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JOAN OF ARC: BOOK 1, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: There was high feasting held at vaucouleur
Last Line: "his wrath, and they shall perish who oppress."
Subject(s): Faith; Joan Of Arc (1412-1431); Missions & Missionaries; Pilgrimages & Pilgrims; Religion; Belief; Creed; Theology


The Maid announces her mission to the Lord of Vaucouleur. She departs for Chinon
with Dunois. Narrative of the Maid.

THERE was high feasting held at Vaucouleur,
For old Sir Robert had a noble guest,
The Bastard Orleans; and the festive hours,
Cheer'd with the Trouveur's merry minstrelsy,
Pass'd lightly at the hospitable board.
But not to share the hospitable board
And hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had sought
Sir Robert's hall; he came to rouse Lorraine,
And glean what force the wasting war had left
For one last effort. Little had the war
Left in Lorraine, but age, and youth unripe
For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids
Of widowed loves. And now with this high guest
The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing
On what might profit France, and knew no hope,
Despairing of his country, when he heard
An old man and a maid awaited him
In the castle hall. He knew the old man well,
His vassal Claude, and at his bidding Claude
Approach'd, and after meet obeisance made,
Bespake Sir Robert.
"Good my Lord, I come
With a strange tale; I pray you pardon me
If it should seem impertinent, and like
An old man's weakness. But, in truth, this Maid
Did with most earnest words importune me,
And with such boding thoughts impress'd my heart,
I think that I could not have slept in peace
Denying what she sought. Her parents make
A mock of her;—it is not well to mock
The damsel, and altho' her mother be
My sister, yet in honesty I think
It is unkindly done to mock the Maid.
And then her father Confessor,—he says
She is possess'd; indeed he knows her not.
Possess'd! my niece by evil spirits possess'd!
My darling girl! there never was a thought
Of evil yet found entrance in her heart.—
I knew her, good my Lord, before her smile,
Her innocent smile, and bright black-sparkling eye
That talk'd before the tongue had learnt its office,
Did tell me she did love me."
Whilst he spake
Curious they mark'd the Damsel. She appear'd
Of eighteen years; there was no bloom of youth
Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues
Of health with lesser fascination fix'd
The gazer's eye; for wan the Maiden was,
Of saintly paleness, and there seem'd to dwell
In the strong beauties of her countenance
Something that was not earthly.
"I have heard
Of this your niece's malady," replied
The Lord of Vaucouleur; "that she frequents
The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude,
Estranged from human kind and human cares
With loathing most like madness. It were best
To place her with some pious sisterhood,
Who duly morn and eve, for her soul's health
Soliciting Heaven, may likeliest remedy
The stricken mind, or frenzied or possess'd."
So as Sir Robert ceas'd, the Maiden cried,
"I am not mad. Possess'd indeed I am!
The hand of God is strong upon my soul,
And I have wrestled vainly with the Lord,
And stubbornly, I fear me. I can save
This country, sir! I can deliver France!
Yea—I must save this country! God is in me—
I speak not, think not, feel not of myself.
He knew and sanctified me ere my birth,
He to the nations hath ordained me,
And unto whom He sends me, I must go,
And that which He commands me, I must speak,
And that which He shall will, I must perform,
Most fearless in the fulness of my faith
Because the Lord is with me!"
At the first
With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard
The inspired Maid; but now he in his heart
Felt that misgiving that precedes belief
In what was disbelieved and scoff'd at late
As folly. "Damsel!" said the Chief, methinks
That it were wisely done to doubt this call,
Haply of some ill spirit prompting thee
To self-destruction."
"Doubt!" the maid exclaim'd;
"It were as easy, when I gaze around
On all this fair variety of things,
Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth
Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt
Creating wisdom! when in the evening gale
I breathe the mingled odours of the spring,
And hear the wild wood melody, and hear
The populous air vocal with insect life,
To doubt God's goodness! there are feelings, Chief,
That may not lie; and I have oftentimes
Felt in the midnight silence of my soul
The call of God."
They listened to the Maid,
And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois:
"Wilt thou go with me, Maiden, to the king,
And there announce thy mission?" Thus he said,
For thoughts of politic craftiness arose
Within him, and his unconfirmed faith
Determin'd to prompt action. She replied:
"Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur,
That with such credence as prevents delay,
He to the king might send me. Now, beseech you,
Speed our departure."
Then Dunois address'd
Sir Robert: "Fare thee well, my friend and host!
It were ill done to linger here when Heaven
Has sent such strange assistance. Let what force
Lorraine may yield to Chinon follow us;
And with the tidings of this holy Maid,
Rais'd up by God, fill thou the country; soon
The country shall awake as from the sleep
Of death, Now, Maid! depart we at thy will."

