Thus to the martyrs in their country's cause
The Maiden gave their fame; and when she ceased,
Such murmur from the multitude arose,
As when at twilight hour the summer breeze
Moves o'er the elmy vale. There was not one
Who mourn'd with feeble sorrow for his friend,
Slain in the fight of freedom; or if chance
Remembrance with a tear suffused the eye,
The patriot's joy shone through.
And now the rites
Of sepulture perform'd, the hymn to Heaven
They chanted. To the town the Maid return'd,
Dunois with her, and Richemont, and the man
Conrade, whose converse most the Virgin loved.
They of pursuit and of the future war
Sat communing; when loud the trumpet's voice
Proclaim'd a herald's coming.
" To the Maid, " —
Such was his errand, — " and to thee, Dunois,
Son of the chief he loved, Du Chastel sends
Greeting. The aged warrior hath not spared
All active efforts to partake your toil,
And serve his country; and though late arrived,
He share not in the fame your arms acquire,
His heart is glad that he is late arrived,
And France preserved thus early. He were here
To join your host, and follow the pursuit;
But Richemont is his foe. To that high Lord
Thus says my master: We, though each to each
Be hostile, are alike the embattled sons
Of our dear country. Therefore do thou join
The conquering troops, and prosecute success;
I will the while assault what guarded towns
Bedford yet holds in Orleannois: one day,
Perhaps the Constable of France may learn
He wrong'd Du Chastel. "
As the herald spake,
Richemont's cheek redden'd, partly with a sense
Of shame, and partly anger half supprest.
" Say to thy master, " eagerly he said,
" I am the foe of those court parasites
Who poison the King's ear. Him who shall serve
Our country in the field, I hold my friend:
Such may Du Chastel prove. "
So said the chief
And pausing as the herald went his way,
Turn'd to the Virgin: " If I guess aright,
It is not from a friendly tongue's report,
That thou hast heard of me. "
Dissembling not
The unwelcome truth, " Yes, chieftain! " she replied,
" Report bespeaks thee haughty, violent,
Suffering no rival, brooking no control,
And executing by unrighteous means
The judgments of thine own unlawful will. "

" But hear me, Maid of Orleans! " he exclaim'd:
" Should the wolf enter thy defenceless flock,
Were it a crime if thy more mighty force
Destroy'd the fell destroyer? If thy hand
Had slain a ruffian as he burst thy door
Prepared for midnight murder, should'st thou feel
The weight of blood press heavy on thy soul?
I slew the wolves of state, the murderers
Of thousands. Joan! when rusted in its sheath
The sword of justice hung, blamest thou the man
That lent his weapon for the righteous deed? "

Conrade replied, " Nay, Richemont, it were well
To slay the ruffian as he burst thy doors;
But if he bear the plunder safely thence,
And thou should'st meet him on the future day,
Vengeance must not be thine: there is the law
To punish; and the law alloweth not,
That the accuser take upon himself
The judge's part; still less doth it allow
That he should execute upon the accused
Untried, unheard, a sentence, which so given
Becomes, whate'er the case, itself a crime. "

" Thou hast said wisely, " cried the Constable;
" But there are guilty ones above the law,
Men whose black crimes exceed the utmost bound
Of private guilt; court vermin that buzz round,
And fly-blow the King's ear, and make him waste,
In this most perilous time, his people's wealth
And blood; immersed one while in sensual sloth,
Heedless though ruin threat the realm they rule;
And now projecting some mad enterprise,
Sending their troops to sure defeat and shame.
These are the men who make the King suspect
His wisest, faithfulest, best counsellors;
And for themselves and their dependents, seize
All places, and all profits; and they wrest
To their own ends the statutes of the land,
Or safely break them; thus, or indolent,
Or active, ruinous alike to France.
Wisely thou sayest, warrior, that the Law
Should strike the guilty; but the voice of Justice
Cries out, and brings conviction as it cries,
Whom the laws cannot reach, the dagger should. "

