England A Historical Poem. By John Walker Ord |
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THE MAID OF ORLEANS. (BURNT AS A
SORCERESS. A.D. 1431.) |
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THE MAID OF ORLEANS. (BURNT AS A SORCERESS. A.D. 1431.)
“Alas, poor country,
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Be called a mother, but a grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstacy: the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps—
Dying, or ere they sicken.”
—Macbeth.
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot
Be called a mother, but a grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstacy: the dead man's knell
Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps—
Dying, or ere they sicken.”
—Macbeth.
Lo, in the proud cathedral—the dim light—
All rainbow colour'd—streaming softly down
From painted window, o'er each form of might,
And marble altar, aisle and white tombstone,
A lofty spirit wandereth alone:
Her eyes flash bright with passion; 'mid the hair
That shrouds her brow a lambent glory shone;
And, though a woman, and exceeding fair,
She wears a hero's look, and an inspired air!
All rainbow colour'd—streaming softly down
From painted window, o'er each form of might,
And marble altar, aisle and white tombstone,
A lofty spirit wandereth alone:
Her eyes flash bright with passion; 'mid the hair
That shrouds her brow a lambent glory shone;
And, though a woman, and exceeding fair,
She wears a hero's look, and an inspired air!
No marvel!—'tis Orlean's mission'd maid!
Heaven came to her in sleep; yea, spirits came,
Making her dreams with glory all array'd;
Yea, spirit-voices spake aloud her name,
And beckon'd her unto the halls of Fame.
For she was fallen on evil times for France,
When might was more than guile; ere France became
The serpent's tongue, and crouch'd at England's glance;
And Joan of Arc had come for helmet, sword, and lance.
Heaven came to her in sleep; yea, spirits came,
Making her dreams with glory all array'd;
Yea, spirit-voices spake aloud her name,
And beckon'd her unto the halls of Fame.
For she was fallen on evil times for France,
When might was more than guile; ere France became
The serpent's tongue, and crouch'd at England's glance;
And Joan of Arc had come for helmet, sword, and lance.
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Hark, there is war at Orleans!—At the wall
Ten thousand warriors bear the battle-spear,
And shout aloud to Death's re-echoing call!
But who is she, who smooths the front of fear—
That lofty maid?—Her eye is bright and clear—
Her dark eye flashes, and her long robes lie
Upon the admiring winds!—Her voice they hear;
And Orlean's heart responds to Liberty—
And Freedom, with her flag, is floating on the sky!
Ten thousand warriors bear the battle-spear,
And shout aloud to Death's re-echoing call!
But who is she, who smooths the front of fear—
That lofty maid?—Her eye is bright and clear—
Her dark eye flashes, and her long robes lie
Upon the admiring winds!—Her voice they hear;
And Orlean's heart responds to Liberty—
And Freedom, with her flag, is floating on the sky!
And, now, Rheims opens wide her iron gate,
For the gay cavalcade that rolls along;
A myriad faces flash—their hearts elate;
A myriad thunders stir the madden'd throng.
Young white-rob'd maidens chaunt the choral song,
To Charles, their crown'd and consecrated king;—
But, O, that maid, how beautiful!—among
Her hair the window hues—whilst she doth sing—
Melodious as a seraph—that most blessed thing,
For the gay cavalcade that rolls along;
A myriad faces flash—their hearts elate;
A myriad thunders stir the madden'd throng.
Young white-rob'd maidens chaunt the choral song,
To Charles, their crown'd and consecrated king;—
But, O, that maid, how beautiful!—among
Her hair the window hues—whilst she doth sing—
Melodious as a seraph—that most blessed thing,
Swells far the numerous choir and harmony!
The organ, from its thousand throats, roars loud,
Sounding as God had ton'd its raptures high.
The minster-walls are deck'd in silken shroud,
Whilst holy tapers throw a lustre proud,
That clothes in sheen celestial the dim gloom:
The prayer is said—Christ on the altar bow'd;
And angels stood around each marble tomb;
And the white Lamb of God the shadows did illume.
The organ, from its thousand throats, roars loud,
Sounding as God had ton'd its raptures high.
The minster-walls are deck'd in silken shroud,
Whilst holy tapers throw a lustre proud,
That clothes in sheen celestial the dim gloom:
The prayer is said—Christ on the altar bow'd;
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And the white Lamb of God the shadows did illume.
And there God's minister, (a holy sight!)
In shining vestments at the altar stood!
(The altars, with rich gold and silver bright;
Above it, shining clear, the silver rood,
And the small jasper cup of Christ's own blood)
And now the sceptred rod is in his hand;
Upon his head the crown and silken hood;
Loud hymns now swell from all the white-rob'd band,
Follow'd by holy prayers for people, king, and land.
In shining vestments at the altar stood!
(The altars, with rich gold and silver bright;
Above it, shining clear, the silver rood,
And the small jasper cup of Christ's own blood)
And now the sceptred rod is in his hand;
Upon his head the crown and silken hood;
Loud hymns now swell from all the white-rob'd band,
Follow'd by holy prayers for people, king, and land.
