The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley :: :: University of Virginia Library

If I prevail shall any might be mine?
Lord of all conflict, is not glory thine?
I'll get me very humbly and kneel down,
And doff my myrtle chaplet at thy shrine.

I am but fit to graze a few poor sheep:
My office once, ere Mary on my sleep
Grew in a vision reaching out a crown;
And fed my soul with dream-delight so deep,

That not full morning with her solemn breeze
Could that sweet voice unsweeten, or make cease.
God's love it seemed to melt the mountains round,
And wings of angels rustled in the trees.

O voice eternal, glory of my dream,
Blended with every wave of languid stream,
Mingling with bleat of mother-ewes thy sound,
Or whispered far as sunset's radiant seam.

Voice, in the pine boughs beaten of great hail,
Voice, in the wrestle of the wind-mill sail,
In the jay's bicker from his mountain ground,
Or in the sun-gilt insect's feeble wail,—

I knew thee loud or gentle, far or near,
On thee I brooded day and month and year;
Till the poor herd-girl became glorified
Like an old saint with God's voice at his ear.

“What can have crazed you, girl?” my sire would say.
“What gives your eyes that bright and earnest ray?”
For I indeed was strangely beautified,
Seeing I spake with Mary every day.

“These are weak maiden dreamings, you shall wed
And clear these bubble fancies from your head.
Oh, but believe me, girls are often so,
And wives no worse, when all these whims are fled.”

115

The village mothers came with nod and smile;
Indeed, good souls, they vext me with no guile,
To whisper, “Where did that last vision go?
Girl, get you wed; you wait too long a while.”

Oh, but this human love I laid it by
Without one tear. The chosen maid, should I
Weep for a little sweet much flecked with stain,
Or hold brief earth's fruition worth a sigh?

I heard discordant voices loud in hate
Between two village lovers wedded late;
Never shall these go hand in hand again;
May shall return, but not their old estate.

Love! What was love to me, when lordly France
Lay desolate as one in mortal trance?
Beautiful mother, how for dead she lay!
And, when the alien rider with his lance

Pierced her bright helpless bosom, as she slept,
She only moaned a little while, and kept
Her eyelids calm in sleep. But wailing they,
Her daughters fainted, as they watched and wept.

The vine lay broken in its time of flower,
The grey dry field had lost her harvest power;
Darkness prevailed, and cloud of blood-red flame,
Heads full of languor, all hearts beating slower.

The shadow of thy death lay full on me,
Who in thy travail dared to comfort thee;
Surely thy wail was mighty; but none came
Except the peasant girl of Domremi.

They fled, the lordly captains of thy pride,
Who sat at wine with thee in thy good tide.
Each splendid warrior left thee, clothed in beams,
Who smiled so grandly, at his lady's side

Disdaining fear, and trifling her white hand.
They saved thee none, these proud ones, O my land.
They jested at the inn-maid, and her dreams;
How is their valour fallen away like sand!

116

Thence is my glory travil to these lords;
My myrtle sweetens up in light; their words
Are wind, their boasting laughter; so that these
Would joy to bind me round with prison cords,

And sell me to the alien. But God's eyes
Save me and search unsleeping their device.
So in the midst of death I take full ease,
And let them vex their hate with devil lies.

In truce, they pass me with averted head
Or whispered sneer; but, as the fight grows red,
Be thou my witness, Mary mine, how these
Creep to the shadow of my sword in dread,

Crying, “O maid, our wretched soldiers flee,
Rally and lead them up. In all but thee
Our hope is broken, and fair France will cease
Out from the kingdoms perished utterly!”

God knows, the trampled war with furnace breath
Seemed meadowy silence set with elms, beneath
Warmed of slow breezes, when some vision stood
Before my steed flashing the pale Christ's death.

Or sudden blue eyes of the virgin's face
Grew on the ramparts in the storming place,
And smiled me up past iron men and blood;
How easy then to win the breach! Her gaze

And sweet mild voice among the ringing swords
Came only to her maid in gracious words.
Sustained to such high comfort could I yield
To some poor brutish soldier; whose rough lords

Haled him from wine-cups and worse revellings
To be my triumph; whom the yellow wings
Of angels shaded in dry autumn field;
And unseen fingers at my armour strings

Continually lightened the strange toil
And chafe of morion, with sweet holy oil
Bathing my maiden brows; so I rode on
Greatly rejoicing; tho' the cracked white soil

117

Lay sick and gaping in fierce steamy blight,
And the glare seethed the hollow land like blight,
And all fair leaf was poisoned for much sun;
I, onwards riding, knew not for delight.

Since on my lips some pure stream never dry
Came with remembrance of moist herbs thereby,
With scent of bays that trail leaves in its run,
And grey shelves dripping on continually.

By Mary's aid I rode with keen sweet air,
Where the lark fainted up in heaven for glare,
Where my steed trod to sulphur-dust the ground
Of burning pastures paler than despair.