"God's blessing go with thee!" exclaim'd old Claude;
"Good angels guard my girl!"—and as he spake
The tears stream'd fast adown his aged cheeks,—
"And if I do not live to see thee more,
As sure I think I shall not, yet sometimes
Remember thine old uncle. I have loved thee
Even from thy childhood, Joan! and I shall lose
The comfort of mine age in losing thee.
But God be with thee, Maid!"
He had a heart
Warm as a child's affections, and he wept.
Nor was the Maid, although subdued of soul,
Unmoved; but soon she calmed her, and bespake
The good old man. "Now go thee to thine home,
And comfort thee mine uncle, with the thought
Of what I am, for what high enterprise
Chosen from among the people. Oh, be sure
I shall remember thee, in whom I found
A parent's love, when parents were unkind;
And when the ominous broodings of my soul
Were scoff'd and made a mock of by all else,
Those most mysterious feelings thou the while
Still didst respect. Shall I forget these things?"
They pass'd without the gate, as thus she spake,
Prepar'd for their departure. To her lips
She press'd his hand, and as she press'd there fell
A tear; the old man felt it on his heart,
And dimly he beheld them on their steeds
Spring up and go their way.
So on they went;
And now along the mountain's winding path
Upward they journeyed slow, and now they paus'd
And gazed where o'er the plain the stately towers
Of Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen,
Dark and distinct; below the castled height,
Thro' fair and fertile pastures, the deep Meuse
Roll'd glittering on. Domremi's cottages
Gleam'd in the sun hard by, white cottages,
That in the evening traveller's weary mind
Had waken'd thoughts of comfort and of home,
Till his heart ached for rest. But on one spot,
One little spot, the Virgin's eye was fix'd,
Her native Arc; embowered the hamlet lay
Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods,
With all their infinite varieties,
Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain
Rose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves,
And vine-yards in the greenest hue of spring,
And streams, now hidden on their devious way,
Now winding forth in light.
The Maiden gazed
Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye.
"Oh what a blessed world were this!" she cried,
"But that the great and honourable men
Have seiz'd the earth, and of the heritage
Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given,
Disherited their brethren! happy those
Who in the after-days shall live when Time
Has spoken, and the multitude of years
Taught wisdom! Sure and certain though that hope,
Yet it is sad to gaze upon a scene
So very good, and think that Want and Guilt
And Wretchedness are there! unhappy France!
Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes
Rush o'er the land and desolate and kill;
Long has the window's and the orphan's groan
Accused Heaven's justice;—but the hour is come;
God hath inclined his ear, hath heard the voice
Of mourning, and His anger is gone forth."

Then said the Son of Orleans: "Holy Maid!
I would fain know, if blameless I may seek
Such knowledge, how the heavenly call was heard
First in thy waken'd soul; nor deem in me
Aught idly curious, if of thy past days
I ask the detail. In the hour of age,
If haply I survive to see this realm
By thee deliver'd, dear will be the thought
That I have seen the delegated Maid,
And heard from her the wondrous ways of Heaven."

"A simple tale," the mission'd Maid replied,
"Yet may it well employ the journeying hour;
And pleasant is the memory of the past.

