
And pressed it to her heart. In agony
She wept, ‘O any death save death by fire!’
Noting that many wept—there are who say
That Beauvais' self was of them—shivering she cried
‘Pray for me all ye Christian people, pray!’
Then fell from God a wonder. At her word
That multitude, late raging, knelt on the earth
And prayed for her who could no longer pray;
And o'er the Maid there came an answering change:
Raptured she raised her hands; a splendour fell
Full on her face; she seemed to grow in stature;
A wingèd Spirit she looked nor Maid, nor Woman.
Then first she heard the Bridal Song of Heaven;
Heard last those Voices heard so oft of old:
354
This thy deliverance is, and this we promised—
Deliverance to thy God.’ The flames rose high;
A sweet and sudden gust blew them towards her:
Aloud she cried, ‘He makes His angels flames!
Cleanse me, my God!
My Voices were true voices; true my Mission!
All praise to Him Who sent it! Jesus! Jesus!’
Forward she bent her to that flame, and died.
Then horror fell on all; and from those seats
In circle reared where still the judges sat
That hour by thickening smoke-clouds veiled from man
Rang forth a piercing, solitary cry;
‘All lost! We've slain a Saint! She reigns in Heaven!
Who wrought that sin, on them the doom shall fall.’
And wild through Rouen's streets till set of sun
Thousands there ran with hands high tossed, and cried,
‘We've slain a Saint! On us the doom shall fall!’
But all the heart of France from north to south
Like Alpine floods in spring, rushed to the Maid
Till, through her praise on earth and prayer on high,
King Charles—her King—reigned o'er his rightful realm.
We know not if he laboured to protect her:
It may be Agnes Sorel willed it not:
Likelier he sent to her some message gentle:
Being, e'er a King, a courteous Prince and kind.
Her kinsfolk he ennobled, and their name
Changed to ‘De Lys’; for thus he said, ‘That Maid
Was more than maid—the Lily sole of France.’
Likewise a later Pope reversed the sentence
By schismatics and traitors passed that day.
Like Alpine floods in spring, rushed to the Maid
Till, through her praise on earth and prayer on high,
King Charles—her King—reigned o'er his rightful realm.
We know not if he laboured to protect her:
It may be Agnes Sorel willed it not:
Likelier he sent to her some message gentle:
Being, e'er a King, a courteous Prince and kind.
Her kinsfolk he ennobled, and their name
Changed to ‘De Lys’; for thus he said, ‘That Maid
Was more than maid—the Lily sole of France.’
Likewise a later Pope reversed the sentence
By schismatics and traitors passed that day.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |