Female patriotism; or The death of Joan d'Arc: an historic play, in V. acts,
Burk, John, d. 1808.
ACT V.—
SCENE I.—A Prison.
Pucella discovered sleeping on a wretched truckle bed—a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water on a table—English silently enter and lay her armour near her and retire—She awakes and seizes her arms with delight and astonishment.
You splendid partners of Pucella's fame,
Has the Almighty dropt you from the skies,
Or on the wing of Angel are you borne.
To chear my sight.
Takes up the Corslet.
Again this corslet,
'Gainst which my heart did heave as if t'would burst
Page 31The clasps asunder: on my breast shall shine,
And b•a••ng fiercely as the torrid sun,
Like to Medusa's Gorgon head shall turn
Britons to stone and wither all their rage.
Takes up the shield.
Faithful shield
Which oft Pucella guarded from the foe,
As if a saint did watch at every clasp;
Where are those glorious spots of hostile blood,
Which ting'd thy boss: when from the burning war
The haughty Talbot, like a wounded boar
Foaming with pain and madness slow retir'd,
Grinding his teeth; while from his blood-shot eyes
Shame and confusion to be so subdued
Shot balefully—here's one, and here, and here;
But where's my sword;
Where is the flaming blade which from this hand
Lighten'd and thunder'd on the trembling foe
As if it rain'd a shower of sparkles on them.
Enter the bishop of Beauvais, goaler and guards.
Beauvais.
Ha trait'ress; at thy old pranks again?
Still working spells and muttering incantations;
Lay hold on her and bow her stubborn neck
Down to the earth with fet•ers.
(Soldiers advance with caution.)
Pucella.
Stand off base slaves,
Or by the shade of Brutus I will tear
Your coward so•ls out: am I then so chang'd,
Is there not left one single •ay of glory
To strike you to the earth base runaways,
Whom I have oft pursued like frighted deer.
And thou vile Monk,
(To Beauvais.)
Tra••or to heaven and to thy country;
What hi•ders from my prison, but I wrench
Some b•• or bar and da•• thy skull to shivers!
Justice and France demand it and you die.
Sh• r•shes to the prison windows and wrenches by force an iron bar—b••k▪ mortar and splinters of wood follow— Beauvais and soldiers retire with precipitation—goaler falls
Page 32
on his knees—Pucella holds the bar lifted over him in the attitude of striking.
Rise wretch,
To the goaler.
Thou barely doest thy duty; take thy life
And when the wretched tenants of this mansion
Cry out to thee for mercy; bear in mind
Thyself had dy'd but for it.
(Goaler goes off trembling.)
Pucella sola.
Now comes the trial of my fortitude,
Now will these butchers tear my tender body,
Now will my enemies with savage joy,
With bloody hands and eyes of murd'rous gaze
Present themselves to me: O shield me heaven,
Thou guardian of the innocent stand forth
And save me from their fury: ha they come,
There stands the horrid rack to torture me,
There come the executioners: avaunt
Ruffians; take from my sight those cut-throat eyes,
Dare you to kill the championess of France?
Ah Pucella,
Where is the constancy which buoy'd thee up
And bore thee thro' the thunder of the fight,
When all the grander virtues fir'd thy soul
And forc'd into thy cheeks such blaze of valour
That f•ar dar'd not approach thee; but retir'd
Into the ranks of Britain: 'tis gone—'tis fled;
And 'tis but natural it should be gone;
Remov'd from those I love, and fall'n alive
Into the power of my bitterest foes;
No friendly hand to close my dying eyes,
No pitying voice to sooth the pang of torment:
But fiends on every side, and murderers
Glaring with cannibal impatience on me:
The stoutest heart would tremble in such moment.
(kneels.)
You gracious powers if with pure intent
I fought •o rescue France from bondage,
Hear now a•d exec•te Pucella's 〈◊〉:
Blow in my soul the fury of the •yger,
The constancy in suffering of the wolf,
Who •tter• not a cry tho' the fierce dogs
Page 33Rend him to pieces; the leopard's fierceness,
And all the horrid properties of rage
Collected from the bosoms of wild beasts:
Encase my heart in steel, and o'er my face
Breathe such a spirit as will make it calm
Amidst the shocks of agonizi•g pain:
Between it and my body stop all intercourse,
That when Pucel•a feels the pangs of death,
Her visage may not tell i• to the foe.
[rises.]
