[A] Sum Talboti, sur vincere inimicos meos.
Warwick.
War. Are earth and heaven again in fury met,
As late on Orleans' fields? The elements
Pour forth their wrath in such tremendous peals,
Such bolts of fiery death illume the sky,
That earthly weapons seem the lesser ill.
Our soldiers falter.—Ho! look to John Talbot!
Ardour like his will lead him into peril.
[Exit.
Enter Soldiers, followed by John Talbot.
John T. Hold! cowards! when did England's sons e'er turn
Their backs to Frenchmen—seeking mean safety?
Have ye then quite forgot proud Cressy's field,
Poictiers or Agincourt?
Soldiers. We will not fight with her.
John T. Then back to England, quick, disgrace to men;
Tell there your sons ye fled a woman's arm,
And ask your wives to welcome back their slaves.
Give them your swords, and take instead their distaffs,
And let the colour which has fled your cheeks
Rest in hot blushes on the veteran brows
Of your more valiant fathers.
Away! ye are not worthy of your name;
But in your flight, if ye should meet John Talbot,
As like ye may, tell him, "We left your son
To wipe out our disgrace in his heart's blood!"
Sol. Lead us back!—A Talbot!
John T. Come on! and when they speak of this in England,
Bold ones and brave shall wish they had been with us.
Another part of the Field.
Du Nois. Joan.
Du N. New vigour suddenly hath armed the foe,
While our brave troops, fatigued with their own valour,
Now sorely pressed, pause in their course, and deal
Uncertain blows. The fate of this day's battle
Hangs on a point.
Joan. Is not His promise ours
Who leads the hosts of heaven? Who doubts then victory?
Onward, ye brave! yon lightnings be your guide!
The hand that wields them is the patriot's shield!
Another part of the Field.
Suffolk and Warwick.
Suf. Our troops at length give way: four times th' attack
Has been renewed; bravely as oft repelled.
If Talbot tarry long the day is lost.
War. Our bravest veterans are seized with dread,
Thinking they fight against a power unearthly.
Enter Soldiers in flight.
War. Back to your ranks, base cowards!
Sol. We fight in vain!—John Talbot—
War. What of him?
Sol. Is either dead, or taken prisoner.
War. I'll rescue him, or perish!—dead or living
His father shall again behold him.
Joan. Du Nois. French Officers.
Du N. The field is ours! the victory complete!
The foe on all sides flies! Talbot is ta'en!
Xaint. The glory be our champion's—
Joan. Forbear!
Give not the instrument the Giver's meed;
But rather let us imitate his mercy.
Quick! let the carnage cease! and ev'ry tenderness
Show friend and foe. Now let our clarions
Proclaim the joyful news of our success!
Fling wide the sound, ye gales of heav'n! hills, vales
Re-echo it, and tell th' awakened land
Her freedom is begun!—her chains are broken!
Arlington. Officer.
Off. Here let us rest till morning. Like ourselves,
The foe are glad to seek that needful rest
Which victory and defeat alike demand.
Arl. No, let us on. We yet may find it hard
To reach our friends, and Richemont hovers near us.
Off. Whate'er the peril, here I swear to rest me.
See! the bright moon looks down upon the field,
As if in scorn to view such waste of life.
Arl. It is a ghastly sight. Not drops of heaven
Bedew the earth, but blood of men; and blood
Has dyed the stream so deep, that thirsty lip
Of death rejects the draught it craved so wistfully.
Off. Wide is the difference 'twixt the gallant scene
Ere fight begins, and that which marks its close:
Bright shields and dancing plumes, and brighter eyes,
And animating speech abrupt, and tramp
Of martial steed, and neigh, impatient sent,
And spirit-stirring trumpet, and the drum;
The banner waving wide, and heavy sound
Of mighty engines breathing fire, showed life
This morn in brightest mood and proudest pomp;
Now Death sits centinel in horrid silence.
Arl. Our loss is great, and will be greater still
If we continue this unhallowed war:
Many brave men this day have breathed their last:—
Most I regret young Talbot.
Off. Is he dead?
I saw brave Warwick rushing to his rescue.
Arl. He came too late. From heaps of slain he snatched him,
Then bore him to a distance, yet alive;
But dews of death were gathering on his brow,
And his dim eye betrayed departure near.
He dared not turn him on his side, lest life
From that deep welling wound should 'scape too fast.
He watched the sun go down, and darker shades
O'erspread his face. Impatient now become,
Often he murmured to himself and said,
"It is too late; he will not come, and I
Must die at last without my father's blessing."
Off. Many brave hearts will mourn for him: he was
A noble scion of a noble stem.
Arl. We thought that he was gone, when the quick step
Of his despairing father sounded near.
Stern death relaxed his hold, and for short space
Allowed his spirit to reanimate
His chilly frame. He raised him on his side,
Clung round his father's neck, and looking on him,
Feebly he said, "Have I done well, my father?
Am I John Talbot's son?" "Too well! too well!
My brave"—was all the father could reply;
But 'twas enough—the young man caught the sound.
And dropping back his head, he smiled and died.
Off. And his brave sire?
Arl. As if transfixed, he gazed,
And mute—then by the body of his son
He threw him down, kissed his cold lips, and oft,
Midst sobs, he cried, "And art thou gone so soon?
Thy morning ended ere thy noon begun;
And such a noon!" but sudden on his hands
He saw the crimson stain of that dear blood,
And like a lion maddened at the sight,
His grief was checked, and springing on his feet
He seized his massy sword, and wildly rushed
Into the fight.
Off. See figures in the dusk
Moving apace. (Two soldiers appear.)