"Seest thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts
The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows
As on the farther bank the distant towers
Of Vaucouleur? there in the hamlet Arc
My father's dwelling stands; a lowly hut,
Yet nought of needful comfort wanted it,
For in Lorraine there lived no kinder lord
Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques
In flocks and herds was rich. A toiling man,
Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart
Affection had no root. I never knew
A parent's love; for harsh my mother was,
And deem'd the cares that infancy demands
Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were,
And would have made me fear them, but my soul
Possess'd the germ of steady fortitude,
And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke
And wrathful chastisement. Yet was the voice
That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet
To my young heart; how have I felt it leap
With transport, when mine uncle Claude approach'd!
For he would place me on his knee, and tell
The wondrous tales that childhood loves to hear,
Listening with eager eyes and open lips
In most devout attention. Good old man!
Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven
Unhallowed by the grateful thought of him,
Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it!
He was a parent to me, and his home
Was mine, when, in advancing years, I found
No peace, no comfort, in my father's house.
With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours,
By day I drove my father's flock afield
And this was happiness.
Amid these wilds
Often to summer pasture have I driven
The flock; and well I know these mountain wilds,
And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream
Is dear to memory. I have laid me down
Beside you valley stream, that up the ascent
Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd
The tide roll glittering to the noon-tide sun,
And listened to its ceaseless murmuring,
Till all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul,
Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight
That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds
Over the lake at eve: their fleeting hues
The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye,
Yet he remembers well how fair they were,
How very lovely.
Here in solitude
My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes
Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was,
As the white mists of morning roll'd away,
To see the mountain's wooded heights appear
Dark in the early dawn, and mark its slope
Rich with the blossom'd furze, as the slant sun
On the golden ripeness pour'd a deepening light.
Pleasant at noon, beside the vocal brook
To lie me down, and watch the floating clouds,
And shape to Fancy's wild similitudes
Their ever-varying forms; and oh, most sweet!
To drive my flock at evening to the fold,
And hasten to our little hut, and hear
The voice of kindness bid me welcome home.

"Amid the village playmates of my youth
Was one whom riper years approved my friend;
A very gentle maid was Madelon.
I loved her as a sister, and long time
Her undivided tenderness possess'd,
Till that a better and a holier tie
Gave her one nearer friend; and then my heart
Partook her happiness, for never lived
A happier pair than Arnaud and his wife.

"Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her youth
Went Arnaud to the war. The morn was fair,
Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerily,
And all the fields look'd lovely in the spring;
But to Domremi wretched was that day,
For there was lamentation, and the voice
Of anguish, and the deeper agony
That spake not. Never will my heart forget
The feelings that shot through me, when the sound
Of cheerful music burst upon our ears
Sudden, and from the arms that round their necks
Hung close entwined, as in a last embrace,
Friends, brethren, husbands went.
More frequent now
Sought I the converse of poor Madelon,
For much she needed now the soothing voice
Of friendship. Heavily the summer pass'd,
To her a joyless one, expecting still
Some tidings from the war; and as at eve
She with her mother by the cottage door
Sat in the sunshine, I have seen her eye,
If one appear'd along the distant path,
Shape to the form she loved his lineaments,
Her cheek faint flush'd by hope, that made her heart
Seem as it sunk within her. So the days
And weeks and months pass'd on, and when the leaves
Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope
That reason own'd not, that with expectation
Did never cheer her as she rose at morn,
Still lingered in her heart, and still at night
Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came,
But Arnaud never from the war return'd,
He far away had perish'd; and when late
The tidings of his certain death arriv'd,
Sore with long anguish underneath that blow
She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day
Upon the past, and talk of happiness
That never would return, as tho' she found
Best solace in the thoughts that minister'd
To sorrow: and she loved to see the sun
Go down, because another day was gone,
And then she might retire to solitude
And wakeful recollections, or perchance
To sleep more wearying far than wakefulness,
For in the visions of her heart she saw
Her husband, saw him as escaped the war,
To his own home return'd. Thus day nor night
Reposed she, and she pined and pined away.

