The Maid of Orleans: A Tragedy Part 2

THIBAUT.

G.o.d protect the king!

BERTRAND.

Artillery is brought from every side, And as the dusky squadrons of the bees Swarm round the hive upon a summer day, As clouds of locusts from the sultry air Descend and shroud the country round for miles, So doth the cloud of war, o'er Orleans' fields, Pour forth its many-nationed mult.i.tudes, Whose varied speech, in wild confusion blent, With strange and hollow murmurs fill the air.

For Burgundy, the mighty potentate, Conducts his motley host; the Hennegarians, The men of Liege and of Luxemburg, The people of Namur, and those who dwell In fair Brabant; the wealthy men of Ghent, Who boast their velvets, and their costly silks; The Zealanders, whose cleanly towns appear Emerging from the ocean; Hollanders Who milk the lowing herds; men from Utrecht, And even from West Friesland's distant realm, Who look towards the ice-pole--all combine, Beneath the banner of the powerful duke, Together to accomplish Orleans' fall.

THIBAUT.

Oh, the unblest, the lamentable strife, Which turns the arms of France against itself!

BERTRAND.

E'en she, the mother-queen, proud Isabel Bavaria's haughty princess--may be seen, Arrayed in armor, riding through the camp; With poisonous words of irony she fires The hostile troops to fury 'gainst her son, Whom she hath clasped to her maternal breast.

THIBAUT.

A curse upon her, and may G.o.d prepare For her a death like haughty Jezebel's!

BERTRAND.

The fearful Salisbury conducts the siege, The town-destroyer; with him Lionel, The brother of the lion; Talbot, too, Who, with his murd'rous weapon, moweth down The people in the battle: they have sworn, With ruthless insolence to doom to shame The hapless maidens, and to sacrifice All who the sword have wielded, with the sword.

Four lofty watch-towers, to o'ertop the town, They have upreared; Earl Salisbury from on high Casteth abroad his cruel, murd'rous glance, And marks the rapid wanderers in the streets.

Thousands of cannon-b.a.l.l.s, of pond'rous weight, Are hurled into the city. Churches lie In ruined heaps, and Notre Dame's royal tower Begins at length to bow its lofty head.

They also have formed powder-vaults below, And thus, above a subterranean h.e.l.l, The timid city every hour expects, 'Midst cras.h.i.+ng thunder, to break forth in flames.

[JOHANNA listens with close attention, and places the helmet on her head.

THIBAUT.

But where were then our heroes? Where the swords Of Saintrailles, and La Hire, and brave Dunois, Of France the bulwark, that the haughty foe With such impetuous force thus onward rushed?

Where is the king? Can he supinely see His kingdom's peril and his cities' fall?

BERTRAND.

The king at Chinon holds his court; he lacks Soldiers to keep the field. Of what avail The leader's courage, and the hero's arm, When pallid fear doth paralyze the host?

A sudden panic, as if sent from G.o.d, Unnerves the courage of the bravest men.

In vain the summons of the king resounds As when the howling of the wolf is heard, The sheep in terror gather side by side, So Frenchmen, careless of their ancient fame, Seek only now the shelter of the towns.

One knight alone, I have been told, has brought A feeble company, and joins the king With sixteen banners.

JOHANNA (quickly).

What's the hero's name?

BERTRAND.

'Tis Baudricour. But much I fear the knight Will not be able to elude the foe, Who track him closely with too numerous hosts.

JOHANNA.

Where halts the knight? Pray tell me, if you know.

BERTRAND.

About a one day's march from Vaucouleurs.

THIBAUT (to JOHANNA).

Why, what is that to thee? Thou dost inquire Concerning matters which become thee not.

BERTRAND.

The foe being now so strong, and from the king No safety to be hoped, at Vaucouleurs They have with unanimity resolved To yield them to the Duke of Burgundy.

Thus we avoid the foreign yoke, and still Continue by our ancient royal line; Ay, to the ancient crown we may fall back Should France and Burgundy be reconciled.

JOHANNA (as if inspired).

Speak not of treaty! Speak not of surrender!

The savior comes, he arms him for the fight.

The fortunes of the foe before the walls Of Orleans shall be wrecked! His hour is come, He now is ready for the reaper's hand, And with her sickle will the maid appear, And mow to earth the harvest of his pride.

She from the heavens will tear his glory down, Which he had hung aloft among the stars; Despair not! Fly not! for ere yonder corn a.s.sumes its golden hue, or ere the moon Displays her perfect orb, no English horse Shall drink the rolling waters of the Loire.

BERTRAND.

Alas! no miracle will happen now!

JOHANNA.

Yes, there shall yet be one--a snow-white dove Shall fly, and with the eagle's boldness, tear The birds of prey which rend her fatherland.

She shall o'erthrow this haughty Burgundy, Betrayer of the kingdom; Talbot, too, The hundred-handed, heaven-defying scourge; This Salisbury, who violates our fanes, And all these island robbers shall she drive Before her like a flock of timid lambs.

The Lord will be with her, the G.o.d of battle; A weak and trembling creature he will choose, And through a tender maid proclaim his power, For he is the Almighty!

THIBAULT.

What strange power Hath seized the maiden?

RAIMOND.

Doubtless 'tis the helmet Which doth inspire her with such martial thoughts.

Look at your daughter. Mark her flas.h.i.+ng eye, Her glowing cheek, which kindles as with fire.

JOHANNA.

This realm shall fall! This ancient land of fame, The fairest that, in his majestic course, The eternal sun surveys--this paradise, Which, as the apple of his eye, G.o.d loves-- Endure the fetters of a foreign yoke?

Here were the heathen scattered, and the cross And holy image first were planted here; Here rest St. Louis' ashes, and from hence The troops went forth who set Jerusalem free.

BERTRAND (in astonishment).

Hark how she speaks! Why, whence can she obtain This glorious revelation? Father Arc!

A wondrous daughter G.o.d hath given you!

JOHANNA.

We shall no longer serve a native prince!

The king, who never dies, shall pa.s.s away-- The guardian of the sacred plough, who fills The earth with plenty, who protects our herds, Who frees the bondmen from captivity, Who gathers all his cities round his throne-- Who aids the helpless, and appals the base, Who envies no one, for he reigns supreme; Who is a mortal, yet an angel too, Dispensing mercy on the hostile earth.

For the king's throne, which glitters o'er with gold, Affords a shelter for the dest.i.tute; Power and compa.s.sion meet together there, The guilty tremble, but the just draw near, And with the guardian lion fearless sport!

The stranger king, who cometh from afar, Whose fathers' sacred ashes do not lie Interred among us; can he love our land?

Who was not young among our youth, whose heart Respondeth not to our familiar words, Can he be as a father to our sons?

THIBAUT.

G.o.d save the king and France! We're peaceful folk, Who neither wield the sword, nor rein the steed.

--Let us await the king whom victory crowns; The fate of battle is the voice of G.o.d.

He is our lord who crowns himself at Rheims, And on his head receives the holy oil.

--Come, now to work! come! and let every one Think only of the duty of the hour!

Let the earth's great ones for the earth contend, Untroubled we may view the desolation, For steadfast stand the acres which we till.

The flames consume our villages, our corn Is trampled 'neath the tread of warlike steeds; With the new spring new harvests reappear, And our light huts are quickly reared again!

[They all retire except the maiden.