Enter Duke of Bedford. Earl of Suffolk, Bishop of Beau|vais▪ with guards.
Bedford.
If she makes the least resistance hew her to pieces▪ and do thou holy bishop stand by with your breviary open in yo•• hand—and crucifix, less any evil spirits come to her assistance—advance upon her guards—perdition on yo•r dastard souls do you stand—Give me a spear—snatches a spear from the next to him—Pucella takes up the bar—he keeps at distance.
Pucella.
Tyrant advance,
That Sampson like my last atchievement
May far o•tshine the actions of my ••fe.
Bedford.
Sorceress attend and •ear thy sentence read.
Read Beauvais.
Beauvais
reads.
Thou Joa• de Pucella, commonly call'd Joan of Arc or Pucella of Orlea•s, convicted before us on good and positive evidence of sorcery and witchcraft; shall be taken to the market place of Rouen. where thou shalt be tied to a stake, thy body burnt, and the ashes thrown into the sea.
Pucella.
O Heaven.!
[Falls lifeless into the arms of soldiers, and the scene closes.]
SCENE II.—French camp.
Tent—Chastel 〈◊〉 on the ground.
D••p•in, Chastel▪ Reignier—Lords—
Dauph.
Accept the only comfort I can give;
Sorrow •hat sa••y keeps ••ce with thy sorrows,
And sympathy which makes thy griefs my own.
Chast.
My 〈◊〉 and 〈◊〉 my lords. I thank you much,
Indeed I do no• m•〈…〉 you grieve;
The loss was your 〈◊〉 France's much as mine,
Page 34I rather wonder that we do outlive
The death of all our flattering prospects:
We see the glorious temple of our rights
Whose spires encircled by the sun gilt clouds
Enroll'd our infant honors in the skies
Ready to tumble down and bury us
Beneath its ruins. Think my lords,
O think upon the treasure we have lost,
Think on her valour, it is lost to us,
Her heavenly confidence 'tis lost to us,
Her ready genius, cool deliberate mind,
Prompt, but not rash, cauti•us▪ yet enterprizing;
Think of her angel face, her mild demeanor.
The streams of fire which lighten'd in her eyes,
When she did lead our troops against the see;
And think, O think they all are lost to us.
Dauph.
With grief and wonder we reflect on them;
She was indeed all thou hast said of her.
Chastel.
Wilt thou not try to save her then?
Dauph.
I know not how to save her.
Chastel.
Hast thou not thought on it?
Dauph.
I have not.
Ch•s••l.
Not thought on it, not once? It cannot be
The wearing of a crown s••uld so free• up
Fair nature's mi•ky workings in the heart.
Not think on her who gave thee life at Orleans,
A crown at 〈…〉 and victory every where:
Who dr•ve thy fo•s b•fore, 〈…〉 thee,
And shew•d 〈◊〉 way with 〈◊〉 fl•wers of hope.
O 〈…〉! O 〈◊〉 to faith!
False R•〈…〉,
For who did ever 〈◊〉 a of 〈◊〉.
Dauph.
〈…〉 all this?
Ch•st•l.
Say, 〈…〉 an embassy t'the foe,
To 〈◊〉 about the 〈◊〉 som of this maid?
Dauph.
I have not.
Chas•el.
No• m•a••st to do•t?
Dauph.
M•••〈◊〉 'twould 〈◊〉 become our royal state
To send a sage a•d 〈…〉 embassy.
To bear the 〈◊〉 of a 〈…〉.
Chastel.
And why did not your royalty disdain
Page 35To be enthroned by this peasant maid?
Why not your royal head refuse the crown
Your hand the sceptre spurn when proferr'd by,
When like an angel in the robes of war,
On foot▪ bareheaded▪ near your royal car,
She led your glittering cavalcade to Rheims,
Safe through the enemy's confines? Royal Sir,
Resolve these questions.
Dauph.
Knowest thou to whom thou speakest?
Chastel.
Art thou not he who la•e with cap •n hand
Did court the favour of the lowest kind?
That strikes with wooden shoe the soi• of France?
Who woo•d all orders of the state with sm••es?
Who talk'd of freedom and the rights of man?
Who eulogiz'd Republics by the hour?
Dauph.
Insolent slave!
[Draws his sword, is disarmed by the L••ds.]
Chastel.
Tiberius was a Saint e're he was an emperor,
The empire did transform him to a devil.
France hang thy head, a Nero is thy king.
Dunois.
Chastel retire.