Arl. Let's draw aside.
Off. They make
For yonder cottage.
Widow of Camouse.
Wid. Half light, half dark. Oh, would that reason's lamp
Were utterly extinct, and I could lose
The sense that thus I am a tomb to self,
Where the dim taper only shows its gloom.
Then I should feel no more, no longer mourn,
And my poor heart would cease to throb, my head
To burn. One,—three are gone, and now the last.
I have no more to lose!
I'll lay him in the bed these hands have dug,
(I've kiss'd his eyes to sleep,) and then I'll seek
The spirits of my lord and other boys,
And bring them here to see, how, e'en in poverty,
I've made a home fitting Camouse's son.
E'en now I lose myself, and at my folly
Smile while I weep. But hark! what steps are these?
I must within and guard.
Enter Two Soldiers.
First Sol. Stay! we are hungry and thirsty.—What have you to give us to eat?
Wid. My food is woe; and such my appetite
I am not to be cloyed, though e'en to surfeit
I've been supplied.
Second Sol. Her words are strange—her manner is stranger still.—
Hunger is not nice, to be sure.
First Sol. I see but little chance of satisfying hunger here.
Second Sol. Ho! there is a smell of wine!—produce it!—come! quick!
Our master is at hand.
Wid. Those arms upon their shields!
Away! no longer blast me with your sight.
First Sol. When we have got what we wish, we will.—The wine, the wine, or look, this shall find it. (draws his sword.)
Wid. Think you I care for threat of you, or yours?
Back with your sword; I fear ye not, I tell you;
And mark! a fiercer thirst ye all shall have,
Nor find one drop to cool your burning tongue.
Second Sol. Don't exasperate her; these are strange times, and—
First Sol. Pshaw! the wine we'll have!
Wid. Search for it, then—so wondrous keen your longing.
No need have ye of guide. [Soldiers enter the inner apartment.
Does vengeance sleep?
Or will not e'en the dead arise in wrath,
And punish the intrusion? [Soldiers return.
Why that look?
What have ye seen to discompose ye thus?
A ghastly corpse? What's that to men like you?
Hast found the wine? I see ye have.
[Soldiers shudder—she laughs.
How now!
What! was it not delicious to the taste?
The flavour surely should have charmed your palate;
Quick to detect its excellence and merit.
Know ye what 'tis? 'Tis blood! blood of my son,
Whose sire your treacherous master slew: for blood
Ye thirsted once, and blood ye now have drunk.
Sol. She's mad! She does not know what she says.
Wid. I tell ye truth. If I be mad, 'tis ye
Have made me so.
Sol. 'Tis false! we do not even know you.
Wid. No matter if ye don't.
I know you well—too well! Ye're Richemont's slaves.
Yon was my son: time was when I had four;
Where are they now? With him your master murdered!
Do maniacs know what wakes their frenzy?
Why then is madness cursed, accursed doubly.
Saw ye his wounds? gaped they not wide? didst mark?
I would have washed them in the stream hard by,
Had it not crimson flowed, and the foul taint
Of many a blackened corpse corrupted it.
What could I do? I washed them in the wine
I had reserved to cheer his bridal day.
I never, never thought ye would have pledged him
On his cold bier. Now from my sight be gone,
Lest haply I should wither you with curses
Before the time. [Exeunt Soldiers.
I am alone—'tis well!
But, oh! this burning brow, the weight that's here!
I'll to the dead—would I were dead also!
But said they not that Richemont too was near?
I'll hang upon his steps, and breathe my vengeance
On his head before I die.
Charles. Louvel.
Cha. Oh! fickle hearts of men. Three months ago,
When the prompt aid of fifty men had been
A boon worth warmest thanks, nor threats nor pray'rs
Could move a foot to join us. Now, forsooth,
When less we need it, we have aid abundant.
Towns that but lately would have closed their gates
E'en in our face, if we had asked a refuge,
Fling now their portals wide, and sue our entrance.
Thou know'st the Constable is on his way?
Louv. With what intent, my liege—a friend or foe?
Cha. It is not known.
Lou. To serve himself, no doubt.
His ev'ry thought is self.
Cha. Well do we know him.
Our fortune hath not forged a chain more galling
Than that which binds us to a man we hate.
Howe'er, his views will quickly now be known:—
The maid is sent to meet him.
Lou. Was this prudent?
Should his intent be mischief, would he scruple,
E'en by the nearest road, to blast our hopes?
Cha. She hath a chosen guard for her protection,
With Xaintrailles at their head. He dare not harm her!
Yet would they were returned: in honour's name,
We rather would forego the crown she promised,
Than ought of evil should befall the maid.
Lou. That none will doubt: she has a double claim;
To thee her sex's charms—
Cha. We charge thee, Louvel,
Breathe not a word like this: her simple grandeur
Checks all idle thought, and spreads around her
The very purity which decks herself.
Enter Xaintrailles.
What tidings? say, have swords been interchanged,
Or comes he peacefully?
Xaint. Affection leads him,
Such were his words, to greet your change of fortune.
Lou. True regard has never brought him; but wish
The world should fancy he has set the crown
Upon your grace's head, his favoured presence
Needed.
Cha. Then we will show him he mistakes.
We owe him nothing but most cordial hatred,
And come what may, that day's felicity
Shall not be marred by sight of him.
Lou. My liege,
You surely will not dare refuse!
Cha. Not dare!
The prince too fearful to resent an insult,
Proves oft too mean to recompense a friend.
Relate what passed between the maid and him.
Xaint. Rumour had told him, or his heart suggested,
He might be deemed an enemy. Awhile
He gazed upon us with a fixed regard;
But when he saw the maid, his black lip curled,
And his sharp features grew still more contracted.
