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Robert Southey - The Vision Of The Maid Of Orleans - The First Book
Work rating: Medium

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 faculty;
  Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog,
  Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world,
  And all things `are` that `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 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 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!"

                  On a rock more high
  Than Nature`s common surface, she beholds
  The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds
  Its sacred mysteries. A trine within
  A quadrate placed, both these encompast in
  A perfect circle was its form; but what
  Its matter was, for us to wonder at,
  Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands
  At every angle, where Time`s fatal hands
  The impartial PARCAE dwell; i` the first she sees
  CLOTHO the kindest of the Destinies,
  From immaterial essences to cull
  The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool
  For LACHESIS to spin; about her flie
  Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie
  Warm`d with their functions in, whose strength bestows
  That power by which man ripe for misery grows.

  Her next of objects was that glorious tower
  Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour
  From mortals` service, draws the various threads
  Of life in several lengths; to weary beds
  Of age extending some, whilst others in
  Their infancy are broke: `some blackt in sin,
  Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence
  Their origin, candid with innocence;
  Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed
  In sanguine pleasures`: some in glittering pride
  Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear
  Rags of deformity, but knots of care
  No thread was wholly free from. Next to this
  Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss
  Of dreadful ATROPOS, the baleful seat
  Of death and horrour, in each room repleat
  With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight
  Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night.
  To this, the last stage that the winding clew
  Of Life can lead mortality unto,
  FEAR was the dreadful Porter, which let in
  All guests sent thither by destructive sin.
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