Poems (Henderson)/The Maid of Orleans
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.
And what though dressed in armor bright, And mounted on thy snow-white steed,Proud France, her warriors in their might, Did trust thy hand to lead?Beneath thy warrior's coat of mail, There beat the woman's heart,Though born a nation's crown to win, To act the soldier's part.
Oh! when the tide of battle rolled, Around thy maiden brow,When shriek and groan and trumpets clang, And thundering cannon's roar,Assailed thine ear, and columned smoke, Did veil both earth and sky,Thy banner, with its emblem fair, Triumphant waved on high.
And in the thickest of the fight, Thy snow-white palfrey bore,Thee, clothed in maiden grace sublime, The flower of France before.And beat each heart with loyal throb, When marshalled in the ranks of war,To know thy woman's courage led, Them neath the shield of Mars.
And when Orleans' triumph won, Thy sovereign's crown restored,And France at thy illustrious shrine, Her lowliest homage poured.
Then with the woman's clinging faith, That lives unto the end,Thou in the service of thy king, His warrior ranks among;Did'st dare Compeigne's fatal day, Oh woman heart so brave,Thy life, and victory sublime, O'er lives time's tidal wave.
Let England's court of justice hide, Her face in deepest shame;Let infamy forever crown, Her infant monarch's reign.When young, and brave, and beautiful, Neath superstition's demon eye.Unto the martyr's fiery stake, They led thee forth to die.
Oh! though within no honored grave, Thy sainted form finds rest,Though mid the dark waves dashing foam, By bigot hand, thine ashes cast;Are lost to memory, ever dear, Wherever beats a loyal heart,Wherever woman's valor gains, For her, a royal part.Wherever in the endless march, Of ages yet to be,Shall woman's fame, a beacon' rise, As guide for liberty.
There shall thy name, Oh valorous maid, In history's pages shrine,And fame's green chaplet, circle ne'r, A brighter brow than thine.
