 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
68
JOAN OF ARC.
“This admirable heroine, to whom the more generous superstition of the ancients would have erected altars, was, on the pretence of heresy and magic, delivered over alive to the flames, and expiated by that dreadful punishment the signal services which she had rendered to her prince and to her native country.”
—Hume, chap. XX.
The moon had set behind the tufted hill;
The silent stars, though waning, glimmered still;
The drowsy woods were steeped in voiceless rest;
Dead stillness brooded o'er the water's breast;
The cloudless firmament was spread on high,
Dark but transparent, like the liquid eye
Of Andalusian maid in orange grove,
Dissolved in rapture at the tale of love;
Nor voice of man, nor cry of passing bird,
Nor ban-dog's bay from cot or keep was heard;
The wolves were hushed in tangled coverts deep,
The very owls had wailed themselves to sleep:
But fresher yet the breeze came murmuring by,
And colder breathed the air as morn drew nigh.
The paly streaks, that told of coming day,
Dappled the horizon's verge with feeble ray;
Yet one who paused on yonder hillock's brow,
Above the blooming plain which smiled below,
Might linger there, nor dream a city's pride
Was slumbering by that sluggish river's side;
Though close beneath, in darkest garb arrayed,
Blent with the forest's gloom, the mountain's shade,
A gorgeous town lay stretched: with streets sublime,
Turret, and dome, and spires of olden time,
Teeming with life and wealth, war's stern array,
The cares of commerce, and the church's sway.
No crash of wheels, nor hum of crowds was there,
Nor neigh of warlike steeds, nor torches' glare;
All whelmed alike in night's oblivious pall:
The drowsy watchers nodded on the wall;
The haughty conqueror in his trophied bed;
The slave in chains, the serf in lowly shed.
The silent stars, though waning, glimmered still;
The drowsy woods were steeped in voiceless rest;
Dead stillness brooded o'er the water's breast;
The cloudless firmament was spread on high,
Dark but transparent, like the liquid eye
Of Andalusian maid in orange grove,
Dissolved in rapture at the tale of love;
Nor voice of man, nor cry of passing bird,
Nor ban-dog's bay from cot or keep was heard;
The wolves were hushed in tangled coverts deep,
The very owls had wailed themselves to sleep:
But fresher yet the breeze came murmuring by,
And colder breathed the air as morn drew nigh.
The paly streaks, that told of coming day,
Dappled the horizon's verge with feeble ray;
Yet one who paused on yonder hillock's brow,
Above the blooming plain which smiled below,
Might linger there, nor dream a city's pride
Was slumbering by that sluggish river's side;
Though close beneath, in darkest garb arrayed,
Blent with the forest's gloom, the mountain's shade,
A gorgeous town lay stretched: with streets sublime,
Turret, and dome, and spires of olden time,
69
The cares of commerce, and the church's sway.
No crash of wheels, nor hum of crowds was there,
Nor neigh of warlike steeds, nor torches' glare;
All whelmed alike in night's oblivious pall:
The drowsy watchers nodded on the wall;
The haughty conqueror in his trophied bed;
The slave in chains, the serf in lowly shed.
But one was there, whose eyes nor night could close,
Nor opiate draughts could lull to calm repose.
In bloom of beauty, in youth's earliest flower,
Condemned to brave the inevitable hour;
To quit the verdant earth, the genial sun,
Ere half her course of womanhood was run;
Unbent by years, without one silver hair
In her bright tresses; ignorant of care,
Of pain, or sorrow; while the world was new,
While life was beautiful, and friends seemed true,
Doomed to the worst extremity of pain,
Which flesh can writhe beneath, and not sustain;
To die in fire, unhouselled and unshriven,
Scorned by her murderers, and shut out from heaven,—
The maid of Orleans. She whose sacred brand
Had wrought deliverance to her native land;
Had slacked the bowstring in the archer's blood,
And tamed the Island Leopard's furious mood;
She who had crowned a monarch, who had raised
A nation from the dust; whose name was praised
In court and cottage, from the snowy chain
Of Alpine Jura to the western main,—
Her country's Guardian,—fettered and alone
In patient helplessness she sat: no groan
Passed from her ashy lips; her mind's control
O'erpowered the whirlwind passion of her soul.
Calm had she bent the knee, and humbly prayed
From Him who gives to all who seek His aid.
