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He brow unhelm'd, and floating on the wind Her long, dark locks. The silent troops around Stood thickly throng'd, as o'er the fertile field Billows the ripen'd corn. The passing breeze Bore not a murmur from the numerous host, Such deep attention held them. She began.

"Glory to those who in their country's cause Fall in the field of battle! Countrymen, I stand not here to mourn these gallant men, Our comrades, nor, with vain and idle phrase Of sorrow and compassion, to console The friends who loved them. They indeed who fall Beneath oppression's banner, merit well Our pity; may the God of Peace and Love Be merciful to those blood-guilty men Who came to desolate the realm of France, To make us bow the knee, and crouch like slaves Before a foreign master. Give to these, And to their wives and orphan little ones That on their distant father vainly cry For bread, give these your pity! — Wretched men, Forced or inveigled from their homes, or driven By need and hunger to the trade of blood; Or, if with free and willing mind they came, Most wretched, — for before the eternal throne, Guilty alike in act and will, they stand. But our dead comrades for their country fought; No arts they needed, nor the specious bribes Of promise, to allure them to this fight, This holy warfare! them their parents sent, And as they raised their streaming eyes to Heaven, Bade them go forth, and from the ruffian's sword Save their gray hairs: them their dear wives sent out, Fix'd their last kisses on their armed hands, And bade them in the battle think they fought For them and for their children. Thus inflamed, By every milder feeling, they went forth: They fought, they conquer'd. To this holy ground The men of Orleans in the days to come Shall bring their boys, and tell them of the deeds Their countrymen achieved, and bid them learn Like them to love their country, and like them, Should usurpation pour again its tide Of desolation, to step forth and stem, Fearless, the furious torrent. Men of France, Mourn not for these our comrades! boldly they Fought the good fight, and that Eternal One, Who bade the Angels harbinger his Word With 'Peace on earth,' rewards them. We survive, Honoring their memories to avenge their fall Upon the unjust invaders. They may drain Their kingdom's wealth and lavishly expend Its blood, insanely thinking to subdue This wide and populous realm; for easier were it To move the ancient mountains from their base, Than on a nation knowing its own strength To force a foreign yoke. France then is safe. My glorious mission soon will be fulfill'd, My work be done. But, oh! remember ye, And in their generation let your sons Transmit to theirs the all-concerning truth, That a great people, wrongfully assail'd, If faithful to themselves, and resolute In duty to the last, betide what may, — Although no signs be given, no miracles Vouchsafed, as now, no Prophetess ordain'd, May yet with hope invincible hold on, Relying on their courage, and their cause, And the sure course of righteous Providence."

to the martyrs in their country's cause The Maiden gave their fame; and when she ceased, Such murmur from the multitude arose, As when at twilight hour the summer breeze Moves o'er the elmy vale. There was not one Who mourn'd with feeble sorrow for his friend, Slain in tlie fight of freedom; or if chance Remembrance with a tear suffused the eye, The patriot's joy shone through. And now the rites Of sepulture perform'd, the hymn to Heaven They chanted. To the town the Maid return'd, Dunois with her, and Richemont, and the man Conrade, whose converse most the Virgin loved. They of pursuit and of the future war Sat communing; when loud the trumpet's voice Proclaim'd a herald's coming. "To the Maid," — Such was his errand, — "and to thee, Dunois, Son of the chief he loved, Du Chastel sends Greeting. The aged warrior hath not spared All active efforts to partake your toil, And serve his country; and though late arrived, He share not in the fame your arms acquire, His heart is glad that he is late arrived, And France preserved thus early. He were here To join your host, and follow the pursuit, But Richemont is his foe. To that high Lord Thus says my master: We, though each to each Be hostile, are alike the embattled sons Of our dear country. Therefore do thou join The conquering troops, and prosecute success; I will the while assault what guarded towns Bedford yet holds in Orleannois: one day, Perhaps the Constable of France may learn He wrong'd Du Chastel." As the herald spake, Richemont's cheek redden'd, partly with a sense Of shame, and partly anger half supprest. "Say to thy master," eagerly he said, " I am the foe of those court parasites Who poison the King's ear. Him who shall serve Our country in the field, I hold my friend: Such may Du Chastel prove." So said the chief And pausing as the herald went his way, Turn'd to the Virgin: "If I guess aright, It is not from a friendly tongue's report, That thou hast heard of me." Dissembling not The unwelcome truth, "Yes, chieflain!" she replied, "Report bespeaks thee haughty, violent,