The Maid replied, " It seemeth then, O Chief,
That reasoning to thine own conviction thus,
Thou standest self-acquitted of all wrong,
Self-justified, yea, self-approved. I ask not
Whether this public zeal hath look'd askaunt
To private ends; men easily deceive
Others, and oft more easily themselves.
But what if one reasoning as thou hast done
Had in like course proceeded to the act,
One of the people, one of low degree,
In whom the strong desire of public good
Had grown to be his one sole sleepless thought,
A passion, and a madness; raised as high
Above all sordid motives as thyself;
Beneath such impulses of rivalry
And such ambitious projects, as perforce
Men will impute to thee? had such a man
Stood forth the self-appointed minister
To execute his own decrees of death,
The law on him had rightfully enforced
That sentence, which the Almighty hath enjoin'd
Of life for life. Thou, chief, art by thy rank
And power exempted from the penalty:
What then hast thou exampled, — right and wrong
Confounding thus, and making lawless might
The judge in its own quarrel? Trust me, chief,
That if a people sorely are oppress'd,
The dreadful hour of overthrow will come
Too surely and too soon! He best meanwhile
Performs the sage's and the patriot's part,
Who in the ear of rage and faction breathes
The healing words of love. "
Thus communed they
Meantime, all panic-struck and terrified,
The English urge their flight; by other thoughts
Possess'd than when, elate with arrogance,
They dreamt of conquest, and the crown of France
At their disposal. Of their hard-fought fields,
Of glory hardly earn'd, and lost with shame,
Of friends and brethren slaughter'd, and the fate
Threatening themselves, they brooded sadly, now
Repentant late and vainly. They whom fear
Erst made obedient to their conquering march,
Rise on them in defeat, while they retire,
Marking their path with ruin, day by day
Leaving the weak and wounded destitute
To the foe's mercy; thinking of their home,
Though to that far-off prospect scarcely hope
Could raise a sickly eye. Oh then what joy
Inspired anew their bosoms, when, like clouds
Moving in shadows down the distant hill,
They saw their coming succors! In each heart
Doubt raised a busy tumult; soon they knew
The English standard, and a general shout
Burst from the joyful ranks: yet came no joy
To Talbot: he, with dark and downward brow,
Mused sternly, till at length aroused to hope
Of vengeance, welcoming his gallant son,
He brake a sullen smile.
" Son of my age,
Welcome young Talbot to thy first of fields.
Thy father bids thee welcome, though disgraced,
Baffled, and flying from a woman's arm!
Yes, by my former glories, from a woman!
The scourge of France, the conqueror of men,
Flying before a woman! Son of Talbot,
Had the winds wafted thee few days sooner,
Thou hadst seen me high in honor, and thy name
Alone had scatter'd armies; yet, my son,
I bid thee welcome! here we rest our flight
And face again the foe "
So spake the chief;
And well he counsell'd: for not yet the sun
Had reach'd meridian height, when o'er the plain
Of Patay, they beheld the troops of France
Speed in pursuit. Soon as the troops of France
Beheld the dark battalions of the foe
Shadowing the distant plain, a general shout
Burst from the expectant host, and on they press
Elate of heart and eager for the fight,
With clamors ominous of victory.
Thus urging on, one from the adverse host
Advanced to meet them: they his garb of peace
Knew, and they halted as the herald spake
His bidding to the chieftains. " Sirs! " he cried,
" I bear defiance to you from the Earl
William of Suffolk. Here on this fit ground,
He wills to give you battle, power to power,
So please you, on the morrow. "
" On the morrow
We will join battle then, " replied Dunois,
" And God befriend the right! " Then on the herald
A robe rich-furr'd and embroider'd he bestow'd,
A costly guerdon. Through the army spread
The unwelcome tidings of delay; possess'd
With agitating hopes they felt the hours
Pass heavily; but soon the night waned on,
And the loud trumpets' blare from broken sleep
Roused them; a second time the thrilling blast
Bade them be arm'd, and at the third long sound
They ranged them in their ranks. From man to man
With pious haste hurried the confessors
To shrive them, lest with souls all unprepared
They to their death might go. Dunois meantime
Rode through the host, the shield of dignity
Before him borne, and in his hand he held
The white wand of command. The open helm
Disclosed that eye which temper'd the strong lines
Of steady valor, to obedient awe
Winning the will's assent. To some he spake
Of late-earn'd glory; others, new to war,
He bade bethink them of the feats achieved
When Talbot, recreant to his former fame,
Fled from beleaguer'd Orleans. Was there one
Whom he had known in battle? by the hand
Him did he take, and bid him on that day
Summon his wonted courage, and once more
Support his chief and comrade. Happy he
Who caught his eye, or from the chieftain's lips
Heard his own name! joy more inspiriting
Fills not the Persian's soul, when sure he deems
That Mithra hears propitiously his prayer,
And o'er the scattered cloud of morning pours
A brighter ray responsive.
Then the host
Partook due food, this their last meal belike
Receiving with such thoughtful doubts as make
The soul, impatient of uncertainty,
Rush eager to the event; being thus prepared,
Upon the grass the soldiers laid themselves,
Each in his station, waiting there the sound
Of onset, that in undiminish'd strength
Strong, they might meet the battle; silent some
Pondering the chances of the coming day,
Some whiling with a careless gayety
The fearful pause of action.
Thus the French
In such array and high in confident hope
Await the signal; whilst with other thoughts,
And ominous awe, once more the invading host
Prepare them in the field of fight to meet
The Prophetess. Collected in himself
Appear'd the might of Talbot. Through the ranks
He stalks, reminds them of their former fame,
Their native land, their homes, the friends they loved,
All the rewards of this day's victory.
But awe had fill'd the English, and they struck
Faintly their shields; for they who had beheld
The hallowed banner with celestial light
Irradiate, and the mission'd Maiden's deeds,
Felt their hearts sink within them at the thought
Of her near vengeance; and the tale they told
Roused such a tumult in the new-come troops,
As fitted them for fear. The aged Earl
Beheld their drooping valor, and his brow,
Wrinkled with thought, bewray'd his inward doubts:
Still he was firm, though all might fly, resolved
That Talbot should retrieve his old renown,
And end his life with glory. Yet some hope
Inspired the veteran, as, across the plain
Casting his eye, he mark'd the embattled strength
Of thousands; archers of unequalled skill,
Brigans and pikemen, from whose lifted points
A fearful radiance flash'd, and young esquires,
And high-born warriors, bright in blazon'd arms.

