The Vision Of The Maid Of Orleans. The Second Book.

She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd     Amid the air, such odors wafting now     As erst came blended with the evening gale,     From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form     Stood by the Maid; his wings, etherial white,     Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun,     Dazzling her mortal eye: all else appear'd     Her THEODORE.             Amazed she saw: the Fiend     Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice     Sounded, tho' now more musically sweet     Than ever yet had thrill'd her charmed soul,     When eloquent Affection fondly told     The day-dreams of delight.                     "Beloved Maid!     Lo! I am with thee! still thy Theodore!     Hearts in the holy bands of Love combin'd,     Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine!     A little while and thou shalt dwell with me     In scenes where Sorrow is not. Cheerily     Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave,     Rough tho' it be and painful, for the grave     Is but the threshold of Eternity.     Favour'd of Heaven! to thee is given to view     These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss     Thou treadest, Maiden! Here the dungeons are     Where bad men learn repentance; souls diseased     Must have their remedy; and where disease     Is rooted deep, the remedy is long     Perforce, and painful."                 Thus the Spirit spake,     And led the Maid along a narrow path,     Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames,     More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound     Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath     Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach     A wide expanded den where all around     Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze,     Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood     The meagre form of Care, and as he blew     To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd     His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus     He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end     But endless toil and never-ending woe.     An aged man went round the infernal vault,     Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task:     White were his locks, as is the wintry snow     On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff     His steps supported; powerful talisman,     Which whoso feels shall never feel again     The tear of Pity, or the throb of Love.     Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way,     The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall,     Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst     Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee     To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few,     Tho' he the Blessed Teacher of mankind     Hath said, that easier thro' the needle's eye     Shall the huge camel [1] pass, than the rich man     Enter the gates of heaven. "Ye cannot serve     Your God, and worship Mammon."                     "Missioned Maid!"     So spake the Angel, "know that these, whose hands     Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil,     Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not spare     To wring from Poverty the hard-earn'd mite,     They robb'd the orphan's pittance, they could see     Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these,     Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere     In Mammon's service; scorched by these fierce fires,     And frequent deluged by the o'erboiling ore:     Yet still so framed, that oft to quench their thirst     Unquenchable, large draughts of molten [2] gold     They drink insatiate, still with pain renewed,     Pain to destroy."                  So saying, her he led     Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell,     Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls     Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore     A milder radiance shone. The Carbuncle     There its strong lustre like the flamy sun     Shot forth irradiate; from the earth beneath,     And from the roof a diamond light emits;     Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd     With the gay topaz, and the softer ray     Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's hue,     And bright pyropus.                 There on golden seats,     A numerous, sullen, melancholy train     Sat silent. "Maiden, these," said Theodore,     Are they who let the love of wealth absorb     All other passions; in their souls that vice     Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree     That with its shade spreads barrenness around.     These, Maid! were men by no atrocious crime     Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence:     Men of fair dealing, and respectable     On earth, but such as only for themselves     Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth     Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven,     To bless them only: therefore here they sit,     Possessed of gold enough, and by no pain     Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss     They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell,     Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour     Of general restitution."                     Thence they past,     And now arrived at such a gorgeous dome,     As even the pomp of Eastern opulence     Could never equal: wandered thro' its halls     A numerous train; some with the red-swoln eye     Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek;     Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step,     And eyes lack-lustre.                 Maiden? said her guide,     These are the wretched slaves of Appetite,     Curst with their wish enjoyed. The epicure     Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense     Loaths at the banquet; the voluptuous here     Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight,     And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth,     Possessing here, whom have they to accuse,     But their own folly, for the lot they chose?     Yet, for that these injured themselves alone,     They to the house of PENITENCE may hie,     And, by a long and painful regimen,     To wearied Nature her exhausted powers     Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish     Of wisdom, and ALMIGHTY GOODNESS grants     That prize to him who seeks it."                         Whilst he spake,     The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and eye     Fat swoln, and legs whose monstrous size disgraced     The human form divine, their caterer,     Hight GLUTTONY, set forth the smoaking feast.     And by his side came on a brother form,     With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red     And scurfy-white, mix'd motley; his gross bulk,     Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied.     Him had antiquity with mystic rites     Ador'd, to him the sons of Greece, and thine     Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd     The victim blood, with godlike titles graced,     BACCHUS, or DIONUSUS; son of JOVE,     Deem'd falsely, for from FOLLY'S ideot form     He sprung, what time MADNESS, with furious hand,     Seiz'd on the laughing female. At one birth     She brought the brethren, menial here, above     Reigning with sway supreme, and oft they hold     High revels: mid the Monastery's gloom,     The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice     Episcopal, proclaims approaching day     Of visitation, or Churchwardens meet     To save the wretched many from the gripe     Of eager Poverty, or mid thy halls     Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen,     Of coming feast hold converse.                      Otherwhere,     For tho' allied in nature as in blood,     They hold divided sway, his brother lifts     His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes     Of Princes, and state-wearied Ministers,     Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind     Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood     Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought     To lull the worm of Conscience to repose.     He too the halls of country Squires frequents,     But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades     Thy offspring Rhedycina! and thy walls,     Granta! nightly libations there to him     Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain     Triangles, Circles, Parallelograms,     Moods, Tenses, Dialects, and Demigods,     And Logic and Theology are swept     By the red deluge.                  Unmolested there     He reigns; till comes at length the general feast,     Septennial sacrifice; then when the sons     Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse     Their delegates, wise, independent men,     Unbribing and unbrib'd, and cull'd to guard     Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp     Of greedy Power: then all the joyful land     Join in his sacrifices, so inspir'd     To make the important choice.                     The observing Maid     Address'd her guide, "These Theodore, thou sayest     Are men, who pampering their foul appetites,     Injured themselves alone. But where are they,     The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil     Around the guileless female, so to sting     The heart that loves them?"                      "Them," the spirit replied,     A long and dreadful punishment awaits.     