ARGUMENT.
AGNES SOREL IS PURSUED BY THE ALMONER OF JOHN CHANDOS. LAMENTATIONS OF HER LOVER. — WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BEAUTIFUL AGNES IN A CONVENT.
AND shall I then to every canto stick
A prosing preface? Moral makes me sick;
A simple action told without disguise,
The naked truth depicting to our eyes,
Narration brief, of tinsel trappings void,
Neither by wit or affectation cloyed —
Such are the weapons censure to disarm;
Then roundly reader, let us court the charm,
‘Tis my advice: With nature for our aim,
If we succeed, the picture needs no frame.
As royal Charles to Orleans’ gates proceeds,
He nerves his gallant knights to glorious deeds;
Fills them with joy and hope as they advance,
Soon to retrieve the destiny of France;
Of nought he spoke, but joining conflict’s heat,
His heart of martial pleasures seemed the seat;
Yet secretly the soul-drawn sigh found vent,
For from his mistress far his course was bent;
Thus being parted — to have summoned power
To stray from Agnes, even for an hour,
This was an act that virtue might conceive,
‘Twas of one’s self, the better part to leave.
When in his chamber Charles was left alone,
And calmness o’er his heart resumed her throne,
Which glory’s demon planted in his soul,
The other demon who owns love’s control
Rushed to his mind, and in his turn explained;
He pleaded best and soon the victory gained,
What touched the public weal, with absent air
The monarch heard, and felt increase of care,
Then to his private study secret went,
There with sad heart his trembling hand gave vent,
Framing in terms pathetic, lover’s fear,
While o’er the scrawl fell many a tender tear,
But ah! to dry them, Bonneau was not near;
A simple boorish squire, no courtier true,
Was then despatched with passion’s billet doux;
But scarce an hour elapsed, ere back he came,
Bearing this scrip replete with dart and flame.
The monarch, shook by feeling’s dreadful storm,
Cried: “Why so soon do I review thy form?
My letter too?”— “All’s lost, my gracious sire!
Let virtuous energies your breast inspire,
The English — Ah! before them fate must fall,
Since they have ta’en your Agnes, Joan, and all.”
Scarcely the squire abruptly breathes his tale,
Ere all the senses of the monarch fail;
Fainting he falls, nor do his powers revive,
But to keep keener agonies alive;
He who with courage such a shock could brave,
Would ne’er be ranked of fervent love the slave;
And such was Charles, who with this tale oppressed,
By turns felt rage and anguish rive his breast;
His gallant knights in vain by efforts strove
To wean him from the pangs of suffering love;
Which nearly turned his brain with warring fits,
Less potent cause deprived his sire of wits;
“Let them bear hence the dauntless Joan,” he said;
“Knights, cassock-bearers, monks with cowls on head,
My confessor and that small tract of land,
Which fate still deigns to leave at my command;
Ah! cruel English! even yet take more,
Leave me but her my bosom must adore.
“Love! Agnes! royal slave of fell despair!
Wherefore my locks do I thus frantic tear?
She’s lost; — Oh let me with death’s victims sleep:
And even while I thus despairing weep,
Perhaps, alas! a son of Albion bold,
In brutal arms, those beauties dares enfold,
Framed only for a Frenchman’s fond embrace,
Some sensual mouth her ruby gems debase,
And from those lips the thrilling favors tear;
Another hand to press her form may dare;
Another — Heavens! what damning thoughts arise,
Who knows but even now the charming prize,
With equal ecstasy, such transport pays,
And her warm temper love’s fond vows betrays?”
Of this perplexing state, the wretched king,
Unable to support the goading sting,
Repaired of cunning clerks advice to reap,
Astrologers, Sorbonnic doctors deep,
Jews, Jacobins, and those who doubly see;
In short all such as knew their A, B, C.
“Sirs,” said the king,” ‘tis fitting ye make known,
If Agnes guards her faith for me alone,
If for her lover, still her bosom sighs,
Take heed, nor dare amuse your king with lies,
Reveal the truth, for all must come to light:”
Our wizards amply paid, begin outright
In Hebrew, Latin, Syriac, to divine;
One traces of the monarch’s palm each line;
Another paints a figure in a square;
Some upon Mercury and Venus stare;
The psalms another cons, dark fate to know,
Amen pronouncing oft, in murmurs low;
This one the bottom of a glass will read,
And that makes circles on the ground his creed.
‘Tis thus the ancients toiled with wisdom fraught,
Who never failed to learn the truth they sought.
Before the prince they seem to work and sweat,
Then offer prayers, and this conclusion get —
That the great monarch may in quiet rest,
‘Mong heroes ranking the supremely blessed;
Since in his favor heaven had deigned to extend
Its grace, in granting him a faithful friend;
Agnes was true, nor would with others stray,
Wherefore let all to sages homage pay.