Nor few, nor fameless were the English chiefs.
In many a field victorious, he was there,
The garter'd Fastolffe; Hungerford, and Scales,
Men who had seen the hostile squadrons fly
Before the arms of England; Suffolk there,
The haughty chieftain, tower'd; blest had he fallen
Ere yet a courtly minion he was mark'd
By public hatred, and the murderer's guilt!
There too the son of Talbot, young in arms,
Heir of a noble race and mighty name:
At many a tilt and tournament had he
Approved his skill and prowess; confident
In strength, and jealous of his future fame,
His heart beat high for battle. Such array
Of marshall'd numbers fought not on the field
Of Cressy, nor at Poictiers; nor such force
Led Henry to the fight of Agincourt,
When thousands fell before him.
Onward move
The host of France. It was a goodly sight
To see the embattled pomp, as with the step
Of stateliness the barded steeds came on, —
To see the pennons rolling their long waves
Before the gale, and banners broad and bright
Tossing their blazonry, and high-plumed chiefs,
Vidames, and Seneschalls, and Chastellains,
Gay with their buckler's gorgeous heraldry,
And silken surcoats to the mid-day sun
Glittering.
And now the knights of France dismount,
For not to brutal strength they deem'd it right
To trust their fame and their dear country's weal;
Rather to manly courage, and the glow
Of honorable thoughts, such as inspire
Ennobling energy. Unhorsed, unspurr'd,
Their javelins shorten'd to a wieldy length,
They to the foe advanced. The Maid alone,
Conspicuous on a coal-black courser, meets
The war. They moved to battle with such sound
As rushes o'er the vaulted firmament,
When from his seat, on the utmost verge of heaven
That overhangs the void, the Sire of Winds,
Hraesvelger starting, rears his giant bulk,
And from his eagle pinions shakes the storm.

High on her stately steed the martial Maid
Rode foremost of the war; her burnish'd arms
Shone like the brook that o'er its pebbled course
Runs glittering gayly to the noon-tide sun.
The foaming courser, of her guiding hand
Impatient, smote the earth, and toss'd his mane,
And rear'd aloft with many a froward bound,
Then answered to the rein with such a step,
As, in submission, he were proud to show
His spirit unsubdued. Slow on the air
Waved the white plumes that shadow'd o'er her helm.
Even such, so fair, so terrible in arms,
Pelides moved from Scyros, where, conceal'd,
He lay obedient to his mother's fears
A seemly damsel; thus the youth appear'd
Terribly graceful, when upon his neck
Deidameia hung, and with a look
That spake the tumult of her troubled soul,
Fear, anguish, and upbraiding tenderness,
Gazed on the father of her unborn babe.