Few could have borne that look malign, and fewer
Not quailed beneath it.
Cha. But the maid,—she bore it?
Xaint. As one completely armed in innocence:
The peace within shed lustre o'er her face,
And sense of merit brightly tinged her cheek.
Alighting gracefully from her proud steed,
She bent her knee, and made low reverence.
Cha. 'Twas rev'rence ill bestowed—she's his superior,
And all that ministers to feed his vanity
Were well to spare. Proceed.
Xaint. Your grace has seen
How, when a storm arises, the dark cloud,
Pregnant with thunder, scowls upon the meadow
Placidly fair, where still the gay beam lingers,
Before its vengeance bursts. He deigned no courtesy.
His chest swelled high, and thus he spake abruptly:—
"Thou hast design, I see, to fight with me;
I know not who thou art, nor who hath sent thee;
Or heav'n, or hell,—but of this be certain,
I fear thee not, and bid thee do thy best,
Or worst, as pleases thee,—it matters not."
Lou. Most insolent! The insult shown to her
Was meant for thee.
Cha. It is not lost. Behold him!
Lou. Smooth thy brow. We must not yet offend one
Who may injure us.
Enter Richemont.
Riche. I forestall all messages,
And come on duty's wings to tend my homage,
With all expressions of my joy, to offer
On this most happy turn of your affairs.
Cha. Our thanks, as due, are thine.
Riche. Rumour reports
Your highness means forthwith to pass to Rheims,
And there in state—
Cha. Then rumour speaks the truth.
Riche. And yet, I crave your grace, a better medium
Might surely have been found, intelligence
Of moment to convey to zealous friends.
Cha. No real friend would claim regard to forms,
In times like these.
Riche. But yet without advice,
A step of such importance meditate?
Cha. From whom should we or ask, or need advice?
Are we not master of ourself—our actions?
Riche. Not from the sycophants that court the ear,
Of royalty abused, making their prince
A puppet in their hands, merely to serve
Their selfish aims; but from the wise—
Cha. The counsel
Needed was our own, nor wished we other.
Riche. Counsel! the imposture's gross. This artful woman,
This low-born tool of more expert deceivers—
Cha. 'Twere well to speak in more befitting terms
Of one who renders services so signal.
It is the will of Heav'n, by her declared,
That we repair to Rheims; and 'tis our duty,
Our pleasure also, to obey the mandate.
Riche. Your grace is jesting: better far it were
To punish, and severely, her presumption,
Than heed her guilty tales, or idle follies.
What hath she done, this delegate of Heaven,
But what the meanest, youngest of your captains,
Had, in like case, done better?
Cha. Ask the English,
The bravest foe that walks this nether earth,
This lion-hearted, great, and warlike race,
Whose very valour makes it honour to confront them;
To them propose the question, they will answer—
Shook to the centre of their inmost soul
Their stoutest men, their ablest captains beaten.
Ask France herself the same, and she will say—
Restored her to her rank among the nations,
And made it shame e'en to be thought disloyal.
Had other chieftains done but half as much,
No need for aid like hers had then existed.
Riche. I boil with rage!
Cha. She claims thy gratitude,
As well as mine, my lord.
Riche. But not the grant
Of royal dignity, I ween. 'Tis said,
The arms of France, by leave express from you,
She partly wears upon her impious standard—
Insult to royal blood.
Cha. What's nobly won
She justly wears. The wanderer, Charles, betrayed
By his own kin, forsaken by false friends;
Scorned, hated, persecuted by his mother,
Chased through his own domains like hunted deer;
Unnatural compacts leagued 'gainst him and France,
Compelled to view the sacrifice of hearts,
Whose only crime was loyalty unshaken—
Now, through that maiden, holds another state,
And can reward his friends, chastise his foes.
Riche. But to a woman owe a crown!
Cha. Why not?
The prize is sweeter made as woman's gift:
We strengthen ties by woman's aid with kings,
Then why not owe a crown?
Riche. For insult this?
Cha. If so received.
Riche. 'Tis well: we met as friends,
Are we to part as foes?
Cha. As suits thy humour.
We sought not to detach thee from our cause,
Nor care we for the loss of what has been
So haughtily conceded. To be plain—
Monarch acknowledged as we soon shall be,
Henceforth, my lord, we reign our own free master—
Thou shalt retain the station justly thine;
But not, as heretofore, forgetting ours,
Shalt thou exert undue authority.
Nor at our coronation shalt thou aid us—
Our will is said. Farewell.
[Exit.
Riche. What have I heard?
Dares he address such words as these to Richemont?
Not at his coronation to appear!
Fling in my face defeat!—shake off control!
Shall I submit to such indignity?
Cringe to the man who thus has wounded me?
No, never.—I will be revenged on her—
On him, though my own ruin be the issue.
If there be strength on earth, or artifice
In hell—thou shalt repent this outrage.
Joan.
Joan. What means this tumult in my soul? Restless,
Irresolute, or sad, I shun each eye,
Yet fly from solitude to fly from self.
Mysterious pow'rs! twelve times that full-orbed moon
Has scarce o'erspread these towers with silver light,
And I have lived more years than weeks before.
'Twould seem, indeed, I never lived till now,
Though now existence is beyond myself.
How strange the knowledge thus of self obtained!
Astonished o'er the deep of my own heart,
First to my startled view revealed I stand,
And almost trembling ask—Can this be so?
Enter Du Nois.
Du N. How ill in unison the sounds I fly
With that which passes here! This calm may soothe me.