This Almoner, inexorable brute,
The time had chosen, purpose base to suit;
Spite of the tears, and spite of Agnes’ cries,
He rudely makes her youthful charms his prize;
The monster ravished but imperfect joys,
Mere sensual lust, which tenderness destroys;
A feeling of each bland caress deprived,
Disgusting pleasure, ne’er from love derived;
For who within his arms would press with pride
A fair one who would turn her lips aside,
Whose tears of bitterness the couch bedew?
The generous soul has other bliss in view;
No thrill of happiness imbues his heart,
Save he can transports to his fair impart;
A priest is ne’er so nice in love concerns,
He goads the object who his passion spurns,
Nor heeds the feelings of his fair a jot,
Regardless if she pleasure feels or not.
The page o’ercome with love, yet timid too,
Who forth had hurried as a gallant true,
To honor and to serve the goddess bright,
Destined his ardent hope to cheer or blight,
At length returned, alas! returned too late,
He entering views of things the damning state,
Beholds the chaplain brutal rage obey,
Abusing with unbridled lust his prey;
At this distracting sight, the young Monrose
Darts on, with sword in hand to interpose;
While of the sensual beast the rage unchaste,
By which to save his life is quick replaced;
From couch he springs, and wards with stick the rage
Of furious foe, then collars the young page;
Each in the conflict proves a champion brave,
As different passions, both their breasts enslave;
Monrose with love redoubled strength acquires,
The priest is furious, spurred by sensual fires.
That happy race, which in the country knows
The fruits of innocence — a sweet repose;
Hath ofttimes seen near thicket spreading wide,
Greedy for prey, a wolf with carnage dyed,
Whose fangs the fleece destroy; while smoking blood
Of wounded sheep he ravenous laps for food.
Then if with close-cropped ears, some faithful hound
Of heart courageous, jaws with grinders sound,
Proclaiming war, darts on like arrow swift,
The beast carnivorous forthwith at his shift,
Drops from his reeking jaws the panting prize,
And darts upon the dog with flaming eyes,
Which no less eager, springs the foe to meet,
When straight begins the sanguinary feat;
The wounded wolf soon feels infuriate glow,
And thinks to strangle his determined foe;
While the poor panting sheep beside them lays,
And for his champion dog sincerely prays.
‘Twas thus the sinewy priest with iron heart,
And arm Herculean, played the savage part;
Struggling the courage of Monrose to quell,
While trembling Agnes yielding to the spell
Of pallid fear, on couch reclined, each charm
A prize deserving either conqueror’s arm.
Mine host and hostess — valets, chambermaid,
In fine the family, one will obeyed;
Roused by the noise, they mount and straight in view,
The combat seeing, rush between the two
And priest audacious from the chamber drive;
For tender page all feelings are alive,
Since youth and grace combined can never fail
To waken pity and o’er lust prevail,
While dauntless in defeat, with soul of brass
His foe unblushing — hied to chant the mass.
Agnes ashamed and torn with pangs acute,
To think a priest should thus her charms pollute,
And that the page her struggling form had seen,
As lovely in the contest it had been,
Shed tears, nor longer dared his glance to meet,
She rather wished death’s shaft, on pinions fleet
Had closed her eyes, and cast o’er shame the cloud:
Then to confusion yielding, cried aloud
No words but these: — Oh! kill me, kill me straight.”
“What, you,” replied Monrose, “share death’s chill fate!
Shall you be lost, and this foul priest the cause?
Ah! trust me if you’ve sinned ‘gainst virtue’s laws,
You still should live with patience for your stay:
Should we the calls of penitence obey,
To vain remorse your anguished thoughts incline,
Angelic Agnes — ah, what fault is thine,
That thou should’st suffer for another’s crime?”
If his discourse could not be deemed sublime,
His eyes at least such eloquence addressed;
A tender and a touching flame oppressed
The softened fair — which in this mundane strife,
Implanted in her breast some wish for life.
Dinner was needful — for in spite of woe,
As I, poor mortal, from experience know,
The wretched find in abstinence no treat,
In raging fury still the sufferers eat.
For this sage reason, all the scribes divine,
Good Virgil — Homer favored of the nine,
Must always praises claim from thinkers deep,
Though o’er the page they gaping fall asleep;
Wherefore in middle of the combat’s blast,
They never fail to speak of a repast.
‘Twas thus near couch, sweet Agnes téte-à-tête
Dinner enjoyed, with youthful page elate;
Both felt at first of shame an equal share,
And glanced upon their plates, a silly stare;
Till gaining courage, each the other eyed,
As archly ogling from the optic’s side.
