Anna Swanwick - The Maid of Orleans (Act 1 Scene 3) lyrics

The same. Three SENATORS. CHARLES Welcome, my trusty citizens of Orleans! What tidings bring ye from my faithful town? Doth she continue with her wonted zeal Still bravely to withstand the leaguering foe? SENATOR Ah, sire! the city's peril is extreme; And giant ruin, waxing hour by hour, Still onward strides. The bulwarks are destroyed— The foe at each a**ault advantage gains; Bare of defenders are the city walls, For with rash valor forth our soldiers rush, While few, alas! return to view their homes, And famine's scourge impendeth o'er the town. In this extremity the noble Count Of Rochepierre, commander of the town, Hath made a compact with the enemy, According to old custom, to yield up, On the twelfth day, the city to the foe, Unless, meanwhile, before the town appear A host of magnitude to raise the siege. [DUNOIS manifests the strongest indignation.] CHARLES The interval is brief. SENATOR We hither come, Attended by a hostile retinue, To implore thee, sire, to pity thy poor town, And to send succor ere the appointed day, When, if still unrelieved, she must surrender. DUNOIS And could Saintrailles consent to give his voice To such a shameful compact? SENATOR Never, sir! Long as the hero lived, none dared to breathe A single word of treaty or surrender. DUNOIS He then is dead? SENATOR The noble hero fell, His monarch's cause defending on our walls. CHARLES What! Saintrailles dead! Oh, in that single man A host is foundered! [A Knight enters and speaks apart with DUNOIS, who starts with surprise.] DUNOIS That too! CHARLES Well? What is it? DUNOIS Count Dougla** sendeth here. The Scottish troops Revolt, and threaten to retire at once. Unless their full arrears are paid to-day. CHARLES Duchatel! DUCHATEL (shrugs his shoulders) Sire! I know not what to counsel. CHARLES Pledge, promise all, even unto half my realm. DUCHATEL. 'Tis vain! They have been fed with hope too often. CHARLES They are the finest troops of all my hosts! They must not now, not now abandon me! SENATOR (throwing himself at the KING'S feet) Oh, king, a**ist us! Think of our distress! CHARLES (in despair) How! Can I summon armies from the earth? Or grow a cornfield on my open palm? Rend me in pieces! Pluck my bleeding heart Forth from my breast, and coin it 'stead of gold! I've blood for you, but neither gold nor troops. [He sees SOREL approach, and hastens towards her with outstretched arms.]