Ha! 'tis herself. Shall I advance? She sees me.
Forgive, if inadvertently my steps
Have led me to intrude.
Joan. Du Nois! thou'rt welcome.
Intention like my own, no doubt, hath brought thee
Here to plead the peace of our loved country.
We've fought for her, have bled for her together;
Meet then our prayers together should arise
For her prosperity.
Du N. Together, saidst?
Together! (word awakening strange delight
In hearts where love has hidden him.) For thee,
As her I would implore all Heav'n can give;
But ere my willing lips may frame such prayer,
I must forgiveness ask of thee.
Joan. Forgiveness!
All that the noblest nature shows most nobly
I owe to thee!
Du N. Yet do I need thy pardon—
Thou once, of all that bears my Maker's impress,
Thou wert my scorn, aversion. Canst forgive—
Forget?
Joan. Oh! sweeter far the kindness felt
Than injury atoned. I know thee but
As thou hast seemed, nor wish to know thee other.
Now on yon altar's steps.
Du N. Before the altar!
Knows't thou what thou sayest?
Joan. What place so meet?
Give me thy hand that thus—why dost thou tremble?
Du N. Wilt thou indeed then plight, wilt vow with me,
To share through danger's hour, through sunny days—
What mean those tears?
Joan. I know not more than thou.
Some pang inexplicable called them forth,
Waked, it may be, by some prophetic feeling.
The soul hath intimations of the future,
Sep'rate from all corporeal impressions,
And now, perhaps, some hov'ring spirit whispers
That in my parting hour thou wilt be near me,
And the unbidden drops that fill my eyes
Will then be welcomed in thine own. Promise
Thou'lt lay me in a grave whose mould is free.
Du N. So Heaven be true to me! I thought to pledge
Another, happier vow. My spirit's chill'd,
And the bright hope just called to life is faded.
Footsteps approach. Farewell.
[Exit.
Enter Bertha.
Ber. Why here alone?
Why, when thy hopes have nearly gained their height,
Is thus thy cheek so pale, thy look so pensive?
Joan. Hast thou then never felt that bliss approached
So near as just to meet the grasp, becomes
Extreme of pain?
Ber. May not a softer cause—
Turn not thy cheek away—some noble knight—
Joan. The dove of my desire may find no place
On earth to rest her chilled and weary foot.
I feel that Heaven has marked me from my kind,
From social life, from all endearing ties,
And dare not harbour thought of tender bliss.
Ber. Banish the fear, and with myself believe
The treasures of thy heart shall be the prize
Of kindred worth.
Joan. My lot is cast, and lone
I must pursue my path till it be ended.
For common love too proud,—too mean, alas!
To win such love as only could delight me.
Above e'en kindred ties, whose modest worth
I prize, but no assimilation find,
The gushing tide of fond affection checked,
I boundless pour upon my native land;
But no returning stream the waste supplies,
To make me richer for the theft from self.
Ber. No common love is seeking thy acceptance—
Look at yon banner, waving in the wind.
Ah, wherefore start? How at the sudden sight
Of ought connected with the form we love,
The conscious heart stops in its full career!
Pale grows the cheek, but swift through ev'ry vein
The blood with force accelerated speeds,
And dyes with crimson blush the pallid skin.
Joan. Fled from the precincts of my heart the secret
Which I had hoped e'en from myself to hide.
O traitor heart! why hast thou failed me thus?
Ber. Wherefore hath anguish thus o'erspread each feature?
Joan. Condemn me not. Would thou couldst read this breast!
Here no emotion dwells thou couldst reprove.
As angels view the charge to them consigned,
As o'er their forms with outstretched wings they lean,
Speechless with love, and only bent to serve
The appointed object of their holy vigils,
So I his form behold, such feeling share.
Ber. Why should I censure thee, sweet friend, for that
Which is but honour to himself, as thee,
And marks the worth of both? Such love as thine—
Joan. Oh no! I dare not, cannot call it love.
As well might the poor wren, that nestles there,
Become enamoured of the mountain bird,
As I fond thought of him might entertain.
Ber. Nay, say not so: 'tis no offence to love.
Doth not the woodbine climb the loftiest tree,
With fond endearment clasp its stately trunk,
Smile midst its boughs, and shed her soft perfume
In token of delight, and fear no frown,
No censure for her daring?
Joan. Soothing words
Fall like the dew upon the sterile soil,
Mocking the want it never can supply—
I am what I must be—he e'er the same.
Ber. Thou art unjust to him as to thyself,
Bride of Du Nois.
Joan. Du Nois! Thou art deceived.
Not he,—alas! I have betrayed myself.
Ber. I see it now. O'er his a prouder ensign
Waves wide its ampler folds—the staff of France,—
The royal Charles has gained.
Joan. Oh! do not frown.
Nought harbours in this breast that may provoke
Or scorn from him, or just rebuke from thee.
Yet have I shrunk from ev'ry eye, and now
I shrink from thine—think not unkindly of me,
And spare allusion to this painful hour.
[Exit.
Ber. No, no, it cannot be. She doth mistake.
Love is no passion in her breast. It is
But sentiment refined, sustained and fed
By her own heart; the offspring of events,
Wherein so strange a part she hath performed.
Her country is her idol, centre, hope:
She knows no other passion but this one—
The love of her own land.
Archbishop. Charles. Joan.
Arch. Faithful the promise.
'Twas spoke, 'tis done. France now demands her king;
Scion of ancient root, hope of her line:
And here in sight of her assembled chiefs,
'Tis mine to set this crown upon thy head,
And with this oil, from Heaven first brought, anoint thee.