An English knight, who, eager for renown,
Late left his peaceful mansion, mark'd the Maid.
Her power miraculous and portentous deeds
He from the troops had heard incredulous,
And scoff'd their easy fears, and vow'd that he,
Proving the magic of this dreaded girl
In equal battle, would dissolve the spell,
Powerless opposed to valor. Forth he spurr'd
Before the ranks; she mark'd the coming foe,
And fix'd her lance in rest, and rush'd along.
Midway they met; full on her buckler driven,
Shiver'd the English spear: her better force
Drove the brave foeman senseless from his seat.
Headlong he fell, nor ever to the sense
Of shame awoke; for crowding multitudes
Soon crush'd the helpless warrior.
Then the Maid
Rode through the thickest battle; fast they fell,
Pierced by her forceful spear. Amid the troops
Plunged her strong war-horse, by the noise of arms
Elate and roused to rage, he tramples o'er,
Or with the lance protended from his front,
Thrusts down the thronging squadrons. Where she turns,
The foe tremble and die. Such ominous fear
Seizes the traveller o'er the trackless sands,
Who marks the dread Simoom across the waste
Sweep its swift pestilence: to earth he falls,
Nor dares give utterance to the inward prayer,
Deeming the Genius of the desert breathes
The purple blast of death.
Such was the sound
As when a tempest, mingling air and sea,
Flies o'er the uptorn ocean: dashing high
Their foamy heads amid the incumbent clouds,
The madden'd billows with their deafening roar
Drown the loud thunder's peal. In every form
Of horror, death was there. They fa., transfix'd
By the random arrow's point, or fierce-thrust lane
Or sins, all battered by the ponderous mace:
Some from their coursers thrown, lie on the earth
Helpless because of arms, that weak to save,
Lengthened the lingering agonies of death.
But most the English fell, by their own fears
Betray'd, for fear the evil that it dreads
Increaseth. Even the chiefs, who many a day
Had met the war and conquer'd, trembled now,
Appall'd before the Maid miraculous.
As the blood-nurtur'd monarch of the wood,
That o'er the wilds of Afric in his strength
Resistless ranges, when the mutinous clouds
Burst, and the lightnings through the midnight sky
Dart their red fires, lies fearful in his den,
And howls in terror to the passing storm.

But Talbot, fearless where the bravest fear'd,
Mow'd down the hostile ranks. The chieftain stood
Like a strong oak, amid the tempest's rage,
That stands unharm'd, and while the forest falls
Uprooted round, lifts his high head aloft,
And nods majestic to the warring wind.
He fought, resolved to snatch the shield of death
And shelter him from shame. The very herd
Who fought near Talbot, though the Virgin's name
Made their cheeks pale and drove the curdling blood
Back to their hearts, caught from his daring deeds
New force, and went like eaglets to the prey
Beneath their mother's wing: to him they look'd
Their tower of strength, and follow'd where his sword
Made through the foe a way. Nor did the son
Of Talbot shame his lineage; by his sire
Emulous he strove, like the young lionet
When first he bathes his murderous jaws in blood
They fought intrepid, though amid their ranks
Fear and confusion triumph'd; for such dread
Possess'd the English, as the Etruscans felt,
When self-devoted to the infernal gods
The awful Decius stood before the troops,
Robed in the victim garb of sacrifice,
And spake aloud, and call'd the shadowy powers
To give to Rome the conquest, and receive
Their willing prey; then rush'd amid the foe,
And died upon the hecatombs he slew.