“Yea,” saith the priest, “blessings be with thy land;
“Heaven's precious dews—the springs that swell the deep;
“Fruits of the sun—fruits of the moon—the wand
“Of strength—the treasures that in mountains sleep!
“The blessings of old prophets—patriarchs keep
“Sweet watch around, and his who, long ago,
“Who, on the bloody cross, his joys did weep;
“And may the God of heaven protect thee so,
“That France shall rise again, and conquer every foe!”
“Heaven's precious dews—the springs that swell the deep;
“Fruits of the sun—fruits of the moon—the wand
“Of strength—the treasures that in mountains sleep!
“The blessings of old prophets—patriarchs keep
“Sweet watch around, and his who, long ago,
“Who, on the bloody cross, his joys did weep;
“And may the God of heaven protect thee so,
“That France shall rise again, and conquer every foe!”
And may he watch thy goings out and in;
Exalt thee; make thee pure, and good, and strong;
Purge thee from gross desires of earthly sin;
Rude tyrannies, that in high temples throng—
Dwelling with kings, their palaces among;—
God of the heavenly hosts! the God Most High!
O'er time, and change, and worlds that roll along,
And all that dwell beyond the circling sky,
Protect thee, guard thee well, and all thy councils try!
Exalt thee; make thee pure, and good, and strong;
Purge thee from gross desires of earthly sin;
Rude tyrannies, that in high temples throng—
Dwelling with kings, their palaces among;—
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O'er time, and change, and worlds that roll along,
And all that dwell beyond the circling sky,
Protect thee, guard thee well, and all thy councils try!
France, like a sleeping giant from the spell
That bound his soul, awoke, and shook her hair;
A spiritual did ever with them dwell;
Heaven blest them, and they felt no lingering fear.
The mission'd Maid of Orleans aye was near,
And everywhere her country's foes were slain;
The inspired look even Talbot could not bear—
The heavenly arms—the white steed she doth rein,
A goddess, sent from heaven to mortal wars again!
That bound his soul, awoke, and shook her hair;
A spiritual did ever with them dwell;
Heaven blest them, and they felt no lingering fear.
The mission'd Maid of Orleans aye was near,
And everywhere her country's foes were slain;
The inspired look even Talbot could not bear—
The heavenly arms—the white steed she doth rein,
A goddess, sent from heaven to mortal wars again!
Heaven's blessings shield thee, thou immortal maid!
The ruffians seize her—the wild fires surround—
Yet is the heroic virgin not dismay'd—
Yet her sweet voice sends forth no plaining sound,
Well knowing she will soar beyond their bound;
That she will rise from out the hungry flame,
And join the shapes God's sov'ran throne around,
And sing the jubilee, and praise his name,
Where nought can spot her robes, of earth, or earthly shame.
The ruffians seize her—the wild fires surround—
Yet is the heroic virgin not dismay'd—
Yet her sweet voice sends forth no plaining sound,
Well knowing she will soar beyond their bound;
That she will rise from out the hungry flame,
And join the shapes God's sov'ran throne around,
And sing the jubilee, and praise his name,
Where nought can spot her robes, of earth, or earthly shame.
Blest maid, thy spirit was indeed divine!
A spark of heaven was mingled with thy clay—
Such thoughts heroic—such high deeds were thine—
Such glorious sunlight of the ancient day,
Of the world's youth, around thy spirit lay—
When Freedom, like a monarch, was array'd,
And held the oppressor and his slaves at bay,
And trod the cliffs and forests undismay'd,
Whilst earth and all her towers beneath his feet were laid!
A spark of heaven was mingled with thy clay—
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Such glorious sunlight of the ancient day,
Of the world's youth, around thy spirit lay—
When Freedom, like a monarch, was array'd,
And held the oppressor and his slaves at bay,
And trod the cliffs and forests undismay'd,
Whilst earth and all her towers beneath his feet were laid!
Great must have been thy childhood—greater still
Thine earlier youth—and, O, how great, indeed,
When heavenly visitants obey'd thy will,
And wav'd their wings of light when thou hadst need,
Even as of old, they sought earth's earlier breed!
The parted lips, the wide dilated eye,
The bosom trembling with immortal seed,
The dreaming hands stretch'd toward the open sky—
These told thy passion's faith—thy far rais'd ecstacy.
Thine earlier youth—and, O, how great, indeed,
When heavenly visitants obey'd thy will,
And wav'd their wings of light when thou hadst need,
Even as of old, they sought earth's earlier breed!
The parted lips, the wide dilated eye,
The bosom trembling with immortal seed,
The dreaming hands stretch'd toward the open sky—
These told thy passion's faith—thy far rais'd ecstacy.
The patriot is of God—God nerves his hand—
Greater than martyr, or than crowned bard;
From out the mire he bears a trampled land;
And where his voice, amid the gloom, is heard,
The slave starts up, and all men hear his word.