Joan. Stand I indeed on earth? Is this no dream?
Arch. Mark well the circle which must bind thy brow!
Emblem of ceaseless duty and reward.
Look on these gems—so be thy virtues bright.
Tears from thy people drawn, by ill-stretched power,
Will dim their lustre; while the grateful smiles,
By kindness waked, will brilliancy impart,
And show that Heaven approves and dwells with thee—
A curse or blessing shall this circlet prove,
Fetters in hell, a fadeless crown in heaven.
[The crown is placed on the head of Charles.
Sound the loud trumpet! Let the organ's swell
Re-echo through these walls! Long life to Charles!
Joy to the rightful, to the usurper shame!
Joan. I cannot pray: bliss hath engrossed my soul,
And wrapt each sense in agony of joy.
Arch. Approach, and pay your just allegiance.
[The nobles involuntarily draw back and make way
for Joan, who throws herself at the king's feet.
Joan. My sovereign liege—my king—accept—these tears.
Cha. Here to my heart I clasp thee, friend, preserver.
This chain shall bind thee to thy king, thy country—
[Takes the chain from his neck and places it on Joan's.
Wear it in token of this hour—
Joan. My liege!
When it shall be restored, 'twill tell that life
And I are parted. (To the Archbishop.) Now complete my mission.
Here at thy feet, sword, banner, I depose,
And consecrate his own to Him who armed
At first my hand.
Arch. The lofty strains repeat!
And with the monarch's name, beloved, now join
The holy maiden's.
[Joan sinks on her knee.
Charles, &c. Joan.
Cha. A monarch now confirmed by holy rite,
Our earliest duty is to recompense
All those who in our cause have been most zealous.
Thee above all, (to Joan,) to thee our realm we owe.
We would thy merit mark as may become
Ourself and thee: but pause to name award
As to thyself shall be most pleasing. Louvel,
'Tis thine to learn her wish, our joy to grant it.
Lou. Such gracious speech may well embolden thee.
Name freely thy desire. Is wealth thy wish?
Cha. How her eye kindles!
Joan. Sell my heart's blood for gold!
Hazard each desperate chance, die ev'ry hour,
Deprive poor nature of her due, food—rest,
Make the vile flesh lord of the daring mind,
For sordid heaps of dross! Perish the thought!
I am not to be bought e'en by my country—
Toil, hardship, life, all she approved in me,
A free gift was bestowed, and must remain—
If she the present scorn, I scorn them too.
Lou. Then, wherefore, peril life? Hope of reward,
The state's high honours, riches, rank, and greatness,
Justly make spirits bold, and wake brave action.
Joan. The voice of Heaven first drew me from obscurity,
And no reward I seek but its approval.
Oh! never, for the hope of gain, could I
Have served my country. Claims she not by right,
All love, disinterested faith, all service?
Not hers the debt to recompense her sons,
Though, like fond mother, she delights to grant it;
But theirs the debt of gratitude first due
To her, which only thus can be discharged.
Then mark eternal shame upon his brow,
Though brave his deeds, though prodigal of toil,
Who honour, glory, high renown, or wealth,
Seeks for himself alone, and sheds the blood
She justly claims for selfish hope or aim.
Lou. Ambition is the offspring of all hearts
In which a germ of noble passion dwells.
None who in secret feel themselves above
The sphere of those with whom they move, but sighed
For greatness—rank.
Joan. What is it to be great?
To live in tapestried halls, beneath gay domes,
To sleep on beds of down, eat costly food,
Midst trembling slaves, who watch the stern command;
To call those friends who bow and cringe and fawn,
And flatter loud the vice they should condemn?
This is dependence, nought but servile pomp,
And this I scorn. To rise above the wants
Of this low state, to hold each appetite
In justest bounds, in native freedom both
Of mind and frame to dare all ills but vice,
And fear no danger but a tainted name;
Glory's own self to love, and not th' applause
Which follows open-mouthed amongst her train;
To walk the earth as one whose home is heaven,
And prizing life, yet view in death a friend,
Or clothed in frowns, or robed in smiles,—this, this
Alone is to be great:—then needs there rank
To make me such?
Alen. The brave lives not for to-day.
He thinks of generations yet to come,
And trusts his ashes e'en will speak his praise,
And bid his memory live.
Joan. No eye must read,
On tablet proud, what recompense were mine,
Lest it mistake the cause which prompted me.
In history's living page let me appear,
Simply as Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans.
Cha. And wilt thou have it seen in that same page
Thy king ungrateful proved?
Joan. Stain thy fair name!
Cha. Then be our will obeyed, and this day's grant,
In rank, as erst in deed, shall make thee noble.
Countess of Lys, with fair demesnes and wide,
Assume thy proper seat, and grace a court
Which yet upon thyself confers no lustre—
To night a splendid fête we give, and there
Thy king, and all who honour him, shall show
Their just respect.
[Rises. Joan throws herself at his feet.
Joan. My leige.
Cha. What wouldst thou? Speak.
Joan. Forgive my suit. Oh! deem me not ungrateful:—
Cancel the word, and let me sink again
Into obscurity.
Cha. It cannot be.
Still with our host remain, and lead us forth
To victory. Of this anon. Pleasure
Now claims the hours. All here must join the fête.
Alençon. Du Nois.
Alen. Met in good time! If I may augur right,
The maid, our nation's pride, will need, ere long,
Support from her best friends.
Du N. What hath she done?
Alen. Awoke the bitter malice of the base,
Who dare not emulate a noble deed,
And feel its just reward their own reproach.
Du N. That she is envied can provoke no wonder;
Nothing may shine without attendant shade:
But that she yielded to receive such honour,
This indeed surprises me.
