The Vision of The Maid of Orleans. The First Book.

Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch         The delegated Maiden lay: with toil         Exhausted and sore anguish, soon she closed         Her heavy eye-lids; not reposing then,         For busy Phantasy, in other scenes         Awakened. Whether that superior powers,         By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream,         Instructing so the passive [1] faculty;         Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog,         Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world,         And all things 'are' that [2] 'seem'.                      Along a moor,         Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate,         She roam'd a wanderer thro' the cheerless night.         Far thro' the silence of the unbroken plain         The bittern's boom was heard, hoarse, heavy, deep,         It made most fitting music to the scene.         Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind,         Swept shadowing; thro' their broken folds the moon         Struggled sometimes with transitory ray,         And made the moving darkness visible.         And now arrived beside a fenny lake         She stands: amid its stagnate waters, hoarse         The long sedge rustled to the gales of night.         An age-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd         By powers unseen; then did the moon display         Where thro' the crazy vessel's yawning side         The muddy wave oozed in: a female guides,         And spreads the sail before the wind, that moan'd         As melancholy mournful to her ear,         As ever by the dungeon'd wretch was heard         Howling at evening round the embattled towers         Of that hell-house [3] of France, ere yet sublime         The almighty people from their tyrant's hand         Dash'd down the iron rod.                      Intent the Maid         Gazed on the pilot's form, and as she gazed         Shiver'd, for wan her face was, and her eyes         Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrowed deep,         Channell'd by tears; a few grey locks hung down         Beneath her hood: then thro' the Maiden's veins         Chill crept the blood, for, as the night-breeze pass'd,         Lifting her tattcr'd mantle, coil'd around         She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart.         The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by,         And the night-raven's scream came fitfully,         Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid         Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank         Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still         In recollection.                 There, a mouldering pile         Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below         Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon         Shone thro' its fretted windows: the dark Yew,         Withering with age, branched there its naked roots,         And there the melancholy Cypress rear'd         Its head; the earth was heav'd with many a mound,         And here and there a half-demolish'd tomb.         And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade,         The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames         Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth,         And now in darkness drown'd. An aged man         Sat near, seated on what in long-past days         Had been some sculptur'd monument, now fallen         And half-obscured by moss, and gathered heaps         Of withered yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones;         And shining in the ray was seen the track         Of slimy snail obscene. Composed his look,         His eye was large and rayless, and fix'd full         Upon the Maid; the blue flames on his face         Stream'd a pale light; his face was of the hue         Of death; his limbs were mantled in a shroud.         Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice,         Exclaim'd the Spectre, "Welcome to these realms,         These regions of DESPAIR! O thou whose steps         By GRIEF conducted to these sad abodes         Have pierced; welcome, welcome to this gloom         Eternal, to this everlasting night,         Where never morning darts the enlivening ray,         Where never shines the sun, but all is dark,         Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King."         So saying he arose, and by the hand         The Virgin seized with such a death-cold touch         As froze her very heart; and drawing on,         Her, to the abbey's inner ruin, led         Resistless. Thro' the broken roof the moon         Glimmer'd a scatter'd ray; the ivy twined         Round the dismantled column; imaged forms         Of Saints and warlike Chiefs, moss-canker'd now         And mutilate, lay strewn upon the ground,         With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen,         And rusted trophies; and amid the heap         Some monument's defaced legend spake         All human glory vain.                 The loud blast roar'd         Amid the pile; and from the tower the owl         Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest.         He, silent, led her on, and often paus'd,         And pointed, that her eye might contemplate         At leisure the drear scene.                     He dragged her on         Thro' a low iron door, down broken stairs;         Then a cold horror thro' the Maiden's frame         Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw,         By the sepulchral lamp's dim glaring light,         The fragments of the dead.                      "Look here!" he cried,         "Damsel, look here! survey this house of Death;         O soon to tenant it! soon to increase         These trophies of mortality! for hence         Is no return. Gaze here! behold this skull,         These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws,         That with their ghastly grinning, seem to mock         Thy perishable charms; for thus thy cheek         Must moulder. Child of Grief! shrinks not thy soul,         Viewing these horrors? trembles not thy heart         At the dread thought, that here its life's-blood soon         Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon         With the cold clod? a thought most horrible!         So only dreadful, for reality         Is none of suffering here; here all is peace;         No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave.         