But hope inspired the assailants. Xaintrailles there
Spread fear and death, and Orleans' valiant son
Fought as when Warwick fled before his arm.
O'er all preiminent for hardiest deeds
Was Conrade. Where he drove his battle-axe,
Weak was the buckler or the helm's defence,
Hauberk, or plated mail; through all it pierced,
Resistless as the fork'd flash of heaven.
The death-doom'd foe, who mark'd the coming chief,
Felt such a chill run through his shivering frame
As the night-traveller of the Pyrenees,
Lone and bewilder'd on his wintry way,
When from the mountains round reverberates
The hungry wolves' deep yell: on every side,
Their fierce eyes gleaming as with meteor fires,
The famish'd pack come round; the affrighted mule
Snorts loud with terror, on his shuddering limbs
The big sweat starts, convulsive pant his sides,
Then on he gallops, wild in desperate speed.
Him dealing death an English knight beheld,
And spurr'd his steed to crush him: Conrade leap'd
Lightly aside, and through the warrior's greaves
Fix'd a deep wound: nor longer could the foe,
Disabled thus, command his mettled horse,
Or his rude plunge endure; headlong he fell,
And perish'd. In his castle hall was hung
On high his father's shield, with many a dint
Graced on the glorious field of Agincourt.
His deeds the son had heard; and when a boy,
Listening delighted to the old man's tale,
His little hand would lift the weighty spear
In warlike pastime: he had left behind
An infant offspring, and had fondly deem'd
He too in age the exploits of his youth
Should tell, and in the stripling's bosom rouse
The fire of glory.
Conrade the next foe
Smote where the heaving membrane separates
The chambers of the trunk. The dying man,
In his lord's castle dwelt, for many a year,
A well-beloved servant: he could sing
Carols for Shrove-tide, or for Candlemas,
Songs for the wassail, and when the boar's head,
Crown'd with gay garlands and with rosemary,
Smoked on the Christmas board: he went to war
Following the lord he loved, and saw him fall
Beneath the arm of Conrade, and expired,
Slain on his master's body.
Nor the fight
Was doubtful long. Fierce on the invading host
Press the French troops impetuous, as of old,
When pouring o'er his legion slaves on Greece,
The eastern despot bridged the Hellespont,
The rushing sea against the mighty pile
Roll'd its full weight of waters; far away
The fearful Satrap mark'd on Asia's coasts
The floating fragments, and with ominous fear
Trembled for the great king.
Still Talbot strove,
His foot firm planted, his uplifted shield
Fencing that breast which never yet had known
The throb of fear. But when the warrior's eye,
Glancing around the fight, beheld the French
Pressing to conquest, and his heartless troops
Striking with feebler force in backward step,
Then o'er his cheek he felt the indignant flush
Of shame, and loud he lifted up his voice,
And cried, " Fly, cravens! leave your aged chief
Here in the front to perish! his old limbs
Are not like yours, so supple in the flight.
Go tell your countrymen how ye escaped
When Talbot fell! "
In vain the warrior spake;
In the uproar of the fight his voice was lost;
And they, the nearest, who had heard, beheld
The Prophetess approach, and every thought
Was overwhelm'd in terror. But the son
Of Talbot mark'd her thus across the plain
Careering fierce in conquest, and the hope
Of glory rose within him. Her to meet
He spurr'd his horse, by one decisive deed
Or to retrieve the battle, or to fall
With honor. Each beneath the other's blow
Bow'd down; their lances shiver'd with the shock:
To earth their coursers fell: at once they rose,
He from the saddle-bow his falchion caught
Rushing to closer combat, and she bared
The lightning of her sword. In vain the youth
Essay'd to pierce those arms which even the power
Of time was weak to injure: she the while
Through many a wound beheld her foeman's blood
Ooze fast. " Yet save thyself! " the Maiden cried.
" Me thou canst not destroy: be timely wise,
And live! " He answer'd not, but lifting high
His weapon, smote with fierce and forceful arm
Full on the Virgin's helm: fire from her eyes
Flash'd with the stroke: one step she back recoil'd,
Then in his breast plunged deep the sword of death.

Talbot beheld his fall; on the next foe,
With rage and anguish wild, the warrior turn'd;
His ill-directed weapon to the earth
Drove down the unwounded Frank: he strikes again,
And through his all-in-vain imploring hands
Cleaves the poor suppliant. On that dreadful day
The sword of Talbot, clogg'd with hostile gore,
Made good its vaunt. Amid the heaps his arm
Had slain, the chieftain stood and sway'd around
His furious strokes: nor ceased he from the fight,
Though now, discomfited, the English troops
Fled fast, all panic-struck and spiritless,
And mingling with the routed, Fastolffe fled,
Fastolffe, all fierce and haughty as he was,
False to his former fame; for he beheld
The Maiden rushing onward, and such fear
Ran through his frame, as thrills the African,
When, grateful solace in the sultry hour,
He rises on the buoyant billow's breast,
And then beholds the inevitable shark
Close on him, open-mouth'd.
But Talbot now
A moment paused, for bending thitherward
He mark'd a warrior, such as well might ask
His utmost force. Of strong and stately port
The onward foeman moved, and bore on high
A battle-axe, in many a field of blood
Known by the English chieftain. Over heaps
Of slaughter'd, he made way, and bade the troops
Retire from the bold Earl: then Conrade spake.
" Vain is thy valor, Talbot! look around,
See where thy squadrons fly! but thou shalt lose
No honor, by their cowardice subdued,
Performing well thyself the soldier's part. "