For when the prey of want and infamy,     Lower and lower still the victim sinks,     Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word,     One impious imprecation from her lips     Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks     In the polluted mind, that does not plead     Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued     Against the foul Seducer."                     Now they reach'd     The house of PENITENCE. CREDULITY     Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head     As tho' to listen; on her vacant face,     A smile that promis'd premature assent;     Tho' her REGRET behind, a meagre Fiend,     Disciplin'd sorely.                 Here they entered in,     And now arrived where, as in study tranced,     She sat, the Mistress of the Dome. Her face     Spake that composed severity, that knows     No angry impulse, no weak tenderness,     Resolved and calm. Before her lay that Book     That hath the words of Life; and as she read,     Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek,     Tho' heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while.     Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward     Of this great Lazar-house, the Angel led     The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down     On the hard stone that their bare knees had worn,     In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd:     Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave;     Yet such expression stealing from the eye,     As tho', that only naked, all the rest     Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend,     For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here     Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour     Ashes upon them, and then bid them say     Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed:     For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered     As holy ones, who did in public tell     Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves,     And call themselves most miserable sinners,     That so they might be deem'd most pious saints;     And go all filth, and never let a smile     Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men,     Barren of all affection, and all this     To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN     Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat     Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery     Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer,     They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul     To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks     Which then came painless, and HUMILITY     Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE,     That She might lead to Heaven.                 From thence they came,     Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band     Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny     Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red,     Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face     Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears     In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around,     Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some,     Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts,     Or placing coals of fire within their wounds;     Or seizing some within his mighty grasp,     He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back,     And laugh'd to see them writhe.                      "These," said the Spirit,     Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives     They led themselves. Here are those wicked men     Who loved to exercise their tyrant power     On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo     A long purgation here; the traffickers     In human flesh here too are disciplined.     Till by their suffering they have equall'd all     The miseries they inflicted, all the mass     Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged,     The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war     Are guilty of the blood, the widows left     In want, the slave or led to suicide,     Or murdered by the foul infected air     Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all,     His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved,     And driven by woe to wickedness.                     These next,     Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room,     So sullen, and with such an eye of hate     Each on the other scowling, these have been     False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts     Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts     There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest     That skilful leech who willingly would heal     The ill they suffer, judging of all else     By their own evil standard, they suspect     The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus     By vice its punishment."                  "But who are these,"     The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn,     And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps     Like Cardinals, I see in every ward,     Performing menial service at the beck     Of all who bid them?"                 Theodore replied,     These men are they who in the name of CHRIST     Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power,     Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves     Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords.     They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed,     And in fine linen: therefore are they here;     And tho' they would not minister on earth,     Here penanced they perforce must minister:     For he, the lowly man of Nazareth,     Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world."     So Saying on they past, and now arrived     Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode,     That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye,     And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse,     The worm did banquet on his putrid prey,     Yet had they life and feeling exquisite     Tho' motionless and mute.                     "Most wretched men     Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards,     Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate     Who sat them down, deliberately lewd,     So to awake and pamper lust in minds     Unborn; and therefore foul of body now     As then they were of soul, they here abide     Long as the evil works they left on earth     Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom!     Yet amply merited by that bad man     Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!"     And now they reached a huge and massy pile,     Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast     As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit,     REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept.     Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch.     Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd,     Aye as the fabric tottering from its base,     Threatened its fall, and so expectant still     Lived in the dread of danger still delayed.     They enter'd there a large and lofty dome,     O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light     Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp.     Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND,     Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august!     Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire,     Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there,     First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief     Who did belie his mother's fame, that so     He might be called young Ammon. In this court     Csar was crown'd, accurst liberticide;     And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain,     Octavius, tho' the courtly minion's lyre     Hath hymn'd his praise, tho' Maro sung to him,     And when Death levelled to original clay     The royal carcase, FLATTERY, fawning low,     Fell at his feet, and worshipped the new God.     Titus [3] was here, the Conqueror of the Jews,     He the Delight of human-kind misnamed;     Csars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings,     Here they were all, all who for glory fought,     Here in the COURT OF GLORY, reaping now     The meed they merited.                  As gazing round     The Virgin mark'd the miserable train,     A deep and hollow voice from one went forth;     "Thou who art come to view our punishment,     Maiden of Orleans! hither turn thine eyes,     For I am he whose bloody victories     Thy power hath rendered vain. Lo! I am here,     The hero conqueror of Azincour,     HENRY OF ENGLAND!--wretched that I am,     I might have reigned in happiness and peace,     My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd,     And PLENTY and PROSPERITY had loved     To dwell amongst them: but mine eye beheld     The realm of France, by faction tempest-torn,     And therefore I did think that it would fall     An easy prey. I persecuted those     Who taught new doctrines, tho' they taught the truth:     And when I heard of thousands by the sword     Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence,     I calmly counted up my proper gains,     And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate     Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice     Tainting my private life, I sent abroad     MURDER and RAPE; and therefore am I doom'd,     Like these imperial Sufferers, crown'd with fire,     Here to remain, till Man's awaken'd eye     Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds,     And warn'd by them, till the whole human race,     Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caus'd     Of wretchedness, shall form ONE BROTHERHOOD,     ONE UNIVERSAL FAMILY OF LOVE."