Mahap were tedious, or I could relate
Much of that dreadful time."
The Maid replied,
Wishing of that devoted town to hear.
Thus then the veteran:
"So by Heaven preserved,
From the disastrous plain of Agincourt[1]
I speeded homewards, and abode in peace.
Henry, as wise as brave, had back to England[2]
Led his victorious army; well aware
That France was mighty, that her warlike sons,
impatient of a foreigner's command,
Might rise impetuous, and with multitudes
Tread down the invaders. Wisely he return'd,
For our proud barons in their private broils
Wasted the strength of France. I dwelt at home,
And with the little I possess'd content,
Lived happily. A pleasant sight it was
To see my children, as at eve I sat
Beneath the vine, come clustering round my knee,
That they might hear again the oft-told tale
Of the dangers I had past: their little eyes
Would with such anxious eagerness attend
The tale of life preserved, as made me feel
Life's value. My poor children! a hard fate
Had they! But oft and bitterly I wish
That God had to his mercy taken me
In childhood, for it is a heavy lot
To linger out old age in loneliness!
"Ah me! when war the masters of mankind,
Woe to the poor man! if he sow his field,
He shall not reap the harvest; if he see
His offspring rise around, his boding heart
Aches at the thought that they are multiplied
To the sword! Again from Engllad the fierce foe
Came on our ravaged coasts. In battle bold,
Merciless in conquest, their victorious King
Swept like the desolating tempest round.
Dambieres submits; on Caen's subjected wall
The flag of England waved. Roan still remain'd,
Embattled Roan, bulwark of Normandy;
Nor unresisted round her massy walls
Pitch'd they their camp. I need not tell, Sir Knight,
How oft and boldly on the invading host
We burst with fierce assault impetuous forth,
For many were the warlike sons of Roan.[3]
One gallant Citizen was famed o'er all
For daring hardihood preëminent,
Blanchard. He, gathering round his countrymen,
With his own courage kindling every breast,
Had made them vow before Almighty God[4]
Never to yield them to the usurping foe.
Before the God of Hosts we made the vow;
And we had baffled the besieging power,
Hid not tiie patient enemy drawn round
His wide intrenchments. From the watch-tower's top
In vain with fearful hearts along the Seine
We strain'd the eye, and every distant wave
Which in the sunbeam glitter'd, fondly thought
The white sail of supply. Alas! no more
The white sail rose upon our aching sight;
For guarded was the Seine, and our stern foe
Had made a league with Famine.[5] How my heart
Sunk in me when at night I carried home
The scanty pittance of to-morrow's meal!
You know not, strangers, what it is to see
The asking eye of hunger!
"Still we strove,
Expecting aid; nor longer force to force,
Valor to valor, in the fight opposed,
But to the exasperate patience of the foe,
Desperate endurance.[6] Though with Christian zeal
Ursino would have pour'd the balm of peace
Into our wounds, Ambition's ear, best pleased
With the war's clamor and the groan of death,
Was deaf to prayer. Day afler day pass'd on;
We heard no voice of comfort. From the walls
Could we behold their savage Irish Kerns,[7]
Ruffians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptized,[8]
Come with their spoil, mingling their hideous shouts
With moan of weary flocks, and piteous low
Of kine sore-laden, in the mirthful camp
Scattering abundance; while the loathliest food
We prized above all price; while in our streets
The dying groan of hunger, and the cries
Of famishing infants echoed, — and we heard,
With the strange selfishness of misery,
We heard, and heeded not.
"Tliou wouldst have deem'd
Roan must have fallen an easy sacrifice,
Young warrior! hadst thou seen our meagre limbs.
And pale and shrunken cheeks, and hollow eyes,
Yet still we struggled bravely! Blanchard still
Spake of the obdurate temper of the foe,
Of Harfleur's wretched people driven out[9]
Houseless and destitute, while that stern King
Knelt at the altar, and with impious prayer[10]
Gave God the glory, even while the blood
That he had shed was reeking up to Heaven.
He bade us think what mercy they had found
Who yielded on the plain of Agincourt,
And what the gallant sons of Caen, by him
In cold blood slaughtered:[11] then his scanty food
Sharing with the most wretched, he would bid us
Bear with our miseries manfully.
"Thus press'd,
Lest all should perish thus, our chiefs decreed
Women and children, the infirm and old,
All who were useless in the work of war,
Should forth and take their fortune. Age, that makes
The joys and sorrows of the distant years
Like a half-remember'd dream, yet on my heart
Leaves deep impress'd the horrors of that hour.
Then as our widow-wives clung round our necks,
And the deep sob of anguish interrupted
The prayer of parting, even the pious priest
As he implored his God to strengthen us,
And told us we should meet again in Heaven,
He groan'd and curs'd in bitterness of heart[12]
That merciless King. The wretched crowd pass'd on;
My wife — my children — through the gates they pass'd,
Then the gates closed — Would I were in my grave,
That I might lose remembrance!
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BOOK II.
JOAN OF ARC.
19