"Bitter art thou to him that lives in rest,
O Death! and grievous in the hour of joy
The thought of thy cold dwelling; but thou comest
Most welcome to the wretched; a best friend
To him that wanteth one; a comforter,
For in the grave is peace. By the bed-side
Of Madelon I sat: when sure she felt
The hour of her deliverance drawing near,
I saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope,
I had her latest look of earthly love,
I felt her hand's last pressure. Son of Orleans!
I would not wish to live to know that hour,
When I could think upon a dear friend dead,
And weep not.
I remember, as her corse
Went to the grave, there was a lark sprung up,
And soaring in the sunshine, caroll'd loud
A joyful song; and in mine heart I thought,
That of the multitude of beings, man
Alone was wretched.
Then my soul awoke,
For it had slumber'd long in happiness,
And never feeling misery, never thought
What others suffer. I, as best I might,
Solaced the keen regret of Elinor;
And much my cares avail'd, and much her son's,
On whom, the only comfort of her age,
She centred now her love. A younger birth,
Aged nearly as myself, was Theodore,
An ardent youth, who with the kindest cares
Had sooth'd his sister's sorrows. We had knelt
By her death-bed together, and no bond
In closer union knits two human hearts
Than fellowship in grief.
It chanc'd as once
Beside the fire of Elinor I sat,
The night was comfortless; the loud blast howl'd;
And as we drew around the social hearth,
We heard the rain beat hard; driven by the storm
A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light.
We heapt the fire: the friendly board was spread:
The bowl of hospitality went round.
'The storm beats hard,' the stranger cried; 'safe hous'd,
Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain.
I too were well content to dwell in peace,
Resting my head upon the lap of Love,
But that my country calls. When the winds roar,
Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers,
And think of Conrade.'
Theodore replied,
'Success go with thee! Something I have known
Of war, and of its dreadful ravages;
My soul was sick at such ferocity:
And I am well content to dwell in peace,
Albeit inglorious, thanking that good God
Who made me to be happy.'
'Did that God,'
Cried Conrade, 'form thy heart for happiness,
When Desolation royally careers
Over thy wretched country? Did that God
Form thee for peace when Slaughter is abroad,
When her brooks run with blood, and Rape and Murder
Stalk thro' her flaming towns? Live thou in peace,
Young man! my heart is human: I do feel
For what my brethren suffer.'
As he spake,
Such mingled passions charactered his face
Of fierce and terrible benevolence,
That I did tremble as I listen'd to him.
Then in mine heart tumultuous thoughts arose
Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild,
And vast, yet such they were as made me pant
As though by some divinity possess'd.

"'But is there not some duty due to those
We love?' said Theodore; and as he spake
His warm cheek crimson'd. ' Is it not most right
To cheer the evening of declining age,
With filial tenderness repaying thus
Parental care?'
'Hard is it,' Conrade cried,
'Ay, very hard, to part from those we love;
And I have suffer'd that severest pang.
I have left an aged mother; I have left
One, upon whom my heart has centred all
Its dearest, best affections. Should I live
'Till France shall see the blessed hour of Peace,
I shall return: my heart will be content,
My highest duties will be well discharg'd,
And I may dare be happy. There are those
Who deem these thoughts wild fancies of a mind
Strict beyond measure, and were well content,
If I should soften down my rigid nature
Even to inglorious ease, to honour me.
But pure of heart and high of self-esteem
I must be honoured by myself: all else,
The breath of Fame, is as the unsteady wind,
Worthless.'
So saying, from his belt he took
The encumbering sword. I held it, listening to him
And, wistless what I did, half from the sheath
Drew the well-temper'd blade. I gazed upon it,
And shuddering as I felt its edge, exclaim'd,
'It is most horrible with the keen sword
To gore the finely-fibred human frame!
I could not strike a lamb.'
He answer'd me,
'Maiden, thou hast said well. I could not strike
A lamb. But when the invader's savage fury
Spares not grey age, and mocks the infant's shriek
As he does writhe upon his cursed lance,
And forces to his foul embrace the wife
Even on her murder'd husband's gasping corse!
Almighty God! I should not be a man
If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling
Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down.
Think well of this, young man!' he cried, and seiz'd
The hand of Theodore; 'think well of this,
As you are human, as you hope to live
In peace, amid the dearest joys of home;
Think well of this! You have a tender mother;
As you do wish that she may die in peace,
As you would even to madness agonize
To hear this maiden call on you in vain
For aid, and see her dragg'd, and hear her scream
In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful arms,
Think that there are such horrors; that even now,
Some city flames, and haply as in Roan,
Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breast
Yet hangs for food. Oh God! I would not lose
These horrible feelings tho' they rend my heart.'

"When we had all betaken us to rest,
Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolv'd
The high-soul'd warrior's speech. Then Madelon
Rose in remembrance; over her the grave
Had closed; her sorrows were not register'd
In the rolls of Fame: but when the tears run down
The widow's cheek, shall not her cry be heard
In Heaven against the oppressor? will not God
In sunder smite the unmerciful, and break
The sceptre of the wicked? Thoughts like these
Possess'd my soul, till at the break of day
I slept; nor then reposed my heated brain,
For visions rose, sent as I do believe
From the Most High. I saw a high-tower'd town
Hemmed in around, with enemies begirt,
Where Famine, on a heap of carcases,
Half envious of the unutterable feast,
Mark'd the gorged raven clog his beak with gore.
I turn'd me then to the besieger's camp,
And there was revelry: the loud lewd laugh
Burst on my ears, and I beheld the chiefs
Even at their feast plan the device of death.
My soul grew sick within me: then methought
From a dark lowering cloud, the womb of tempests,
A giant arm burst forth, and dropt a sword
That pierced like lightning thro' the midnight air.
Then was there heard a voice, which in mine ear
Shall echo, at that hour of dreadful joy
When the pale foe shall wither in my rage.