Humbly she knelt, and self-absolved she rose;
Tried in success, and purified by woes,
She felt her glowing spirit mount the skies
To meet the witness of “those perfect eyes”
Which endless time nor boundless space can blind,
Secure in her Redeemer, and resigned
To bear all torments, in that narrow road
Which leads, through death, to glory's pure abode.
Nor opiate draughts could lull to calm repose.
In bloom of beauty, in youth's earliest flower,
Condemned to brave the inevitable hour;
To quit the verdant earth, the genial sun,
Ere half her course of womanhood was run;
Unbent by years, without one silver hair
In her bright tresses; ignorant of care,
Of pain, or sorrow; while the world was new,
While life was beautiful, and friends seemed true,
Doomed to the worst extremity of pain,
Which flesh can writhe beneath, and not sustain;
To die in fire, unhouselled and unshriven,
Scorned by her murderers, and shut out from heaven,—
The maid of Orleans. She whose sacred brand
Had wrought deliverance to her native land;
Had slacked the bowstring in the archer's blood,
And tamed the Island Leopard's furious mood;
She who had crowned a monarch, who had raised
A nation from the dust; whose name was praised
In court and cottage, from the snowy chain
Of Alpine Jura to the western main,—
Her country's Guardian,—fettered and alone
In patient helplessness she sat: no groan
Passed from her ashy lips; her mind's control
O'erpowered the whirlwind passion of her soul.
70
From Him who gives to all who seek His aid.
Humbly she knelt, and self-absolved she rose;
Tried in success, and purified by woes,
She felt her glowing spirit mount the skies
To meet the witness of “those perfect eyes”
Which endless time nor boundless space can blind,
Secure in her Redeemer, and resigned
To bear all torments, in that narrow road
Which leads, through death, to glory's pure abode.
She turned to take a long, a last, farewell
Of the dear country she had served so well,—
Of the dark skies, and each peculiar star
Whose melancholy glance she had loved afar
In her own vale, while France as yet was free.
She saw the Seine rush proudly to the sea;
She saw the foliage in the breezes wave;
The flowery turf, that might not yield a grave
To its heroic daughter: but her mind
Marked not the hurrying flood, nor heard the wind.
Far, far away, her fancy's eyes did roam
To the known landscape and the cottage home—
The willows bending o'er the argent rill,
The rustic shrine, and the familiar hill;
The lawns where oft her pastured flocks would stray;
The village green, where still on festive day
She led with artless grace the rural dance,
All hearts subduing with untutored glance;
The cheerful hearth, the calm though humble bed,
The dreamless sleep which hovered round her head;
The days of innocence, the nights of peace.
Alas, that hours like these should ever cease!
Of the dear country she had served so well,—
Of the dark skies, and each peculiar star
Whose melancholy glance she had loved afar
In her own vale, while France as yet was free.
She saw the Seine rush proudly to the sea;
She saw the foliage in the breezes wave;
The flowery turf, that might not yield a grave
To its heroic daughter: but her mind
Marked not the hurrying flood, nor heard the wind.
Far, far away, her fancy's eyes did roam
To the known landscape and the cottage home—
The willows bending o'er the argent rill,
The rustic shrine, and the familiar hill;
The lawns where oft her pastured flocks would stray;
The village green, where still on festive day
She led with artless grace the rural dance,
All hearts subduing with untutored glance;
The cheerful hearth, the calm though humble bed,
The dreamless sleep which hovered round her head;
The days of innocence, the nights of peace.
Alas, that hours like these should ever cease!
Forth rushed the burning tears,—not one by one,
But bursting out as mountain streamlets run,—
Her mother's face benign, her father's smile,
Palpably gleaming on her heart the while,
Till in that gush of soul she well might deem
The dead restored by no uncertain dream.
Yet soon that passion passed—a sudden start
Called back the crimson current from her heart,
And flushed her cheek with indignation's tide.
“Shall I, the maid of Arc, shall I,” she cried,
“Weep like a village damsel for some toy
Of childish love?—I, who have known the joy
Of triumph, and high glory; who am styled
My country's saviour—France's noblest child?”
But bursting out as mountain streamlets run,—
Her mother's face benign, her father's smile,
Palpably gleaming on her heart the while,
71
The dead restored by no uncertain dream.
Yet soon that passion passed—a sudden start
Called back the crimson current from her heart,
And flushed her cheek with indignation's tide.