Chastel.
My Lords cast not away your fears on me,
I will not stir, I care not for his anger;
I too am angry and I must be heard;
Chastel is always arm'd within himself,
For every varying change of Proteus fortune,
This is my safety.
(Draws his sword.)
Which if it fail to avenge me on my foes,
Shall yet do justice for me on myself.
Dauph.
By your allegiance Lords I do command you,
Take him to execution.
Chastel.
Why this is spoken like a royal king.
To execution—this must sure convince,
At least it is conclusive for 'tis last,
And we may know the Monarch's logic spent.
When he doth give his ultima ratio.
Dunois.
Nay then you must retire,
For you do pull your ruin on your head.
Dauph.
Take him away—
Are you all leagued against me—Go, Reignier,
Page 36Summon my guard, give the wide camp alarm;
Te•l them▪ foul traitors meditate to kill
The Lord's anointed—What guards, ho!
(Stamps with his foot.)
Chastel.
What guards, ho!
(stamps with his foot— Guards enter.)
Why came you not before.
My faithful ••hort, dear Praetorian band,
Sweet Ja••zaries▪ come, your monarch trembles,
Your Sophy's, Cal•p•'s, royal Sultan's pale,
Because that wicked Chastel tells him truth;
Come, sabre me this Chastel out of hand;
Come slice me off his head.
Dauph.
By heaven the villain mocks me;
Give me a sword.
Chastel.
Do you not hear?—bring Hercules a distaff.
Lord.
Take him out.
(Guards whisper to each other•
Dauph.
Why talk you thus apart—take him away.
Officer.
My gracious Lord,
The soldiers with all loyal due respect,
Bid me declare they will not suffer Chastel
The ab•est, dearest general in the land,
The friend and lover of their loved Joan,
The firmest patriot and their truest friend,
To live in bonds, or die a traitors death.
Chastel.
Hea•'s thou this, King: blush royalty at this;
Here there is no ingratitude; generous souls,
Worthy to live in the best days of Rome,
I know not how to thank you.
(Enter a citizen of Rouen.)
Which in this fair and honorable meeting,
Is count Chastel.
Chastel.
What of him—in me you see that Chastel.
Citizen.
Indeed my tidings have a wider import
Than thy particular sphere will comprehend;
All France they do concern.
Chastel.
The strength, the interest and the power of France▪
Thou see'st before thee.
Citizen.
But thee it most and nearest doth concern.
Chastel.
I wait to hear it.
Page 37
Citizen.
Then summon all thy courage to thy aid,
Make hard thy heart by thinking on the worst,
The bloodiest, fellest▪ blackest tidings,
Thy ear can tell thy soul.
Chastel.
Well—
Citizen.
Suppose the lares of your parents' house
Stained with your parents' ••ood,
Your general kin slain by the murderer's knife.
Chastel.
Death, why do you keep me thus upon the rack,
Out with thy tidings.
Citizen.
The sun of France is set:
Fair Virtue's mirror, Beauty's peerless paragon,
Great Freedom's Saint, and Glory's glorious model,
That best epitome of all the virtues,
The beauteous Joan, our Championess is dead.
Chastel.
Dead didst thou say?
Citizen.
Ay, dead, dead, dead.
Oftener than I have breath to tell it thee,
I have died to think on it.
Chastel.
O heaven, it was too soon,
Fell Death, thou king, thou ugly tyrant,
Were there not perjur'd wretches on the earth,
Murderers enough and th•eves of wolfish natures,
Oppressors of the poor▪ foes of the orphan,
And sore •••••ciers of the weeping widow;
Had not the stroke been better arm'd at them:
Were there not king•—
Dunois.
Better the altars of the foe had stream'd
With choicest blood of twenty thousand French,
Than this one Heroine die.
Chastel.
Is this undoubted, is there left no room
For chance to work a blessing.?
Citizen.
These eyes that now look on you saw her die;
These eyes beheld her girt around with flames,
Which her•e•y mounting seem'd to threaten heaven
With conflagration; She mean while,
Like a pure spirit, 'rayed in robes of flame,
Seem'd ready to ascend unto the skies;
Page 38Some gentle spirit sat upon her face,
Arming it with patience and benignant smiles,
For when the curling smoak and crackling flames
Push'd by the ingruous breeze, did backward roll,
Her beauteous vi•age, like the radiant sun
Breaking thro' angry clouds did shew itself
Placid, and bright, and undefil'd by grief;
O God, there was a sight would arm the land,
From end to end and give the mighty mass
Order, and courage, and enthusiasm,
And drive them on the English.