Dreadful it is to think of losing life;         But having lost, knowledge of loss is not,         Therefore no ill. Haste, Maiden, to repose;         Probe deep the seat of life."                      So spake DESPAIR         The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice,         And all again was silence. Quick her heart         Panted. He drew a dagger from his breast,         And cried again, "Haste Damsel to repose!         One blow, and rest for ever!" On the Fiend         Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye,         And dash'd the dagger down. He next his heart         Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid         Along the downward vault.                     The damp earth gave         A dim sound as they pass'd: the tainted air         Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews.         "Behold!" the fiend exclaim'd, "how gradual here         The fleshly burden of mortality         Moulders to clay!" then fixing his broad eye         Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse         Lay livid; she beheld with loathing look,         The spectacle abhorr'd by living man.         "Look here!" DESPAIR pursued, "this loathsome mass         Was once as lovely, and as full of life         As, Damsel! thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes         Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence,         And where thou seest the pamper'd flesh-worm trail,         Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought         That at the hallowed altar, soon the Priest         Should bless her coming union, and the torch         Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy,         Cast on her nuptial evening: earth to earth         That Priest consign'd her, and the funeral lamp         Glares on her cold face; for her lover went         By glory lur'd to war, and perish'd there;         Nor she endur'd to live. Ha! fades thy cheek?         Dost thou then, Maiden, tremble at the tale?         Look here! behold the youthful paramour!         The self-devoted hero!"                      Fearfully         The Maid look'd down, and saw the well known face         Of THEODORE! in thoughts unspeakable,         Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd         Her cold damp hands: "Shrink not," the Phantom cried,         "Gaze on! for ever gaze!" more firm he grasp'd         Her quivering arm: "this lifeless mouldering clay,         As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow         Of Youth and Love; this is the arm that cleaved         Salisbury's proud crest, now motionless in death,         Unable to protect the ravaged frame         From the foul Offspring of Mortality         That feed on heroes. Tho' long years were thine,         Yet never more would life reanimate         This murdered man; murdered by thee! for thou         Didst lead him to the battle from his home,         Else living there in peace to good old age:         In thy defence he died: strike deep! destroy         Remorse with Life."                  The Maid stood motionless,         And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand         Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried,         "Avaunt DESPAIR! Eternal Wisdom deals         Or peace to man, or misery, for his good         Alike design'd; and shall the Creature cry,         Why hast thou done this? and with impious pride         Destroy the life God gave?"                      The Fiend rejoin'd,         "And thou dost deem it impious to destroy         The life God gave? What, Maiden, is the lot         Assigned to mortal man? born but to drag,         Thro' life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load         Of being; care corroded at the heart;         Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills         That flesh inherits; till at length worn out,         This is his consummation!--think again!         What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life         But lengthen'd sorrow? If protracted long,         Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs         Outstretch their languid length, oh think what thoughts,         What agonizing woes, in that dread hour,         Assail the sinking heart! slow beats the pulse,         Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew         The shuddering frame; then in its mightiest force,         Mightiest in impotence, the love of life         Seizes the throbbing heart, the faltering lips         Pour out the impious prayer, that fain would change         The unchangeable's decree, surrounding friends         Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears,         And all he loved in life embitters death!         Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the hour         Of calmest dissolution! yet weak man         Dares, in his timid piety, to live;         And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb,         He calls her Resignation!                      Coward wretch!         Fond Coward! thus to make his Reason war         Against his Reason! Insect as he is,         This sport of Chance, this being of a day,         Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast,         Believes himself the care of heavenly powers,         That God regards Man, miserable Man,         And preaching thus of Power and Providence,         Will crush the reptile that may cross his path!         Fool that thou art! the Being that permits         Existence, 'gives' to man the worthless boon:         A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest,         Bask in the sunshine of Prosperity,         And such do well to keep it. But to one         Sick at the heart with misery, and sore         With many a hard unmerited affliction,         It is a hair that chains to wretchedness         The slave who dares not burst it!                          Thinkest thou,         The parent, if his child should unrecall'd         Return and fall upon his neck, and cry,         Oh! the wide world is comfortless, and full         Of vacant joys and heart-consuming cares,         I can be only happy in my home         With thee--my friend!--my father! Thinkest thou,         That he would thrust him as an outcast forth?         Oh I he would clasp the truant to his heart,         And love the trespass."                      Whilst he spake, his eye         Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul         Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood,         Even as the wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave         Supply, before him sees the poison'd food         In greedy horror.                 