“Shall I, the maid of Arc, shall I,” she cried,
“Weep like a village damsel for some toy
Of childish love?—I, who have known the joy
Of triumph, and high glory; who am styled
My country's saviour—France's noblest child?”
She ceased. For as she spoke, with plaintive swell
Answering her words of pride, a ponderous bell
Rang out its deadly summons. Well she knew
The sound of terror; and the transient hue
Which shamed but now the tints of breaking morn
Had vanished from her brow: yet still upborne
By calm submission, and the holy zeal
Which erst had nerved her arm to point the steel,
She stood unblenching. To the place of shame—
Branded forever with the virgin's name—
They led her forth in the resistless might
Of maiden virtue,—girt, as to the fight,
In panoply of mail,—her long dark hair,
Unbraided, and her features firm as fair,
Stern Bedford gazed upon her dauntless mien
With half-repentant wonder. He had seen,
Unmoved and fierce, all bursts of female fear,
Had scorned the sigh, and revelled in the tear;
But the wild courage of that heavenly face
Half moved his iron heart to deeds of grace.
The free-born archers of the ocean isle
Reluctant marched along, no vengeful smile
Mantling their rugged brows: that band had rued
The victim's valor in their dearest blood;
Yet not for that would consign to flame
A glorious spirit and a woman's frame.
Answering her words of pride, a ponderous bell
Rang out its deadly summons. Well she knew
The sound of terror; and the transient hue
Which shamed but now the tints of breaking morn
Had vanished from her brow: yet still upborne
By calm submission, and the holy zeal
Which erst had nerved her arm to point the steel,
She stood unblenching. To the place of shame—
Branded forever with the virgin's name—
They led her forth in the resistless might
Of maiden virtue,—girt, as to the fight,
In panoply of mail,—her long dark hair,
Unbraided, and her features firm as fair,
Stern Bedford gazed upon her dauntless mien
With half-repentant wonder. He had seen,
Unmoved and fierce, all bursts of female fear,
Had scorned the sigh, and revelled in the tear;
But the wild courage of that heavenly face
Half moved his iron heart to deeds of grace.
The free-born archers of the ocean isle
Reluctant marched along, no vengeful smile
Mantling their rugged brows: that band had rued
The victim's valor in their dearest blood;
72
A glorious spirit and a woman's frame.
The goal was gained; and ye do still forbear
To speak, ye thunders! Where, O tempests! where
Are your tornadoes, that ye do not burst,
Whelming with heavenly streams the flame accurst?
They bound her to the stake, and tore away
The arms she bore in many a glorious day;
Yet still she trembled not. They touched the pyre,
And the red torrent of devouring fire,
Broad as a chieftain's banner, streamed on high,
E'en to the abhorrent skies. Yet not a cry
From out the volumed conflagration broke;
Nor sound was heard, save when the eddying smoke
Roared from its crackling canopy. A sob
Heaved the assembled concourse—a wild throb
Of anguish and remorse. A secret dread
Sank on the bravest heart, and stunned the firmest head.
To speak, ye thunders! Where, O tempests! where
Are your tornadoes, that ye do not burst,
Whelming with heavenly streams the flame accurst?
They bound her to the stake, and tore away
The arms she bore in many a glorious day;
Yet still she trembled not. They touched the pyre,
And the red torrent of devouring fire,
Broad as a chieftain's banner, streamed on high,
E'en to the abhorrent skies. Yet not a cry
From out the volumed conflagration broke;
Nor sound was heard, save when the eddying smoke
Roared from its crackling canopy. A sob
Heaved the assembled concourse—a wild throb
Of anguish and remorse. A secret dread
Sank on the bravest heart, and stunned the firmest head.
Fools! did they deem that flames could check thy course,
Immortal Freedom,—or that human force
Could cope with the Eternal? That pure blood
Tainted each gale and crimsoned every flood,
Through Gaul's wide confines, till her sons arose
An overwhelming landstorm on their foes,
And piled, with hands unbound, a deathless shrine,
And kindled on their hearths a spark divine,
Unquenched for ages, whose immortal ray
Still brightens more and more to perfect day.
Immortal Freedom,—or that human force
Could cope with the Eternal? That pure blood
Tainted each gale and crimsoned every flood,
Through Gaul's wide confines, till her sons arose
An overwhelming landstorm on their foes,
And piled, with hands unbound, a deathless shrine,
And kindled on their hearths a spark divine,
Unquenched for ages, whose immortal ray
Still brightens more and more to perfect day.
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |