University of Virginia Library

Through the barred casement blood-red streams the sun,
Now this last day of mine is well-nigh run,
And the night cometh, and the dawn gives rest;
My heart is strangely peaceful in my breast.
But now meseemed these happy feet were set
In far-off shining meads; mine eyes are wet,
For in my dream I heard my mother call,
Till the ensanguined sun stains on the wall,
Like the radiant drops of His fair blood
Streaming adown the arms of Holy Rood,
Waked me too soon. I know in Domremy,
This golden eve, Meuse floweth silverly,
And shines, in our dim orchard's cool green glooms,
Warm flush of fruit, and drift of late dropped blooms
Foams o'er the grass; the birds sing mad for May;
And the long wind waves turn green fields to grey.
But these are dreams; and near at hand they build
The fiery pile, whereon, when morn doth gild
Rouen's fair spires, a nineteen-summers maid
Is set to die. O Saviour! lend Thine aid
To this small body of me, and the furnace breath
Will come as balm of spring, the flames of death
Lave my weak limbs like waters cool and fair!
I shall not fear; Thy dear love everywhere
Hath compassed me, hath led me by the hand;
And it were gain to die if I might stand
And meet sweet death beneath my banner's fold,
And feel my fiery charger, strong and bold,
Spurn the earth under me, and hear behind
An army's tramp, and feel a glad, great wind
Of battle beat about my brow and cheek.
But from this death my coward heart and weak
Shrinketh dismayed, and crieth out aloud,
Because that when the morn doth bring its crowd,
French mothers, who last year had come in haste
And held their babes to touch me as I passed,
Deeming the touch a benediction given,
Will come to see the Maid, forsook of Heaven,
Die the dark witch's death; and many a maid
And fair French youth, half pitying, half afraid,
Will find the day a feast and hail the sun
That sees my ordeal. Now Thy will be done!
But ever from my sad heart goes a cry,
“O Rouen, Rouen! is it here I die?”
God knows, I take this cup right willingly,
As Thou didst drain the mystic chalice dry
In grey Gethsemane, when Thy chosen slept,
And none that awful vigil with Thee kept
That night, when Thou went'st down into the pit
Of our corruption, becam'st even as it,
As though one, sound and sweet and white of limb,
Should take in his fair arms and clasp to him
The loathly body of one a tenth day dead;
Though Thy God's soul came shuddering back in dread,
Didst clothe Thyself with the sins of centuries,
Until, in highest heaven, Thy Father's eyes
Darkened down on thee. Nay, it seems to me
That this was more Thine hour of agony
Than the Passion of Thy Cross; for this I know
That many a sin hath seemèd fair enow
In distant pastures, but brought near to us
Hath showed so utter foul and venomous
That in a man, where god and beast are twain,
It hath chanced the god hath risen with strength amain
And power of a god, and, with a mighty spring,
Hath taken by the throat the fearsome thing
And trampled its foul life out; so if it be
That a stained human soul might valorously
Rise sometime, godlike, at the crested head
And crush it for hate, then I do know indeed
How the unsullied soul of the white Christ
Had shrunken, seared and withered in His breast,
At the snake's touch.

