As with a prophet's look and prophet's voice
He spake the ominous words: and they who heard,
Wonder'd, and they who rear'd the stake urged on
With half-unwilling hands their slacken'd toil,
And doubted what might follow.
Rear'd they the stake, and piled around the wood;
In sight of Orleans and the Maiden's host,
Had Suffolk's arrogant fierceness bade the work
Of death be done. The Maiden's host beheld:
At once in eager wrath they rais'd the loud
And general clamour, " Lead us to the foe!"
"Not upon us, O God!" the Maid exclaim'd,
"Not upon us cry out the innocent blood!"
And bade the signal sound. In the English camp
The clarion and the trumpet's blare was heard,
In haste they seize their arms, in haste they form,
Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear
Even from themselves, some silently in prayer,
For much their hearts misgave them.
Of Suffolk swell'd within him, 66
Speed your work!"
Exclaim'd the savage earl; “kindle the pile,
That France may see the fire, and in defeat
Feel aggravated shame!"
The herald to the stake: he cried aloud,
And fix'd his eye on Suffolk, "Let not him
Who girdeth on his harness boast himself
As he that puts it off! They come ! they come!
God and the Maid!"
The host of France approached,
And Suffolk eagerly beheld the fire
Draw near the pile: sudden a fearful shout
Towards Orleans turn'd his eye, and thence he saw A mailed man upon a mailed steed
As when Chederles comes
To aid the righteous on his deathless steed,
Swaying his sword with such resistless arm,
Such mightiest force, as he had newly quaff'd
The hidden waters of eternal youth,
Till with the copious draught of life and strength
Inebriate; such, so fierce, so terrible,
Came Conrade through the camp; aright, aleft
The affrighted English scatter from his spear.
Onward he drives, and now the circling throng
Fly from the stake; and now he checks his course,
And cuts the herald's bonds, and bids him live,
and fight, and conquer.
"To Orleans," cried the warrior,
"Tell the chiefs There is confusion in the English camp.
Bid them come forth." On Conrade's steed the youth
Leapt up and hasten'd onward. He the while
Turn'd to the war.
Like two conflicting clouds,
Pregnant with thunder, rush'd the hostile hosts.
Then man met man, then, on the batter'd shield,
Rung the loud lance, and through the darken'd sky
Fast fell the arrowy storm. Amid his foes
The Bastard's arm sway'd irresistible
The strokes of death; and by his side the Maid
Led the fierce fight-the Maid, though all unused
To the rude conflict, now inspired by Heaven,
Flashing her flamy falchion through the troops,
That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell,
Scattered the trembling ranks; the Saracen,
Though arm'd from Cashbin or Damascus, wields
A weaker sword; nor might that magic blade
Compare with this that Oriana saw
Flame in the brutal Ardan's robber hand,
When, sick and cold as the grave, she turn'd away
Her dizzy eyes, lest they should see the death
Of her own Amadis. Nor plated shield,
Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque,
Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved,
Like as the angel of the Lord went forth
And smote his army, when the Assyrian king,
Haughty of Hamath and Sepharvaim fallen,
Blasphem'd the God of Israel.
Yet the fight
Hung doubtful where, exampling hardiest deeds,
Salisbury mow'd down the foe, and Fastolffe strove,
And in the hottest doings of the war
Towered Talbot. He, remembering the past day
When from his name the affrighted sons of France
Fled trembling, all astonish'd at their force
And wontless valour, rages round the field
Dreadful in fury; yet in every man
Meeting a foe fearless, and in the faith
Of Heaven's assistance firm.
The clang of arms
Reaches the walls of Orleans. For the war
Prepared, and confident of victory,
Speed forth the troops. Not when afar exhaled
The hungry raven snuffs the steam of blood
That from some carcass-cover'd field of fame
Taints the pure air, wings he more eagerly
To riot on the gore, than rush'd the ranks;
Impatient now, for many an ill endured
In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes
Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray;
The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun,
Now quenched in blood their radiance.
