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"What is man That he can hear the groan of wretchedness And feel no fleshly pang! Why did the All-Good Create these warrior scourges of mankind, These who delight in slaughter? I did think There was not on this earth a heart so hard Could hear a famish'd woman ask for food, And feel no pity. As the outcast train Drew near, relentless Henry bade his troops Drive back the miserable multitude. They drove them to the walls; — it was the depth Of winter, — we had no relief to grant. The aged ones groan'd to our foe in vain, The mother pleaded for her dying child, And they felt no remorse!" The mission'd Maid Rose from her seat, — "The old and the infirm, The mother and her babes! — and yet no lightning Blasted this man!" "Aye, Lady," Bertram cried, " And when we sent the herald to implore His mercy on the helpless, his stern face Assum'd a sterner smile of callous scorn, And he replied in mockery. On the wall I stood and watch'd the miserable outcasts, And every moment thought that Henry's heart, Hard as it was, would melt. All night I stood, — Their deep groans came upon the midnight gale; Fainter they grew, for the cold wintry wind Blew bleak; fainter they grew, and at the last All was still, save that ever and anon Some mother raised o'er her expiring child A cry of frenzying anguish.                           "From that hour On all the busy turmoil of the world I look'd with strange indifference; bearing want With the sick patience of a mind worn out. Nor when the traitor yielded up our town Aught heeded I as through our ruin'd streets, Through putrid heaps of famish'd carcasses, The pomp of triumph pass'd. One pang alone 1 felt, when by that cruel King's command The gallant Blanchard died : calmly he died, And as he bow'd beneath the axe, thank'd God That he had done his duty. "I survive, A solitary, friendless, wretched one, Knowing no joy save in the certain hope That I shall soon be gather'd to my sires, And soon repose, there where the wicked cease From troubling, and the weary arc at rest." "And happy," cried the delegated Maid, "And happy they who in that holy faith Bow meekly to the rod! A little while Shall they endure the proud man's contumely, The injustice of the great: a little while Though shelterless they feel the wintry wind, The wind shall whistle o'er their turf-grown grave, And all be peace below. But woe to those, Woe to the Mighty Ones who send abroad Their ministers of death, and give to Fury The flaming firebrand; these indeed shall live The heroes of the wandering minstrel's song; But they have their reward; the innocent blood Steams up to Heaven against them: God shall hear The widow's groan." "I saw him," Bertram cried, "Henry of Agincourt, this mighty King, Go to his grave. The long procession pass'd Slowly from town to town, and when I heard The deep-toned dirge, and saw the banners wave A pompous shade, and the tall torches cast In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light, I thought what he had been on earth who now Was gone to his account, and blest my God I was not such as he!" So spake the old man, And then his guests betook them to repose.

Fair dawn'd the morning, and the early sun Pour'd on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam, And up the travellers rose, and on their way Hasten'd, their dangerous way, through fertile tracts Laid waste by war. They pass'd the Auxerrois; The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth The unreap'd harvest; from the village church No even-song bell was heard; the shepherd's dog Prey'd on the scatter'd flock, for there was now No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth Where he had slumber'd at his master's feet Weeds grew and reptiles crawl'd. Or if they found Sometimes a welcome, those who welcomed them Were old and helpless creatures, lingering there Where they were born, and where they wish'd to die, The place being all that they had left to love. They pass'd the Yonne, they pass'd the rapid Loire, Still urging on their way with cautious speed, Shunning Auxerre, and Bar's embattled wall, And Romorantin's towers. So journeying on, Fast by a spring, which welling at his feet With many a winding crept along the mead, A Knight they saw, who there at his repast Let the west wind play round his ungirt brow. Approaching near, the Bastard recognized That faithful friend of Orleans, the brave chief Du Chastel; and their mutual greeting pass'd, They on the streamlet's mossy bank reclined Beside him, and his frugal fare partook, And drank the running waters. "Art thou bound For the Court, Dunois?" exclaim'd the aged Knight; "I thought thou hadst been far away, shut up In Orleans, where her valiant sons the siege Right loyally endure!" "I left the town," Dunois replied, "thinking that my prompt speed Might seize the enemy's stores, and with fresh force Reënter. Fastolffe's better fate prevail'd, And from the field of shame my maddening horse Bore me, an arrow having pierced his flank.