Alen. It need not.
Hardly the point was gained, if gained at all:
Still she entreats permission to depart,
Lowly as when she left her native vale.
Du N. And what is there in this to waken malice?
Whose heart is large enough to envy it?
Alen. You do forget, no words give more offence
Than those which mark the speaker's higher worth.
Her noble sentiments this day expressed,
Have wrought her many foes; nor does the fête,
Proposed this eve, yield greater satisfaction.
Du N. The news I bring must break upon these joys:
I seek the king, and must not pause a moment!
[Exeunt.
Enter Valancour.
Val. He here! and wherefore come? To own his love,
No doubt, since now in rank she equals him.
There's madness in the thought! Accursed chance!
Why did I slight the counsel Richemont gave,
Withheld by paltry fears of blighted honour!
Shall I turn villain? disappoint his hopes?
I want the resolution to be base,
Yet have not courage to be just.
Xaintrailles. Lords.
First Lord. What vain extravagance! None may deny
That she hath served the state; but truest service,
Suppose hers such, may yet be overpaid.
Second Lord. Others have nobly planned, and nobly fought;
But all their glory is eclipsed in hers.
I sicken of the name!
Xaint. For shame! true glory
Never can be eclipsed. Is not yon planet
Distinct in its own splendour, though the moon
Sheds more and brighter beams? Well hath she earned
The honour she receives: a soul like hers
Has nature's patent, fairer than a monarch's.
First Lord. Soon will she feel she hath uneasy place
Among the nobles of the land, and find
Wide difference between a court and camp.
Xaint. Away with such surmise! Let us not mar
The gay festivities by churlish murmurs.
Many our toils to come, and if we slight
The present, pleasure in despite may shun us.
Enter Valancour and Bertha.
Ber. Urge me no more.
Val. Nay, hear what I would say.
Such is the madness of my passion for her,
She must, and shall be mine! and thou must aid me!
This night decides my fate!
Ber. Oh! ask me not!
Val. In tears! and why? Loves she then another?
Ber. Look not so wildly!
Val. Speaks she of Du Nois!
Ber. Who does not speak of him! the brave! the noble!
Val. She loves him, then?
Ber. I said not so!
Val. What trifling!
Has then Du Nois declared?
Ber. I may not break
The confidence reposed in me.
Val. Most cruel!
Wilt thou do nought for me? Hast thou forgot
A brother, once my friend?
Ber. Alas! that name,
I may not dare withstand!—begone! Oh! spare me!
Val. Thou wilt comply then? Go—I'll wait thee yonder.
[Exit Bertha.
Enter Richemont and Attendant.
Riche. Thou knowst the wretch who followed us
When late we passed to Baugenci?
Att. But now I saw her.
Riche. Lead her hither.
[Exit Attendant.
Val. Earl Richemont here!
Riche. He is!
But would be known by none. Thou hast my secret:
Silence I demand!
Val. It is thine, but much
I marvel to behold—
Riche. The sovereign's scorn
Infects thee, then?
Val. None owns respect
More deep than I; my wonder only rose
To see thee here, whom I believed in Normandy;—
So the maid besought!
Riche. The maid besought!
Is insult then annexed to gross injustice?
The charge was mean enough, without such aid.
Where will the folly end? But well it suits
With that which now so speedily will follow.
Thou hast companion been in arms, and fought
With Orleans' bastard son, and knowst, no doubt,
That he, forsooth, must shortly play the fool,
And wed, to please the royal will, the maid.
The prospect charms thee, sure!
Val. (The royal will,
It is his own request! aside.) The proud Du Nois?
It cannot be. Not so. (Has hell worse torture? aside.)
Riche. Du Nois! the proud, unbending, stern Du Nois!
He with Alençon now is with the king,
On weighty news from Compeigne, which he brings:
The governor beseeches instant aid,
And who but the redoubted maid must lead it?
Val. She has resigned her arms, and has declared
Her mission closed.
Riche. What then? she may be gained,
And will be gained. Who trusts a woman's word,
Which varies with her varying mood? The hand
Of Count Du Nois will be the recompense
Of her consent; and is not this a prize
To tempt the breaking of a word she ne'er
Intended to observe? If this concern thee,
Meet me at midnight by yon temple. (Fool!
He yet shall prove a useful instrument. Aside.)
[Exit.
Val. Some fiend, but just escaped his doom, hath cast
His brand into my heart. Whom do I see?
Herself and Bertha! In this shade I'll hide me,
And there from her own lips the truth discover.
Enter Joan and Bertha.
Joan. Forbear!
Ber. Hear me. Where native worth exists,
Esteem will surely kindle into love,
And gently ripen into purest bliss!
Joan. Beware that fallacy. The solemn vow,
Before the altar pledged, but sanctifies
The love which first was gendered in the heart,
But ne'er creates; a golden link to bind
The fonder heart—a chain that galls the cold!
Ber. But thou wert born to bless! ay, to be blessed!
A heart like thine must find—
Joan. I do believe
That nought on earth may hold fond thought from me.
The love which in another would have nourished
What most it prized, has but in me proved fatal,
And wrought its ruin.
Ber. Thou dost chase a shade,
To wither ev'ry flower within thy path.
No bliss can rise through him, while Valancour—
Joan. I cannot love, and therefore will not wed him.
What noise was that?
Val. Cursed be the ear that heard,
The tongue that uttered such determination.
I'll hear no more! Now, hate, revenge befriend me.
[Exit.
Ber. 'Twas but the rustling of the scattered leaves,
Or bird disturbed. Ah! tears are in those eyes,
And I perhaps the cause. Come, chase past thought
By sweet enjoyment of this lovely scene.
