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Herbert, Henry William, 1807-1858 [1853], The chevaliers of France, from the crusaders to the marechals of Louis XIV. (Redfield, New York) [word count] [eaf581T]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
This admirable heroine, to whom the more generous superstition of the ancients
The moon had set behind the tufted hill, The silent stars — though waning — glimmered still, The drowsy woods were steeped in voiceless rest, Dead stillness brooded o'er the water's breast, The cloudless firmament was spread on high Dark, but transparent, like the liquid eye Of Andalusian maid, in orange grove, Dissolved in rapture at the tale of love. Nor voice of man, nor cry of passing bird, Nor ban-dog's bay from cot or keep, was heard; The wolves were hushed in tangled coverts deep, The very owls had wailed themselves to sleep: But fresher yet the breeze came murmuring by, And colder breathed the air, as morn drew nigh. The paly streaks, that told of coming day, Dappled the horizon's verge with feeble ray; Yet one, who paused on yonder hillock's brow, Above the blooming plain which smiled below, Might linger there, nor dream a city's pride Was slumbering by that sluggish river's side; Though close beneath, in darkest garb arrayed, Blent with the forest's gloom, the mountain's shade, A gorgeous town lay stretched; with streets sublime, Turret, and dome, and spires of olden time, Teeming with life and wealth — war's stern array, The cares of commerce, and the church's sway! No crash of wheels, nor hum of erowds was there, Nor neigh of warlike steeds, nor torch's glare;
All whelmed alike in night's oblivious pall! The drowsy watchers nodded on the wall — The haughty conqueror in his trophied bed — The slave in chains — the serf in lowly shed. But one was there — whose eyes nor night could close, Nor opiate draughts could lull to calm repose. In bloom of beauty, in youth's earliest flower, Condemned to brave the inevitable hour, — To quit the verdant earth, the genial sun, Ere half her course of womanhood was run, — Unbent by years — without one silver hair In her bright tresses; ignorant of care, Of pain, or sorrow; while the world was new, While life was beautiful, and friends seemed true, — Doomed to the worst extremity of pain, Which flesh can writhe beneath, and not sustain — To die in fire, unhouselled and unshriven, Scorned by her murderers, and shut out from heaven — The maid of Orleans. She whose sacred brand Had wrought deliverance to her native land — Had slaked the bowstring in the archer's blood, And tamed the Island Leopard's She who had crowned a monarch — who had raised A nation from the dust — whose name was praised In court and cottage, from the snowy chain Of Alpine Jura, to the western main, — Her country's guardian — fettered and alone In patient helplessness she sat: no groan Passed from her ashy lips; her mind's control O'erpowered the whirlwind passion of her soul: Calm had she bent the knee, and humbly prayed From Him, who gives to all who seek, His aid. Humbly she knelt, and self-absolved she rose; Tried in success, and purified by woes,
She felt her glowing spirit mount the skies To meet the witness of “those perfect eyes” Which endless time nor boundless space can blind, Secure in her Redeemer, and resigned To bear all torments, in that narrow road Which leads, through death, to glory's pure abode. She turned to take a long, a last farewell Of the dear country she had served so well — Of the dark skies — and each peculiar star, Whose melancholy glance she had loved afar In her own vale, while France as yet was free! She saw the Seine rush proudly to the sea — She saw the foliage in the breezes wave — The flowery truf, that might not yield a grave To its heroic daughter: but her mind Marked not the hurrying flood, nor heard the wind. Far! far away, her faney's eye did roam To the known landseape, and the cottage home; The willows bending o'er the argent rill; The rustic shrine, and the familiar hill; The lawns, where oft her pastured flocks would stray; The village-green, where still on festive day She led with artless grace the rural dance, All hearts subduing with untutored glance; The cheerful hearth; the calm though humble bed; The dreamless sleep which hovered round her head; The days of innocence; the nights of peace. Alas! that hours like these should ever cease! Forth rushed the burning tears! not one by one, But bursting out as mountain streamlets run — Her mother's face benign, her father's smile, Palpably beaming on her heart the while, Till, in that gush of soul, she well might deem The dead restored by no uncertain dream. Yet soon that passion passed — a sudden start Called back the crimson current from her heart, And flushed her cheek with indignation's tide.
“Shall I — the maid of Are — shall I,” she cried, “Weep like a village damsel for some toy Of childish love — I, who have known the joy Of triumph and high glory — who am styled My country's savior — France's noblest child?” She ceased! — for, as she spake, with plaintive swell Answering her words of pride, a ponderous bell Rang out its deadly summons! Well she knew The sound of terror; and the transient hue Which shamed but now the tints of breaking morn, Had vanished from her brow; yet still upborne By calm submission, and the holy zeal, Which erst had nerved her arm to point the steel, She stood unblenching. To the place of shame — Branded They led her forth, in the resistless might Of maiden virtue — girt, as to the fight, In panoply of mail — her long dark hair Unbraided, and her features firm as fair. Stern Bedford gazed upon her dauntless mien With half-repentant wonder! He had seen, Unmoved and fierce, all bursts of female fear, Had scorned the sigh, and revelled in the tear; But the wild courage of that heavenly face Half-moved his iron heart to deeds of grace. The free-born archers of the ocean isle Reluctant marched along; no vengeful smile Mantling their rugged brows — that band had rued The victim's valor in their dearest blood, Yet not for that would they consign to flame A glorious spirit, and a woman's frame! The goal was gained — and ye do still forbear To speak ve Thunders! Where, O Tempests, where Are your tornadoes, that ye do not burst Whelming with heavenly streams the flame accurst?
They bound her to the stake, and tore away The arms she bore in many a glorious day: Yet still she trembled not! They touched the pyre And the red torrent of devouring fire — Broad as a chieftain's banner — streamed on high, E'en to the abhorrent skies! — Yet not a cry From out the volumed conflagration broke; Nor sound was heard, save when the eddying smoke Roared from its crackling canopy! A sob Heaved the assembled concourse — a wild throb Of anguish and remorse! — A secret dread! Sank on the bravest heart, and stunned the firmest head Fools? did they deem that flames could check thy course, Immortal Freedom — or that human force Could cope with the Eternal? That pure blood Tainted each gale, and crimsoned every flood, Through Gaul's wide confines, till her sons arose An overwhelming landstorm And piled, with hands unbound, a deathless shrine, And kindled on their hearths a spark divine, Unquenched for ages, whose immortal ray Still brightens more and more to perfect day. * The original bearing on the royal shield and standard of England were not three * The Place de la Pucelle, at Rouen, where this infamous tragedy was enacted. * We have here ventured to anglicise the German word landsturm, the literal meaning
Herbert, Henry William, 1807-1858 [1853], The chevaliers of France, from the crusaders to the marechals of Louis XIV. (Redfield, New York) [word count] [eaf581T]. |
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