THE MAID OF ORLEANS.
When Charles, the sovereign, vainly sought, To hold his rightful crown,When war upon his trembling throne, With direful gaze looked down;When in the madness of despair, His trusted counsellors fled,And France, in deepest grief beheld, Proud England's march with dread.
In that sunny land of corn and vine, There dwelt a rustic maid:Who in a country, wayside inn, Her cheery worth displayed;Perhaps the night-wind, to her ear, Brought murmurings, low and deep,Of glory, and of martial fame, Of victory yet asleep.
Oh royal heart, of ancient time, Clothed in thy woman's grace,Thou feared'st not, the battle's roar, Nor scorching flames embrace.