Yet not long the Maid         Debated, "Cease thy dangerous sophistry,         Eloquent tempter!" cried she. "Gloomy one!         What tho' affliction be my portion here,         Think'st thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy.         Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back         Upon a life of duty well perform'd,         Then lift mine eyes to Heaven, and there in faith         Know my reward? I grant, were this life all,         Was there no morning to the tomb's long night,         If man did mingle with the senseless clod,         Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed         A wise and friendly comforter! But, Fiend!         There is a morning to the tomb's long night,         A dawn of glory, a reward in Heaven,         He shall not gain who never merited.         If thou didst know the worth of one good deed         In life's last hour, thou would'st not bid me lose         The power to benefit; if I but save         A drowning fly, I shall not live in vain.         I have great duties, Fiend! me France expects,         Her heaven-doom'd Champion."                     "Maiden, thou hast done         Thy mission here," the unbaffled Fiend replied:         "The foes are fled from Orleans: thou, perchance         Exulting in the pride of victory,         Forgettest him who perish'd! yet albeit         Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth;         That hour allotted canst thou not escape,         That dreadful hour, when Contumely and Shame         Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid!         Destined to drain the cup of bitterness,         Even to its dregs! England's inhuman Chiefs         Shall scoff thy sorrows, black thy spotless fame,         Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity,         And force such burning blushes to the cheek         Of Virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish         The earth might cover thee! in that last hour,         When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the chains         That link thee to the stake; when o'er thy form,         Exposed unmantled, the brute multitude         Shall gaze, and thou shalt hear the ribald taunt,         More painful than the circling flames that scorch         Each quivering member; wilt thou not in vain         Then wish my friendly aid? then wish thine ear         Had drank my words of comfort? that thy hand         Had grasp'd the dagger, and in death preserved         Insulted modesty?"                 Her glowing cheek         Blush'd crimson; her wide eye on vacancy         Was fix'd; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend,         Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "too-timid Maid,         So long repugnant to the healing aid         My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold         The allotted length of life."                      He stamp'd the earth,         And dragging a huge coffin as his car,         Two GOULS came on, of form more fearful-foul         Than ever palsied in her wildest dream         Hag-ridden Superstition. Then DESPAIR         Seiz'd on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still.         And placed her in the seat; and on they pass'd         Adown the deep descent. A meteor light         Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg'd along         The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren glut         On carcasses.             Below the vault dilates         Its ample bulk. "Look here!"--DESPAIR addrest         The shuddering Virgin, "see the dome of DEATH!"         It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid         The entrails of the earth, as tho' to form         The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach,         Tho' gifted with the Eagle's ample ken,         Its distant bounds. There, thron'd in darkness, dwelt         The unseen POWER OF DEATH.                      Here stopt the GOULS,         Reaching the destin'd spot. The Fiend leapt out,         And from the coffin, as he led the Maid,         Exclaim'd, "Where never yet stood mortal man,         Thou standest: look around this boundless vault;         Observe the dole that Nature deals to man,         And learn to know thy friend."                         She not replied,         Observing where the Fates their several tasks         Plied ceaseless. "Mark how short the longest web         Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon,         Twin'd round yon never-resting wheel, they change         Their snowy hue, darkening thro' many a shade,         Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!"         Too true he spake, for of the countless threads,         Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow,         Or as the lovely lilly of the vale,         Was never one beyond the little span         Of infancy untainted: few there were         But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue,         Or deeper sable [4] died. Two Genii stood,         Still as the web of Being was drawn forth,         Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn,         The one unsparing dash'd the bitter wave         Of woe; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow         Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form         Shed less profusely there his lesser store;         Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon,         Mourning the lot of man; and happy he         Who on his thread those precious drops receives;         If it be happiness to have the pulse         Throb fast with pity, and in such a world         Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches         With anguish at the sight of human woe.         To her the Fiend, well hoping now success,         "This is thy thread! observe how short the span,         And see how copious yonder Genius pours         The bitter stream of woe." The Maiden saw         Fearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd,         And placed again the poniard in her hand,         For SUPERSTITION, with sulphureal torch         Stalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate!         The hour draws on--now drench the dagger deep!         Now rush to happier worlds!"                     The Maid replied,         "Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven,         Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!"