Sound, fragrance, air, celestial seems, and wakes
A gentle bliss.
Joan. I'm sick at heart: the bird
Hath lost its melody, the flower its scent,
Creation's self to me is now a blank.
Ber. That tone! those words! say, what has caused this change?
Joan. The agony the firmest e'en must feel,
Who having crushed, with desperate hand, his bliss,
Stands o'er the wreck, and in destruction reads
What he has lost. I leave for Domremie
To-morrow.
Ber. Leave the court! refined society?
Joan. Society has charms alone for one
Whose heart's at ease. All converse to the sad
Is as the pressure of the felon's fetter,
Pricking the deadened sense to active pain.
The glare of lights, gay sounds, and voice of men,
Mock misery's sense, and shock as knell of death.
Ber. Can lonely woods and dells restore then peace?
Joan. Alas! I may not so deceive myself.
Too well I know what I must soon endure.
My charm of life is gone. My full, bold pulse
Has learnt to swell with mighty hopes, my mind
On food of such excitement has been fed,
That common, quiet life will be a load
Too heavy for endurance. Mem'ry too
Will goad with bitter thoughts!
Ber. Oh! say not so;
Joy is the rainbow of this weeping life,
From deepest gloom of sorrow first awoke:
But mem'ry is that secondary arch
Where each bright shade is seen distinct and clear,
Though softened and subdued, and dear to sight,
As faithful copy of the dearer truth.
Be but thyself—forget but him!
Joan. Forget!
As clings the woodbine to the new-felled tree,
I cling to him, though not a hope remains.
But how shall I forget? My very prayers
Are holy thoughts of him. Leave me awhile.
Ber. I obey thee. Ah, why should this be so?
Alas! the heart is e'er a wayward thing,
Loving too oft that most which loves it not.
[Exit.
Joan. For the last time I see you, beauteous scenes!
The last! oh, word of heaviest sense,
Where all that's lovely finds one common grave.
Light footsteps soon shall tread these gay parterres,
And sighs, but not like these, shall mingle bliss
With bliss. None will regret me here; the proud
Who envied, or the brave who shared my fame,
Alone will recollect that I have lived.
And he!—he'll never give one thought on me
When I am gone:—the great, the beautiful
Will share his smiles, or soothe his cares, while tears
Shall stagnate in these eyes; and lovely forms
Shall charm his gaze, when the pale eye of night
Alone shall view the spot where I am laid,
And weep for me.
Enter Widow.
Wid. Where dost thou speed so fast?
Shall not the net be spread in vain before
The simple bird, and wilt thou rush to peril?
Seest thou yon star? Observe how dim it shines,
How its wan disk is overspread with spots.
Those spots are blood!—that fading star thine own!
Fainter and fainter still it quivers.—Now
'Tis gone! I've cast thy horoscope, and read
Thy fate is linked with mine! Beware thee, maiden!
If e'er on earth we meet again, 'twill be—
To meet the spectre king.
[Exit.
Joan. What may this mean?
Awe steals upon my mind, and my faint heart
Beats heavily!
Enter Attendant.
Att. Haste! the king calls thee!
The council is assembling—danger presses.
Joan. Hath then the unchanging voice of destiny
Indeed been heard, and I and death in league?
He hath bade farewell—shall I refuse?—no!—
Protect me, Heaven!—Lead on!
Richemont. Attendant.
Riche. Hast found the wretch?
Att. She stands hard by.
Riche. Summon her!
I must be rid of thee, maid of Orleans!
The cup or poniard were an easy way!
But this were simple vengeance—poor revenge!
Disgrace! yes infamy must stain her glory,
Shame, public hate. But much I fear her firmness,
High belief of Heaven's consenting will.
Yet shall she yield! To Compeigne, not to Domremie
Must she depart. The hag must aid me then.
Persuade her to depart—their meeting known,
Shall stamp suspicion first of foulest crime;
And in the event of victory or defeat
Shall work her ruin!
Enter Widow.
Wid. Am I then so near him?
Lie still, my heart, lest these convulsive throbbings
Mar my last wish.
Riche. Time wears—dares she delay?
(perceives her,) I sent for thee.
Wid. And I, at risk of life,
Am come. What wouldst thou have from me?
Riche. Respect.
Wid. I give it where 'tis due: never where not.
Riche. Wretch! knowst of what thou art accused?—of arts
Which make obedient slaves and friends of devils.
Wid. And thou of hell's worst crimes—of pride, of murder.
Richemont, I know thee, who thou art and what!
Put up thy ready dagger; I despise it—
Ay, mock thy wrath! my misery is my safeguard;
None care, not even thou, to murder one
Who would most gladly die!
Riche. What thus unnerves
My arm and chains my tongue?
Wid. Thy wishes too,
Thy aim I know. The maid has roused thy hate,
And thou wouldst work her fall:—'tis worthy thee.
There is no need of aiding hand of thine—
Her lamp burns dim, to utter darkness dim.
Riche. (aside. Ha! that were worth belief! but true or false
They must be seen together, and report
Be spread the fiend himself had tempted her.)
Not hate, mine is good will. France needs her arm,
Yet doth she hesitate. Go, seek her quick!
(I will secure thee,) win her to comply,
And richly paint the glory which awaits her.
Wid. Thinkst thou that she will heed what I might say?
She cannot if she would; none may avoid
Their fated hour!—thine too is fixed, and mine!
And, oh, that it were come!
Riche. Dost thou refuse?
Wid. I neither do refuse nor promise thee;
My inclination is my law, and mark!