Yet, God he knows, the flesh itself was weak,
And how for ruth my handmaids could not speak,
If, easing off at night my helm, they found
The eating iron dints on brow and cheek;

They wept; mere girls and foolish rose-red flowers
Whose blind brief loves made worship for their hours,
Fit to trill little songs about a rose,
Or trim their raiment up in latticed bowers,

And cackle, and lean heads at some boy knight
Mincing along in samite, curled and bright—
Ah, lord, I never set my heart with those,
Who yearn to taste ere death the bride's delight.

Sweet is the trouble of the child; and sweet
To guide the baby hand and feeble feet.
The fair light softens in a mother's eyes
To cherish on her breast its helpless heat.

I held love cheaper than the patient dead;
Lonely I followed where thy visions led;
Nor made God weary with sick looks and sighs,
But went with gleaming eye and festal tread.

As morning greatens into gold from rose,
As a gale fresh with orchard fragrance blows,
As organ-waftings thro' some minster door,
Thy message and thy breath in my repose

118

Whispered, “Arise in armour,” and right fain,
As some king treads the vintage of the slain,
I went alone, and on the wine-press floor
My maiden feet were red with onset stain.

As some high captain clad in battle gear
Leaning at even on his deadly spear,
I, the mere maiden of an inn before,
Grew great to shatter kingdoms with my fear.

Therefore I said, thou art low, but God most great,
Mighty to bruise down strong ones in their state,
Calls from her flocks some mean and simple maid,
And breathes into her arm a Titan weight.

Is not all strength his doing and his own?
Even the glorious seraphs near his throne,
If God forgot to strengthen them, would fade
Abolished, in their place no longer known.

He feeds them with his face and they are bright.
He turns him and they perish. In his sight
The ancient stars are glad: the sun arrayed
To burn along the pathway of his might.

He shall remember and forget not one.
He binds into its orbit many a sun;
Allows the daisy fringes vernal red,
And folds away the flower when day is done.

He binds the broken weed up with his balm.
The sons of pride are crushed beneath his arm.
The iron hills are melted at his tread,
But on the worm his shower and light are warm.

Thou royal of my land without a throne,
France, O sweet mother, cheated from thine own,
Betrayed of laggard sons, who groaned outworn,
“God's anger smites our cities one by one;

Therefore hang up thy spear and give him way.
Who may resist his vengeance for a day?
His fury will not falter, tho' we mourn;
If we go out against him he will slay.”

119

Who gave his incense up to God for thee?
God answered no great abbot on his knee.
Such voices found a shepherd maid at morn
Down in the pleasant fields at Domremi.

So once as strangely had God's might appeared.
Hill fronting hill the rival camps lay reared
Who slew Gath's Titan save a shepherd boy,
While strong Saul kept his tent and Israel feared?

So I, God aiding, of no might my own
Have trampled this invading giant down,
And set my heel upon him to destroy,
As some great angel bruises the snake's crown.

O great King, fair and noble, my poor hand
Could lead thee to thy crowning and command.
“March on, my lord; the God we glory in
Will lead us scathless thro' a hostile land.”

How dumb the armies lay on either side.
No clarion blew or banner floated wide;
Their limbs dissolved beneath them, tranced in sin,
They saw the terrible God, whom they defied,

Lead thro' their ranks his chosen void of fear.
They rose; their trembling hands refused the spear.
No sound of fight assailed our sacred band.
No arrow flew against us. God was near.

So, as in golden silences of dreams,
We journeyed onwards by the happy streams,
By blue small hills like flowers about the land,
Till in the distance, lo, the gates of Rheims.

Then we rode in thro' lanes of beaming eyes,
O'er roses strewn like sea-plains at sunrise,
Under gay windows rocking with acclaim,
Till the cathedral, keen on crisp grey skies,

Uprose in many pinnacles before
Our yearning eyes; wide lay each monster door
Set with stone saint-guards; under these we came
On cooler air, and dim great burnished floor;

120

Vast column'd spaces full of sound and blaze;
The pealing organ and the incense haze;
The concourse surging, as when shafted flame
Smites down among the restless ocean-ways.

There in the midst I set him throned in light
Ruler indeed of nations. On his right
I stood in full steel clothed, and over me
Displayed the sacred ensign; where God's might

Easily held the islands in his palm,
The rounded heaven, the long light ocean-calm,
Yea, as babe-fingers hold a ball, so he.
And all the banner edge was bloom of warm

And dove-bright lilies pure as Heaven's own—
Then I reached out and laid on him his crown,
Shed oil, and gave him orb and sceptre-wand,
Regent of God, whom none should trample down.

Then all my soul was bathed in large delight;
Kneeling to clasp his knees, my sense and sight
Failed in a rush of triumph pure and grand,
Among the hymns, the incense, and the light.

My consummation this. I should have died.
Earth gives no more till Heaven's gate open wide.
I have lived and done my joy, content to cease,
And ease me from the armour of my pride.

I will return, resuming ancient days,
To those few sheep along the mountain ways.
My very soul is hungry after peace:
Resume, O Lord, thy sword, accept my bays.

Note. The return of Joan from Rheims in July, 1429, is taken as the period of this sketch, since it seems the acme of her success, before her self-faith had been shaken by reverses and captivity.