Her slight form cased in armor stern, the Maid of Orleans stood,
Her place a prouder one than that of prince of royal blood:
With homage deep to Heaven above, and prayers to Notre Dame,
She waived above the monarch's head proud Victory's Oriflamme.

Then, as the clouds of incense rose, encircling in its fold
That shining form, the kneeling king, the canopy of gold,
It seemed unto the gazers there a scene of magic birth,
Such as is rarely granted to the children of this earth.

Sudden a mystic sadness steals o'er Joan's features bright,
Robbing her brow, her earnest eyes, of their unearthly light:
A voice from Him, by whose right arm her victories had been won,
Had whispered, 'bove the clank of steel, "Thy mission now is
done."

Perchance the future, then, was shown to her pure spirit's gaze,
The future with its sufferings, the shame, the scaffold's blaze;
The deaf'ning shouts, the surging crowd, the incense, mounting
high,
Foreshadowed to her shrinking soul the death she was to die.

The youthful monarch now was crowned, and lowly at his feet
Did France's saviour bend her form, rendering homage meet.
No guerdon for past deeds of worth sought that young noble heart,
She, who might all rewards have claimed, asked only to depart.

Oh! France! of all the stoned names that deck thy history's page,
Thy sainted kings, thy warriors proud, thy statesmen stern and