Howl'd the deep wind that, ominous of storms,
Roll'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night
Frown'd, and the thunder from the troubled sky
Roar'd hollow. Javelins clash'd and bucklers rang;
Shield prest on shield; loud on the helmet jarr'd
The ponderous battle-axe; the frequent groan
Of death commingling with the storm was heard,
And the shrill shriek of fear.
Even such a storm
Before the walls of Chartres quell'd the pride
Of the third Edward, when the heavy hail
Smote down his soldiers, and the conqueror heard
God in the tempest, and remembered him
Of the widows he had made, and, in the name
Of blessed Mary, vowed the vow of
Lo! where the holy banner waved aloft,
The lambent lightnings play'd. Irradiate round,
As with a blaze of glory, o'er the field
It stream'd miraculous splendour. Then their hearts
Sunk, and the English trembled; with such fear
Possessed, as when the combined host beheld
The sun stand still on Gibeon, at the voice
Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote
The country of the hills, and of the south,
From Baal-gad to Halak, and their kings,
Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fled
From that portentous banner, and the sword
Of France; though Talbot, with vain valiancy,
Yet urged the war, and stemm'd alone the tide
Of conquest. Even their leaders felt dismay;
Fastolffe fled fast, and Salisbury in the rout
Mingles, and, all impatient of defeat,
Borne backward, Talbot turns. Then echoed loud
The cry of conquest; deeper grew the storm;
And darkness, hovering o'er on raven wing,
Brooded the field of death.
Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives.
On to the forts they haste. Bewilder'd there
Amid the moats by fear, and the dead gloom
Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops,
Crush'd by fast following numbers, who partake
The death they give. As rushing from the snows
Of winter liquefied, the torrent tide
Resistless down the mountain rolls along,
Till at the brink of giddy precipice
Arrived, with deafening clamour down it falls:
Thus borne along, the affrighted English troops,
Driven by the force behind them, plunge amid
The liquid death. Then rose the dreadful cries
More dreadful, and the dash of breaking waves
That to the passing lightning as they broke
Gleam'd horrible.
Nor of the host so late
Triumphing in the pride of victory,
And swoln with confidence, had now escaped
One wretched remnant, had not Talbot's mind,
Slow as he moved unwilling from the war,
What most might profit the defeated ranks
Pondered. He, reaching safe the massy fort,
By St. John's name made holy, kindled up
The guiding fire. Not unobserved it blazed;
The watchful guards on Tournelles, and the pile
Of that proud city, in remembrance fond
Call'd London, light the beacon. Soon the fires
Flame on the summit of the circling forts
That, firm entrenched with walls and deep-delved moats
Included Orleans. O'er the shadowy plain
They cast a lurid splendour; to the troops
Grateful, as to the way-worn traveller,
Wandering with parched feet o'er the Arabian sands,
The far-seen cistern; he for many a league
Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved
With tempest swell the desert billows round,
Pauses, and shudders at his perils past,
Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave
So long bewail'd.
Swift as the affrighted herd
Scud o'er the plain, when frequent through the sky
Flash the fierce lightnings, speed the routed host
Of England. To the sheltering forts they haste,
Though safe, of safety doubtful, still appall'd
And trembling, as the pilgrim, who by night
On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl
Hears the wood echo, when from the fell beast
Escaped, of some tall tree the topmost branch
He grasps close clinging, still of that keen fang
Fearful, his teeth jar, and the big drops stand
On his cold quivering limbs.
Greedy of vengeance, urges the pursuit.
She bids the trumpet of retreat resound;
A pleasant music to the routed ranks
Blows the loud blast. Obedient to its voice
The French, though eager on the invaders' heads
To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword.
Loud is the cry of conquest, as they turn
To Orleans. There what few to guard the town,
Unwilling had remained, haste forth to meet
The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held,
That rais'd aloft, amid the midnight storm,
Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced;
Deep through the sky the hollow thunders roll'd;
Innocuous lightnings round the hallowed banner
Wreathed their red radiance.
Through the opened gate Slow past the laden convoy. Then was heard
The shout of exultation, and such joy
The men of Orleans at that welcome sight
Possess'd, as when from Bactria late subdued,
The Macedonian Madman led his troops
Amid the Sogdian desert where no stream
Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves;
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