Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from Joan of Arc
Joan of Arc.
O, wondrous maid! Let him beware
Who calls thee witch, and e'en declare
Himself thy judge on bended knees
Before that throne no mortal sees.
Proud France, whose annals glory bore,
By factions torn, was France no more.
Her sunny, vine-clad, fruitful lands
Had fallen into English hands;
Her subjects stood, from hour to hour,
In mortal fear of England's power;
Her feeble king was king in name;
Her fearless nobles lived in shame;
Her wretched peasants, doomed to feel
The base, aristocratic heel,
Down-trodden, plunged, they knew not where,
Into the depths of deep despair.
And here, as Hell's tormenting darts
Transfixed their fainting, bleeding hearts,
They cried with each distressing breath
For mercy from the god of Death.
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