Thus, Curtius, Vasa, Kosciusko, Tell,
Have justly won from time their rich reward,
A niche in Fame's proud temple, where to dwell—
And Freedom's columns stand, where Freedom's patriots fell!
Greater than martyr, or than crowned bard;
From out the mire he bears a trampled land;
And where his voice, amid the gloom, is heard,
The slave starts up, and all men hear his word.
Thus, Curtius, Vasa, Kosciusko, Tell,
Have justly won from time their rich reward,
A niche in Fame's proud temple, where to dwell—
And Freedom's columns stand, where Freedom's patriots fell!
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I look upon the eternity of sea;
I look upon the clouds that veil the sky;
I look upon the birds—they all are free—
Free are the winds that rush about on high;
All earth and heaven do speak of Liberty.
She sung in Paradise her first sweet song;
And Asia heard her footsteps wander by.
Greece, Rome, and Carthage, felt her move along,
But most she loves to brood fair England's bowers among.
I look upon the clouds that veil the sky;
I look upon the birds—they all are free—
Free are the winds that rush about on high;
All earth and heaven do speak of Liberty.
She sung in Paradise her first sweet song;
And Asia heard her footsteps wander by.
Greece, Rome, and Carthage, felt her move along,
But most she loves to brood fair England's bowers among.
Alas, that men do live, who know her not;
Who hiss their hissings at the monarch's throne!
The wild-flowers, bright'ning every quiet spot—
The forests and the wildernesses lone—
The solemn pomps and pageants time hath won,
The deeds heroic, and the works divine
Of kings, knights, patriots, warriors, martyrs gone,
Cannot arouse them—nought that's hallow'd in
Historic page, can purge their spirit of its sin.
Who hiss their hissings at the monarch's throne!
The wild-flowers, bright'ning every quiet spot—
The forests and the wildernesses lone—
The solemn pomps and pageants time hath won,
The deeds heroic, and the works divine
Of kings, knights, patriots, warriors, martyrs gone,
Cannot arouse them—nought that's hallow'd in
Historic page, can purge their spirit of its sin.
Accursed France hath fed a locust breed,
Who mock their God, and shame the place of prayer;
From England's cities springs a hellish seed,
That, as their smoke, pollute the angry air;
And Sheffield shrouds an Elliott in his lair.
They sneer at what hath been; would quench the sun,
And blot the stars out, where they mingle fair;
Stop the melodious circles of the moon,
And shake, forsooth, the cliffs on their foundation stone.
Who mock their God, and shame the place of prayer;
From England's cities springs a hellish seed,
That, as their smoke, pollute the angry air;
And Sheffield shrouds an Elliott in his lair.
They sneer at what hath been; would quench the sun,
And blot the stars out, where they mingle fair;
Stop the melodious circles of the moon,
And shake, forsooth, the cliffs on their foundation stone.
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But though a hue shall leave the rainbow's arch,
That bends above old England; though some light
May leave her forehead; though her lands do parch
'Neath Treason's foot; her eyes be shut in night;
The sun of freedom shall again grow bright!
Rebellion may assail, the atheist yell,
The ancestral glories wither from our sight—
Yet shall the right still o'er the wrong prevail,
Each traitor-slave be driven unto his native hell.
That bends above old England; though some light
May leave her forehead; though her lands do parch
'Neath Treason's foot; her eyes be shut in night;
The sun of freedom shall again grow bright!
Rebellion may assail, the atheist yell,
The ancestral glories wither from our sight—
Yet shall the right still o'er the wrong prevail,
Each traitor-slave be driven unto his native hell.
Did the old mighty spirits strive in vain?
Did the old heroes fight their wars for nought?
For nought the old bards rear the lofty strain?
For nought old statesmen brave the realms of thought—
That all they did at length shall sink and rot?
That this rank rabble shall profane the hall
Which such as Alfred, Edward, Shakspeare sought?
Down on thy knees, O England—let thy call
Rouse up the shiv'ring dead, to break their charnel thrall!
Did the old heroes fight their wars for nought?
For nought the old bards rear the lofty strain?
For nought old statesmen brave the realms of thought—
That all they did at length shall sink and rot?
That this rank rabble shall profane the hall
Which such as Alfred, Edward, Shakspeare sought?
Down on thy knees, O England—let thy call
Rouse up the shiv'ring dead, to break their charnel thrall!
I love the people, but I loathe the mob—
The scoundrel-rabble. What are they, at best,
But as the shaken mud where toads have trod?
Hate, lies, revenge, and envy fill their breast;
There rage foul jealousies that will not rest:
False, treacherous, thankless, none may trust their tale;
They are most dangerous when the least opprest—
And for the rest, all History will tell,
And philosophic minds who knew their hearts full well.
The scoundrel-rabble. What are they, at best,
But as the shaken mud where toads have trod?
Hate, lies, revenge, and envy fill their breast;
There rage foul jealousies that will not rest:
False, treacherous, thankless, none may trust their tale;
They are most dangerous when the least opprest—
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And philosophic minds who knew their hearts full well.
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