None else will I obey.
Riche. Dost seek a bribe?
If hunger pinch, or thirst provoke desire,
This purse—
Wid. Perish thy gold! back with thy dross!
Nor dare again insult the misery
That thou and thine have wrought. I called thee murderer!
And such thou art! Will gold redeem the dead?
Bribe the cold grave? Have these poor weeds so changed me,
Has frenzy so deformed what once was fair,
That recollection of me has escaped thee?
Then thus I'll shriek into thy ears—I was
Camouse's wife—was mother of his sons;
Those sleepers in the bloody grave thou gav'st them.
What am I now?—suspected and a wanderer!
Am mad—and worse than all,—I know I'm mad!
Look not on me—thy glance inflames my brain,
And dries the curses on my parched tongue
I long have sought to utter to thy face.
Blasted of Heaven! I will not meet thee more
Till I shall meet thee there. (pointing to heaven.)
[Exit Widow.
Riche. Ho! seize the wretch!
And let fierce tortures—gone!—still do I hear her—
Still I shudder. Is conscience then no tale
To frighten coward hearts, and is there truth
In retribution?
Enter Valancour.
Ha! what has delayed thee?
Val. But now I've left the council.
Riche. The result!
The maid! has she then consented?
Val. She has!
Riche. 'Twas sure she would; and yet I guess not easily.
Val. Compliance was most hardly wrung from her.
Remonstrance, argument, entreaty failed:
Her constant answer was—"What Heaven gave charge
To do, is done—I may no more essay
In warrant of his will." In vain Du Nois
Appealed to love of martial fame: she heard,
Though not unmoved, yet resolutely firm:
But when the king, half angered, turned away
Half sorrowful, and thus reproachful said,
"Then thou too wilt desert me in my need,"
Sudden she stayed her step, (for she was passing,)
One look inexplicable cast on him,
Then springing to his feet she sobbed convulsed,
"Though all the world desert thee will not I!"—
She leaves at dawn.
Riche. Du Nois?
Val. Will follow us.
Xaintrailles, myself, are ordered to attend her.
Riche. Fortune doth smile on thee! the friend of both,
Sharer of their toils!—needs of their felicity:
The foe dispersed, the nuptial feast succeeds,
And grateful to thy heart the thought, thy arm,
Thy blood their fondest, gentlest wishes aided.
Val. Forbear, my lord! the subject is no jest.
Riche. What envy thou wilt raise! Friendship's just claims
Must too be thine—to aid in his espousals.
Val. (aside.) He racks my heart.
Riche. First in his train appear
With smiling face, yielding alone to him
In bliss.
Val. No more.
Riche. What joy to hear the vow
That makes her his, and read the rapt'rous look
Returned.
Val. Hold! hold! she never shall be his!
Riche. Then heed the counsel I have given thee.
Val. It is too late.
Riche. A better chance awaits thee;
She meets the foe!—meets!—when shall she return?
Val. Dip my hand in blood of her! I cannot.
Riche. Nor hast thou need. Du Nois must be detained:
My former counsel take. Thou knowst the plan.
Urge the attack—lead where escape is none!
Val. My soul recoils at such a damned deed!
Riche. Then play the gentler part—attune the lyre,
Forthwith prepare thy gayest suit—be first
To hail her bride of Count Du Nois! I leave thee,
Fully to enjoy the blissful prospect.
[Exit Richemont.
Val. Fierce madness fires my brain! Assist me, Heaven,
Or, better still, ye fiercest spirits aid me,
Bride of Du Nois! myself despised, or worse,
Pitied perhaps by both! held in contempt
By Richemont too, and taunted for my weakness!
Sooner shall earth engulph, or lightnings blast me!
Farewell remorse!—farewell to pity!
[Exit.
Widow at the back.
Wid. No!
Not by such villainy shall her career
Be ended. I'll follow her, and save her!
Widow.
Wid. The city's walls are distant yet,
And weary with the way I sink exhausted.
How black the sky! a fearful storm is near.
That flash! hark! the low thunder threat'ning growls!
The trumpet's call I hear: and now bright swords
Gleam in the darkness! I must not tarry.
[Exit.
Field of Battle.
Joan, Xaintrailles, French Officers.
Xaint. The tide is fiercely set against our squadrons.
Thy presence only can restore the day.
Joan. A cloud is on my mind, a dreadful weight
Bears down my soul. Du Nois!
Enter Valancour.
Val. (aside,) Nought but Dunois.
That name decides thy fate.
Xaint. Far distant yet.
Joan. Alas! and Valancour?
Val. Here by thy side!
Joan. How goes the fight with thine?
Val. All is reversed!
A thousand furies arm the English bands,
While ours, so late extravagantly brave,
Appear irresolute, and struck with dread!
Joan. (aside,) They falter for my sin. The righteous One,
In wakened wrath, has turned away his face,
Since 'gainst conviction's voice I weakly yielded.
Val. Clouds have obscured the sun, and veiled the sky.
The omen is an evil one!
Xaint. To whom?
What greater fury rent the vaulted sky
At Orlean's fight, or Patay's gallant field?
Let him his sentence read in signs who wills;
Brave men no omen fear but lukewarm hearts.
Val. That ill-timed taunt thou shalt repent ere long.
I'll lead where few shall dare to follow.
Joan. Cease!
Waste not the time in words! renew the attack!
These guard our rear—Xaintrailles must lead with me.
Val. Shall I then be forgot? E'en on this field
Must I receive fresh proof of hate?
Joan. Forbear!
Love is not ours, but hate thee, Valancour!
Oh! wrong me not so sorely.