Reader, thou know’st that in youth’s flowery days,
When all our senses own health’s vivid blaze,
A good repast excites within each vein
Those seeds of passion which we can’t restrain,
The whole heart yields and owns a wish to love,
Beauty inflamed the thrilling transports move,
Benign and goading fires your soul subdue,
The flesh is frail, and Satan tempts you too.
Monrose in moments with such danger fraught,
Unable to resist the glowing thought,
Falls at the feet of Agnes, bathed in tears:
“Mistress beloved, goddess my soul reveres!
Tis I alone must now death’s shaft invoke,
Pity a tender heart that owns love’s yoke,
What, can my fervent passion fail to gain
That which barbarian force has dared obtain?
Ah! if a crime insured another’s bliss,
What’s due to him, who dares not act amiss?
When love no sentiment save virtue knows;
‘Tis he who speaks, you ought to hear his woes.”
This argument some valid points possessed,
The weight of reason Agnes viewed, confessed;
Still for an hour she dared the prude enact,
Seeking the blissful moments to protract,
Ere she would honor with the pleasure yield,
Assured the heart by some resistance steeled
Far better answers than complying straight;
Monrose at length, Monrose the blessed of fate,
Shared all those rights which favored lover claims,
Of real ecstasy he felt the flames.
With England’s prince the power and glory shone,
Humbling the vanquished monarch and his throne;
Henry but conquered France, for glory hot;
How far superior was the page’s lot.
But mundane joy deceitful is and light,
And happiness, alas! soon put to flight:
Scarce had the gentle page love’s torrent owned,
Scarce had voluptuousness his soul enthroned;
When lo! of English troops arrives a corps,
They mount and enter, having forced the door.
Enraptured pair! that with love’s transports burn,
The Almoner had played ye this foul turn.
Agnes, who terror-struck lost every sense,
Was with her lover to be hurried thence,
Anon to Chandos both were to be ta’en,
If Chandos dooms them, what must be their pain?
Ah tender lovers! ye his vengeance dread,
Too well ye know in sad experience read
That this bold Briton no compassion knows;
On both their youthful fronts confusion glows,
Despair though goading fails the flame to smother,
Which prompts them still to ogle one another;
They blushed at joys which late held sovereign sway,
Ah! what will either to John Chandos say?
It chanced as on the route they forward went,
This English cohort met, by fortune sent,
Some twenty cavaliers, at curfew hour,
Who scoured around, liege knight of Charles’s power,
To ascertain if any news was known
Concerning Agnes and the maiden Joan.
When mastiffs, fighting cocks, or lovers twain,
Meet nose to nose upon the open plain;
When some staunch member of all-powerful grace
Finds crook-necked son, of Saint Ignatius’ race;
If friends of Luther, or of Calvin glance
Their eyes on Ultramontane priest perchance,
Without much loss of time begins the fray,
Tongue, pen, or lance, wage fight in fell array.
‘Twas even so with Gaul’s equestrian band,
Viewing afar these Britons scour the land,
As falcon light, each on the phalanx darts,
Britons defend themselves with lion hearts;
Sharp blows are soon exchanged on either side;
The courser Agnes rode in nervous pride,
Young, gamesome, brisk, just like herself appeared;
He prancing, snorted, turned about and reared;
Onward, on saddle vaulting, Agnes went,
But soon on boisterous din of war intent,
He restive grows and foaming bites the bit;
Agnes in vain, o’ercome by timid fit,
Strives to impede him in his rapid course;
To govern, soon she finds beyond her force,
And thus o’ercome, she left the courser free,
Yielding to him her life and destiny.
The young Monrose by heat of conflict led,
Knows not the track in which his nymph has fled;
Her courser swift obeys Eolus’ laws,
Like wind six miles performing, without pause;
He halts in valley crowned with tranquil state,
In front a convent’s venerable gate;
A forest stood the monastery near,
And close beside, meandered streamlet clear,
Whose limpid flood ‘mid banks of verdure flowed,
Where Flora’s choicest gifts spontaneous glowed;
Still farther off, a hill attracts the sight,
Its gentle slope by autumn richly dight
With that choice gift wherewith mankind was blessed,
When Father Noah left his ample chest
The void in human nature to replace,
And weary of beholding wat’ry space,
Then haply learned the secret to divine,
By a new process, to produce good wine.
Pomona, Flora, and the breath serene
Of gentle zephyrs, perfumed wide the scene;
The eye well pleased this champaign rich surveys.
Our parents’ paradise, in ancient days,
Ne’er to the view more laughing vales portrayed
More fruitful; nor was nature e’er displayed
In guise more lovely senses to allure,
Nor more exuberant and calmly pure.