Dunois.
Some great avenger from her ashes rise.
(To the citizen.)
Behold good Sir, how dearly she was lov'd,
The assembly's drown'd in tears.
Chastel.
What all in tears, and not one briny drop
Will shew itself upon my savage lids.—
Doth the King weep too?
Dunois.
You see he weeps my Lord.
Chastel.
And did the English soldiers mourn her fate.
Citizen.
They did my Lord, not a dry eye did look
Upon her execution. Bedford except,
And Traitor Beuvais, and two other lords,
Whose Tyger souls did never know remorse.
All wept as if a dear relation died.
Chastel.
And why am I so like these bloody Caiti••s,
That my fierce orbs refuse a single tear:
By heaven▪ I lov'd her more 〈◊〉 all of you,
A hundred thousand eyes could not rain out
So true a sorrow as my bosom feels;
My soul is parch'd, it burns and is consum'd
By all the wasting bitterness of woe.
And yet I cannot weep.
Citizen.
My Lord—
Chastel.
Be it so, 'tis well;
The fever of my fury eats them up,
As the hot sun doth burn the ex•alations.
Let sorrow go and vengeance take •s place
Bedford and Beuvais shall shed tears of blood.
Page 39
Citizen.
My Lord,
This sealed paper did the holy maid
Deliver to my hands with strong injunction
To give it none but you.
Chastel snatches it and reads.
Chastel.
[kisses it.]
It is the well known hand—take it Dunois
I cannot read.
Dunois reads.
To Chastel beloved by her above all things, next to her country and her God, Joan of Arc bids a last farewell. The English have condemn'd me to be burnt, horrible death, cruel and sanguinary enemies—Weep not for me my friend, my death will be a lasting reproach to my ene|mies, and will cover me with glory. I have serv'd France and the Dauphin with the truest and holiest zeal.—The in|differ•••• of the latter to my situation, proves only, what the expe••••ce of all ages had before confirmed, that there is neither faith, justice, or gratitude in kings—You are howe|ver conjured by your esteem and love of me, to sacrifice your resentment to the general good—my fate will touch his heart—He will weep for me—I forgive him—unite to chase the English from France—Monarchy for some time longer will be the government of it, but the time will be when every vestige of it will disappear, your country will one day become a mighty Republic, in the glory and immensity of which all former governments will be lost.—A virtuous band of English colonists, whose love of freedom forc'd them to imigrate to a vast unknown land beyond the great waters, shall first throw down the gauntlet to Kings, and overturn the throne of their tyrant—France will follow her example: shall overturn all thrones, and exterminate all tyrants. The nations of the earth will forget their former an|tipathies: Even England shall stretch out the arm of friend|ship to France—This letter is the substance of a vision, and I almost pronounce it prophecy. My sufferings will give you courage and resentment—Farewell.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess.
The Duke of Bedford's dead.
Haunted both night and day by guilty 〈◊〉,
And by remorse, 'tis said, for murder'd Joan:
Disease and sickness came so fast upon him
Page 40That he had hardly time to say farewell.
Chastel.
By heaven I'm sorry for it,
This sword should have let out his caitiff blood.
Dunois.
'Tis as it should be.
Heaven will not be depriv'd of its revenge.
Enter second Messenger.
2. Mess.
The traiterous prelate Beauvais is no more.
An awful vision robbed him of his reason,
His bloody hand did justice on himself.
Dunois.
Another victim of the wrath of God;
You see how heaven combats on our side.
Let the last words of that departed saint
Be fresh upon your minds. Frenchmen unite,
Forswear all priva•e quarrels and dissensions,
And let our solid undivided power
Fall like a mountain on the English ranks.
Chastel.
Dunois, thy words as from a lethargy
Arouse my wandering spirits; the fainted maid,
The as•es of whose precious body fly
On the wild winds, perhaps now o'er our heads
She did forbid diss••sions.
Dauph.
Be witness for me Heaven,
How gladly would I lay my sceptre down
To bring her back to life.
Chastel.
Indeed? Then I,
Fo•lowing her noble nature, do forgive,
And God forgive thee too. Frenchmen to arms,
Gird on your swords, and put your armour on.
The spirit of the lovely Joan of Arc,
Doth hover o'er the field, and shrieks for vengeance.
