University of Virginia Library

JOAN OF ARC.

Th' old Norman city, with its towers and spires
And gorgeous architecture, was to me
The shrine of one great name; where'er I went
That memory followed me. From church to church,
From the cathedral where King Richard sleeps,
To St. Ouen and beautiful Maclou—
From bridge to market-place, and justice-hall,
A mighty spirit kept me company.
Through quaint old streets, whose every window seem'd
Old as the days when haughty Bedford held
His martial court in Rouen, wander'd I;
And still thy memory, hapless Joan of Are,
Wander'd beside me. “Here,” I said, “poor maid,
Thou wert led captive, after saving France!
Here thou wert gibed and scorn'd by brutal men.
Here, from their windows, peep'd the gaping crowd,
To see thee made a shameful spectacle.
Here Superstition, pandering to Revenge,
Accused thee of all vile and senseless crimes.
Here, at their harsh tribunal, thy good deeds
Were each interpreted in evil sense;
Thy love of country in their eyes became
Treason most foul; thy courage, lunacy;
Thy fortune, witchcraft; thy young purity,
An outward mask to hide the shame within.
And here, unhappy saviour of a realm,
Th' ungenerous foemen, smitten by the steel
Of warriors roused to battle by thy voice,
Sated unmanly vengeance on thy head,
And slew, by cruel fire and torturing pangs,
The helpless woman they could not subdue.
Rouen is sacred to thy memory;
The ancient city is thy monument;
There's not a spire or tower within its bound,
But pleads for justice to thy slander'd name.
Thou hast it, Spirit! Compensating Time
Has done thee justice, as it does to all,
However hated, injured, or malign'd.
The truly great and good have constant friends;
The rolling centuries, in their behalf,
Sue for reversal of th' unjust decree
That doom'd their names to infamy and scorn.
They never sue in vain; and thine, sad maid!
Shines like a gem upon the brow of France—
A pearl of beauty on her queenly crown!