Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 17 1826.pdf/12

 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 cheek And brow were there in deep devotion meek, Yet glorified with Inspiration's trace On their 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 eye Guided 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 tombs awaken; And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicing sun May 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 onwards with the stormy cheer Man gives to Glory on her high career! Is there indeed such power?—far deeper dwells In one kind household voice, to reach the cells Whence happiness flows forth!—The shouts that fill'd The hollow heaven tempestuously were still'd One 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 spoke Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew Under one roof?—"Joanne!"—That murmur broke With sounds of weeping forth!—She turn'd,—she knew Beside 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 breast Of that grey sire she sank—and swiftly back, Ev'n in an instant, to their native track