The air we breathe in such sequestered plains
Yields peace to bosoms agonized by pains,
And softening of our griefs the conflict rude,
At length we feel the love of solitude.
Agnes on margin of the streamlet laid,
Her lovely eyes the convent’s fane surveyed,
And soon no agonizing pang she felt;
It was, my friend, a convent where nuns dwelt.
“Ah! charming sanctuary,” cried the fair,
“Resort where heaven hath shed its blessings rare,
Sweet spot of innocence and peace the fane,
By prayer perhaps I may its grace obtain;
Perchance expressly am I thither brought,
To weep the sins wherewith my life is fraught,
Of sisters chaste, each of her God the spouse,
This spot embalming with their sainted vows,
And I, of sinners, the most famous known;
My days have spent to every weakness prone.”
Agnes in elevated strains thus cried,
When o’er the portal, she a cross espied;
This blessed sign, whereby mankind was saved,
With pure humility, her mind enslaved;
And feeling o’er her soul compunction press,
She ‘gan to think of going to confess;
From love to piety, the way’s not wide,
So closely each to weakness is allied.
It chanced the saintly abbess of this pile
To Blois had journeyed, there to stay awhile,
Her convent’s privileges to maintain,
Who while thus absent, had consigned the reign
To Nun Besogne who watched the holy crew.
This sister forthwith to the parlor flew,
And gate, to welcome Agnes, opened wide;
“Enter young traveller,” anon she cried;
“What fostering patron, or what joyous day
Hath to our altars prompted thus to stray
This beauty dangerous to human sight?
You rank some saint or angel blessed of light,
Thus having quitted heaven’s empyreal glow,
To honor mundane sinners here below,
And to console our sisters of the Lord.”
“Ah!” replied Agnes: “You to me accord
Far too much honor; I’m but a worldly soul,
Have all my youth, owned flagrant sin’s control,
And should I bliss of Paradise e’er ken,
My seat will be beside Saint Magdalen.
That destiny which fate capricious willed,
The Lord — my stars — but most my steed fulfilled;
Nor know I to this spot how I was brought,
With deep remorse I feel my bosom fraught;
Mine heart to sin is not yet callous grown,
I reverence virtue, though expelled her throne;
Here have I found her. By that grace I’m blessed,
Which for salvation, dooms me here to rest.”
To this our errant fair anon agreed,
And sought the couch as acting pious deed;
A saint she thinks herself absolved from ill,
But fate on every side pursues her still.
Sister Besogne gave tender feelings vent,
Gently encouraging our penitent;
And lauds of grace divine the heavenly spell,
Agnes conducting forthwith to her cell;
Chamber illumined, decked with flowers and neat,
Of costly ornaments the charming seat,
With soft and ample bed. It seemed love’s hand
The varied charms of this retreat had planned;
Agnes lauds Providence in breathings low,
Confessing sweets that from repentance flow.
The supper done (for I will never fail
To note this point essential through my tale)
Besogne the charming stranger thus addressed:
Thou knowest, my love, night rears her sable crest;
‘Tis now the time when wicked spirits prowl,
To tempt, on every side, the saintly soul;
‘Tis fitting we a worthy feat perform —
Let’s sleep together, that should Satan’s storm
Against us rise, we may thus, being two,
Give Beelzebub himself too much to do.”
Can I, O reader, without sense of shame,
What Sister Besogne truly was proclaim?
I must be candid, and reveal the truth,
Sister Besogne was an unmarried youth;
Of Hercules possessing all the power,
And of Adonis beauty’s manly flower,
His one and twentieth year not yet complete,
As white as milk, fresh as the dew and sweet;
The lady abbess, a right crafty elf,
Of late, as friend, had ta’en him to herself;
Thus sister bachelor in convent staid,
Teaching his lovely flock a fruitful trade:
As when Achilles, clad in maiden’s guise,
At Lycomedes’ court obtained the prize;
Blessed in possessing Deidamas’ charms,
Caressing and caressed within her arms.
Scarce had our penitent on couch reclined
With sister chaste, when lo! she ‘gan to find
In nun a metamorphosis most strange,
No doubt she profited by the exchange;
To scream, complain, the convent to alarm,
Had proved a scandal only fraught with harm;
To bear in quiet, sigh, and peaceful lay,
To be resigned was then the only way;
Besides, in cases similar ‘tis rare,
We of reflection boast sufficient share;
When nun Besogne, to Claustral frenzy prone —
For all things cease — love’s interval had known,
The witching Agnes with a contrite heart,
Reflected thus: “Well, really, for my part,
‘Tis mostly vain whene’er I feel the rage
To rank as woman virtuous and sage;
In vain we strive to shun those ills we know,
We can’t be virtuous, though we’d fain be so.”