Joan of Arc in Rheims

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame!A draught that mantles high,And seems to lift this earth-born frameAbove mortality:Away! to me--a woman--bringSweet waters from affection’s spring!

That was a joyous day in Rheims of old,When peal on peal of mighty music roll’dForth from her throng’d cathedral; while around,A multitude, whose billows made no sound,Chain’d to a hush of wonder, though elateWith victory, listen’d at their temple’s gate.And what was done within? Within, the light,Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing,Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight--The chivalry of France their proud heads bowingIn martial vassalage! While midst that ring,And shadow’d by ancestral tombs, a kingReceived his birth-right’s crown. For this, the hymnSwell’d out like rushing waters, and the dayWith the sweet censer’s misty breath grew dim,As through long aisles it floated o’er th’ arrayOf arms and sweeping stoles. But who, aloneAnd unapproach’d, beside the altar-stone,With the white banner forth like sunshine streaming,And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance gleaming.Silent and radiant stood? The helm was raised,And the fair face reveal’d, that upward gazed,Intensely worshipping--a still, clear face,Youthful, but brightly solemn! Woman’s cheekAnd brow were there, in deep devotion meek,Yet glorified, with inspiration’s traceOn its pure paleness; while, enthroned above,The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love,Seem’d bending o’er her votaress. That slight form!Was that the leader through the battle-storm?Had the soft light in that adoring eyeGuided the warrior where the swords flash’d high?’Twas so, even so!--and thou, the shepherd’s child,Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild!Never before, and never since that hour,Hath woman, mantled with victorious power,Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand,Holy amidst the knighthood of the land,And, beautiful with joy and with renown,Lift thy white banner o’er the olden crown,Ransom’d for France by thee!

The rites are done.Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken,And bid the echoes of the tomb awaken,And come thou forth, that heaven’s rejoicing sunMay give thee welcome from thine own blue skies,Daughter of victory! A triumphant strain,A proud rich stream of warlike melodies,Gush’d through the portals of the antique fane,And forth she came. Then rose a nation’s sound:Oh! what a power to bid the quick heart bound,The wind bears onward with the stormy cheerMan gives to glory on her high career!Is there indeed such power?--far deeper dwellsIn one kind household voice, to reach the cellsWhence happiness flows forth! The shouts that fill’dThe hollow heaven tempestuously, were still’dOne moment; and in that brief pause, the tone,As of a breeze that o’er her home had blown,Sank on the bright maid’s heart. “Joanne!”--Who spokeLike those whose childhood with her childhood grewUnder one roof? “Joanne!”--that murmur brokeWith sounds of weeping forth! She turn’d--she knewBeside her, mark’d from all the thousands there,In the calm beauty of his silver hair,The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy,From his dark eye flash’d proudly; and the boy,The youngest born, that ever loved her best:--“Father! and ye, my brothers!” On the breastOf that gray sire she sank--and swiftly back,Even in an instant, to their native trackHer free thoughts flow’d. She saw the pomp no moreThe plumes, the banners: to her cabin-door,And to the Fairy’s Fountain in the glade,Where her young sisters by her side had play’d,And to her hamlet’s chapel, where it roseHallowing the forest unto deep repose,Her spirit turn’d. The very wood-note, sungIn early spring-time by the bird, which dweltWhere o’er her father’s roof the beech leaves hung,Was in her heart; a music heard and felt,Winning her back to nature. She unboundThe helm of many battles from her head,And, with her bright locks bow’d to sweep the ground,Lifting her voice up, wept for joy and said--“Bless me, my father! bless me! and with thee,To the still cabin and the beechen tree,Let me return!”

Oh! never did thine eyeThrough the green haunts of happy infancyWander again, Joanne! Too much of fameHad shed its radiance on thy peasant name;And bought alone by gifts beyond all price--The trusting heart’s repose, the paradiseOf home, with all its loves--doth fate allowThe crown of glory unto woman’s brow.