"From that night I could feel my burthen'd soul
Heaving beneath incumbent Deity.
I sat in silence, musing on the days
To come, unheeding and unseeing all
Around me, in that dreaminess of soul
When every bodily sense is as it slept,
And the mind alone is wakeful. I have heard
Strange voices in the evening wind; strange forms
Dimly discovered throng'd the twilight air.
They wondered at me who had known me once
A cheerful, careless damsel. I have seen
Mine uncle gaze upon me wistfully,
A heaviness upon his aged brow,
And in his eye such meaning, that my heart
Sometimes misgave me. I had told him all
The mighty future labouring in my breast,
But that methought the hour was not yet come.

"At length I heard of Orleans, by the foe
Wall'd in from human succour; to the event
All look'd with fear, for there the fate of France
Hung in the balance. Now my troubled soul
Grew more disturb'd, and shunning every eye,
I loved to wander where the forest shade
Frown'd deepest; there on mightiest deeds to brood
Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart
Throb loud: anon I paused, and in a state
Of half expectance, listen'd to the wind.

"There is a fountain in the forest, call'd
The fountain of the Fairies: when a child,
With most delightful wonder I have heard
Tales of the Elfin tribe that on its banks
Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak,
The goodliest of the forest, grows beside;
Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat,
By the woods bounded like some little isle.
It ever hath been deem'd their favourite tree;
They love to lie and rock upon its leaves,
And bask them in the moonshine. Many a time
Hath the woodman shown his boy where the dark round
On the green-sward beneath its boughs, bewrays
Their nightly dance, and bade him spare the tree.
Fancy had cast a spell upon the place
And made it holy; and the villagers
Would say that never evil thing approached
Unpunish'd there. The strange and fearful pleasure
That fill'd me by that solitary spring,
Ceas'd not in riper years; and now it woke
Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe.

"Lonely the forest spring: a rocky hill
Rises beside it, and an aged yew
Bursts from the rifted crag that overbrows
The waters; cavern'd there, unseen and slow
And silently they well. The adder's tongue,
Rich with the wrinkless of its glossy glen,
Hangs down its long lank leaves, whose wavy dip
Just breaks the tranquil surface. Ancient woods
Bosom the quiet beauties of the place,
Nor ever sound profanes it, save such sounds
As Silence loves to hear, the passing wind,
Or the low murmuring of the scarce-heard stream.

"A blessed spot! oh, how my soul enjoy'd
Its holy quietness, with what delight,
Escaping humankind, I hastened there
To solitude and freedom! Thitherward
On a spring eve I had betaken me,
And there I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds
Gather before the wind, the rising wind,
Whose sudden gusts, each wilder than the last,
Seem'd as they rock'd my senses. Soon the night
Darken'd around, and the large rain-drops fell
Heavy; anon with tempest rage the storm
Howl'd o'er the wood. Methought the heavy rain
Fell with a grateful coolness on my head,
And the hoarse dash of waters, and the rush
Of winds that mingled with the forest roar,
Made a wild music. On a rock I sat,
The glory of the tempest fill'd my soul.
And when the thunders peal'd, and the long flash
Hung durable in heaven, and to mine eye
Spread the grey forest, all remembrance left
My mind, annihilate was every thought,
A most full quietness of strange delight;
Suspended all my powers; I seem'd as though
Diffused into the scene.
At length a light
Approach'd the spring; I saw my uncle Claude;
His grey locks dripping with the midnight storm.
He came, and caught me in his arms, and cried,
'My God! my child is safe!'
I felt his words
Pierce in my heart; my soul was overcharged;
I fell upon his neck and told him all;
God was within me; as I felt I spake,
And he believed.
Ay, Chieftain, and the world
Shall soon believe my mission; for the Lord
Will raise up indignation, and pour out
His wrath, and they shall perish who oppress."





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