" And let them fly! " the indignant Earl exclaim'd,
" And let them fly! and bear thou witness, chief
That guiltless of this day's disgrace, I fall.
But, Frenchman! Talbot will not tamely fall,
Nor unrevenged. "
So saying, for the war
He stood prepared: nor now with heedless rage
The champions fought, for either knew full well
His foeman's prowess: now they aim the blow
Insidious, with quick change then drive the steel
Fierce on the side exposed. The unfaithful arms
Yield to the strong-driven edge; the blood streams down
Their batter'd mail. With swift eye Conrade mark'd
The lifted buckler, and beneath impell'd
His battle-axe; that instant on his helm
The sword of Talbot fell, and with the blow
It broke. " Yet yield thee, Englishman! " exclaim'd
The generous Frank; " vain is this bloody strife:
Me should'st thou conquer, little would my death
Avail thee, weak and wounded! "
" Long enough
Talbot has lived, " replied the sullen chief:
" His hour is come; yet shalt not thou survive
To glory in his fall! " So, as he spake,
He lifted from the ground a massy spear,
And came again to battle.
Now more fierce
The conflict raged, for careless of himself,
And desperate, Talbot fought. Collected still
Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his foeman aim'd
The well-thrust javelin, there he swung around
His guardian shield: the long and vain assault
Exhausted Talbot now; foredone with toil,
He bare his buckler low for weariness;
The buckler, now splinter'd with many a stroke,
Fell piecemeal; from his riven arms the blood
Stream'd fast: and now the Frenchman's battle-axe
Came unresisted on the shieldless mail.
But then he held his hand. " Urge not to death
This fruitless contest! " he exclaim'd: " oh chief!
Are there not those in England who would feel
Keen anguish at thy loss? a wife perchance
Who trembles for thy safety, or a child
Needing a father's care! "
Then Talbot's heart
Smote him. " Warrior! " he cried, " if thou dost think
That life is worth preserving, hie thee hence,
And save thyself: I loathe this useless talk. "

So saying, he address'd him to the fight,
Impatient of existence: from their arms
Fire flash'd, and quick they panted; but not long
Endured the deadly combat. With full force
Down through his shoulder even to the chest,
Conrade impell'd the ponderous battle-axe;
And at that instant underneath his shield
Received the hostile spear. Prone fell the Earl,
Even in his death rejoicing that no foe
Should live to boast his fall.
Then with faint hand
Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his brow
Wiping the cold dews ominous of death,
He laid him on the earth, thence to remove,
While the long lance hung heavy in his side,
Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe
He lay, the herald of the English Earl
With faltering step drew near, and when he saw
His master's arms, " Alas! and is it you,
My lord? " he cried. " God pardon you you
I have been forty years your officer,
And time it is I should surrender now
The ensigns of my office! " So he said,
And paying thus his rite of sepulture,
Threw o'er the slaughter'd chief his blazon'd coat

Then Conrade thus bespake him: " Englishman
Do for a dying soldier one kind act!
Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her haste
Hither, and thou shalt gain what recompense
It pleaseth thee to ask. "
The herald soon,
Meeting the mission'd Virgin, told his tale.
Trembling she hasten'd on, and when she knew
The death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could
Lift up the expiring warrior's heavy hand.
And press it to her heart.
" I sent for thee,
My friend! " with interrupted voice he cried,
" That I might comfort this my dying hour
With one good deed. A fair domain is mine;
Let Francis and his Isabel possess
That, mine inheritance. " He paused awhile,
Struggling for utterance; then with breath speed,
And pale as him he mourn'd for, Francis came
And hung in silence o'er the blameless man,
Even with a brother's sorrow: he pursued,
" This, Joan, will be thy care. I have at home
An aged mother — Francis, do thou soothe
Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus
Sweet to the wretched is the tomb's repose! "

