University of Virginia Library


131

A Translation of some Part of the first Book of Voltaire's Pucelle d'Orleans.

Of Saints you bid me sing—'tis all in vain,
My voice is feeble, and withal prophane.
Sing, then O! sing of Joan the fair, the fine,
Who did, 'tis said, such prodigies divine!
She first establish'd with her virgin hands,
The Flow'r-de-luce, the pride of Gallia's lands;
The branch she stole, left England in the lurch,
And canoniz'd it in the Rheimean church.
She shew'd in all a pious, lovely face,
Was known to be the Rowland of her Race.
For vig'rous courage she surpass'd all praise,
Beneath the placket and within the stays.
O grant an ev'ning for a wanton feat,
The Wench as fair as mutton, and as sweet.
Great Joan of Arc a lyon's heart possest,
You'll see it plainly, do but read the rest!

132

You'll tremble at such acts, such mighty feats,
Rare 'mongst the rarests: but, amidst her heats
This was the lab'ring work, the grand affair,
To keep her little maidenhead a year.