On yonder pallet lies,
For the morrow's shows, my woman's draperies.
And now, fair armour, that hath held me fast
In all my great, glad days, gone with the past,
I lay you down—my knightly days are o'er—
The coming dawn sees me a maid once more.
Indeed, for France I gave my womanhood,
Nor knew the foolish, sweet thoughts that are food
Of other maids; the love that one brief day
Painteth with pearl and rose the canvas grey
Where their small lives are limned; and yet this heart
Beats woman-tender, though I stand apart,
Knowing not joys that other women know—
The lover's love, the mother's joy and woe;
And I have taken ofttimes and caressed,
For some dumb yearning stirring in my breast,
A peasant's babe, and laid its clinging arm
On my mailed neck, and kissed it close and warm,
So that it thought the mother held it still,
The little tender, sweet thing, and had will
To lie in dumb content, like a bird? the nest.
But I am happier, singled from the rest
To do Thy will. I mind me when I went
That morn Thy maiden knight and instrument,
And with me all the chivalry of the land,
Rode my fair lord the king on my right hand.
We went as to a bridal, by fair meads,
Gold paved and daisy starred, where our good steeds
Sank to the girth in dewy herbs a-bloom.
God knoweth, in this languorous grey gloom
That morn's slow wind hath ofttimes come to me!
The round sun hung aflame in a sapphire sea,
And shone on my fair armour's wroughten gold
Of brave device, and on each silken fold
Of my loved banner, joyous in the breeze:
None spake as we rode fast 'neath dropping trees.
For Orleans waited her deliverance.
There came an hour I went as one in trance,
Nor saw the king's face, marvellous and fair,
Because St. Michael went beside me there.
The visage of him was full grave and sweet;
Arrayed in shining mail from head to feet;
So fair a knight this earth had never seen,
And where he passed red roses from the green
Sprang up to do him homage. Verily,
When that his gracious face had looked on me,
If the Lord helped me not, I should have died
Of that too deep delight. By his strong side
Was gleaming, flame-red, his great fiery sword;
His clear hand pointed, without any word,
To where the leaguered towers of Orleans shone:
Nor was this vision seen of any one
Save me the Maid. And when encamped we lay
Before the walls, in one God-given day,
Where the Maid went the English arms fell down,
For there the angel passed, and the good town
The Lord did even deliver with His hand:
Then were earth's strong ones fallen away like sand.
And thus He led our arms to victory
Till I, the peasant maid of Domremy,
In one fair hour, beloved of all the years,
With noise of many waters in mine ears,
Clothed of gold armour, stood beside the king,
And heard in Rheims the organ thundering
And pealing in the grey cathedral fane,
And saw the cloud of incense wax and wane,
Flying to God's feet, and the sun stream fast
Through the stained windows; was a glory cast
Of rose and amber on the wide, cool place,
And beamed enaureoled many a joyous face.
Beneath our feet surged waves of shining flowers;
And in that supreme hour of all Time's hours
These small maid's hands had laid the jewelled crown
On his fair, mighty brows. Then I fell down,
Clasping his knees, and knew my task complete.
Would I had died in that rich hour and sweet!
Indeed I am forgotten of all men's love.
'Tis given to me to measure and disprove
A prince's faith. Perchance this very hour
He lingereth in his lady's rose-sweet bower,
Lapped in all soft delights and silkenness.
He hath forgotten for her flower-loveliness
How I within these strait walls languished sore
Through grey, sad days, a leaden year or more,
Who, being but an humble peasant maid,
Used always to green field and forest glade,
Have moaned and thirsted as the hours crept by
For cool, long grasses and for wide, clear sky;
For bright, small waters chattering all day long
In fair, forgotten dells; for glad, wild song
Of merle and mavis, screenèd of great trees.
Nay, scarce might heaven have sweeter things than these!
It is as though one took, and fettered of limb,
Some small brown thing that loved the forest dim,
And played its merry small games all the day,
And taking laid it in a dungeon grey
To pant and fever for the woods' cool breath,
Till some day God remembered and sent death.
My king! for one light woman's white and rose
I am forgotten, as are the winter's snows
Forgotten of the May world! When sword in hand
We rode for Orleans by the Lord's command,
I mind me how my Voices came to me,
And while my heart was glad exceedingly,
They bade that none impure should go with us
On our emprise most high and glorious.
Thereafter, rich-attired, Dame Agnes came;
Her wondrous, shameful beauty was as flame
To burn men's souls, and straight I bade her thence
And wash in tears and holy penitence
Her leprous soul, who, with a shrill, sweet cry,
Ran where the beauteous king was standing nigh,
And cast herself about his mailed neck.
Meseemed each warm white arm a writhing snake,
She was so fair and evil. The king's face
Frowned dark on me, but by the Lord's good grace
My words were strong and stern before him there.
Around the brave French knights and ladies fair
Stood still to hear while I rebuked their king;
And as I spake the lovely flaunting thing
Came where I stood, and fell before my feet,
And clasped her small hands, tremulous and sweet
And soft as the pearly petal of a flower,
About my knees, and called me in that hour
Her sweet Joan, and her well-belovèd Maid,
And shrank with tears, as she were sore afraid,
From my sad eyes. She looked as undefiled,
As innocent-sweet, as any three-year child.
Dear Heaven, she was marvellously fair!
The great waves of her amber-shining hair
Covered her like another Magdalen.
And I was moved, and leaning to her then
Touched her gold head, and spake a secret word,
Thinking to bring this fair thing to the Lord,
Of One who died for sinners, till she went
Weeping, with veil down-drawn and sweet head bent,
Back to her bower; and we rode on our way.
The leopard may not change its spots: a day
Came when my king returned right gloriously,
And had not strength this wanton's arts to flee,
Who holdeth him, and he hath weaker grown
Than the English babe-king, who a week agone
Looked with sad, mystic child-eyes on my face.
Lord, save this man, anointed of Thy grace;
Thou at whose face the noon-sun pales and fades,
For France's sake, have mercy, and Thy Maid's!

The sun has gone an hour. What light doth come
Gleaming a-sudden palely through the gloom?
Lord, whence is this to me? Behold Thy Cross!
Thy fair face, pale with agony and loss,
Leaneth to my face! Hold Thine arms still wide,
Nailed lest they tire and fall, O Crucified!
I come, I come. Thou hast waited long for me!
Lo! has the dungeon vanished utterly?
I think this is the New Jerusalem.
Yonder I hear the seraph's raptured hymn
Before the Throne; I see the pearly gate
And crystal walls; my flying feet are set
On jacinth, gold, and crusted porphyry.
Now, sweet fire, come, take me, and burn from me
All earthly taints, and make me lily fair,
Give me white Pentecostal robes to wear
Against the Bridegroom cometh! With me be,
O sweet St. Catherine and Margery,
And guide me through the shadowed valley's ways
To where across a mystic shining haze
His arms await me! Mary, take this hand,
And lead me by morass and shifting sand
Through yon white river of flames, that leap and roar,
To where Christ waiteth on the further shore!