So saying, Conrade drew the javelin forth,
And died without a groan.
By this the scouts,
Forerunning the king's march, upon the plain
Of Patay had arrived, of late so gay
With marshall'd thousands in their radiant arms
And streamers glittering in the noon-tide sun,
And blazon'd shields and gay accoutrements,
The pageantry of war; but now defiled
With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms
And mangled bodies. Soon the monarch joins
His victor army. Round the royal flag,
Uprear'd in conquest now, the chieftains flock,
Proffering their eager service. To his arms,
Or wisely fearful, or by speedy force
Compell'd, the embattled towns submit and own
Their rightful king. Baugenci strives in vain;
Yenville and Mehun yield; from Sully's wall
Hurl'd is the banner'd lion: on they pass,
Auxerre, and Troyes, and Chalons, ope their gate
And by the mission'd Maiden's rumor'd deeds
Inspirited, the citizens of Rheims
Feel their own strength; against the English troop
With patriot valor, irresistible,
They rise, they conquer, and to their liege lord
Present the city keys.
The morn was fair
When Rheims reichoed to the busy hum
Of multitudes, for high solemnity
Assembled. To the holy fabric moves
The long procession, through the streets bestrewn
With flowers and laurel boughs. The courtier throng
Were there, and they in Orleans, who endured
The siege right bravely; Gaucour, and La Hire,
The gallant Xaintrailles, Boussac, and Chabannes,
Alençon, and the bravest of the brave,
The Bastard Orleans, now in hope elate,
Soon to release from hard captivity
His dear-beloved brother; gallant men,
And worthy of eternal memory,
For they, in the most perilous times of France,
Despair'd not of their country. By the king
The delegated Damsel pass'd along
Clad in her batter'd arms. She bore on high
Her hallow'd banner to the sacred pile,
And fix'd it on the altar, whilst her hand
Pour'd on the monarch's head the mystic oil,
Wafted of yore, by milk white dove from heaven,
(So legends say,) to Clovis when he stood
At Rheims for baptism; dubious since that day;
When Tolbiac plain reek'd with his warrior's blood,
And fierce upon their flight the Almanni prest,
And rear'd the shout of triumph; in that hour
Clovis invoked aloud the Christian God
And conquer'd: waked to wonder thus, the chief
Became love's convert, and Clotilda led
Her husband to the font.
The mission'd Maid
Then placed on Charles's brow the crown of France,
And back retiring, gazed upon the king
One moment, quickly scanning all the past,
Till, in a tumult of wild wonderment,
She wept aloud. The assembled multitude
In awful stillness witness'd; then at once,
As with a tempest-rushing noise of winds,
Lifted their mingled clamors. Now the Maid
Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand,
And instant silence followed.
" King of France! "
She cried, " at Chinon, when my gifted eye
Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit
Prompted, I promised, with the sword of God,
To drive from Orleans far the English wolves,
And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims.
All is accomplish'd. I have here this day
Fulfill'd my mission, and anointed thee
King over this great nation. Of this charge,
Or well perform'd or carelessly, that God
Of Whom thou holdest thine authority
Will take account; from Him all power derives.
Thy duty is to fear the Lord, and rule,
According to His word and to the laws,
The people thus committed to thy charge:
Theirs is to fear Him and to honor Thee,
And with that fear and honor to obey
In all things lawful; both being thus alike
By duty bound, alike restricted both
From wilful license. If thy heart be set
To do His will and in His ways to walk,
I know no limit to the happiness
Thou may'st create. I do beseech thee, King! "
The Maid exclaim'd, and fell upon the ground,
And clasp'd his knees, " I do beseech thee, King!
By all the thousands that depend on thee,
For weal or woe, — consider what thou art,
By Whom appointed! If thou dost oppress
Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself
Thou tear'st them from their homes, and sendest them
To slaughter, prodigal of misery;
If when the widow and the orphan groan
In want and wretchedness, thou turnest thee
To hear the music of the flatterer's tongue;
If, when thou hear'st of thousands who have fallen,
Thou say'st, " I am a King! and fit it is
That these should perish for me;" — if thy realm
Should, through the counsels of thy government,
Be fill'd with woe, and in thy streets be heard
The voice of mourning and the feeble cry
Of asking hunger; if in place of Law
Iniquity prevail; if Avarice grind
The poor; if discipline be utterly
Relax'd, Vice charter'd, Wickedness let loose;
Though in the general ruin all must share,
Each answer for his own peculiar guilt,
Yet at the Judgment-day, from those to whom
The power was given, the Giver of all power
Will call for righteous and severe account.
Choose thou the better part, and rule the land
In righteousness; in righteousness thy throne
Shall then be stablish'd, not by foreign foes
Shaken, nor by domestic enemies,
But guarded then by loyalty and love,
True hearts, Good Angels, and All-seeing Heaven.

Thus spake the Maid of Orleans, solemnly
Accomplishing her marvellous mission here.