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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE MAID OF ARC; FOR M. S. M., by GORDON BOTTOMLEY Poet's Biography First Line: In domremy a maid Last Line: Who sleep in fields of france. Subject(s): Joan Of Arc (1412-1431) | |||
IN Domremy a maid Was born of peasant seed; Not sly, cowed or afraid As girls of famished breed And servant blood can be, Not proud, uncurbed and free As maidens of degree, She grew; a lily blade Before the first buds come Stands unnoticed and still, Pale with unfingered bloom, As she stood straight to thrill To the young life she drew From hills, bird-glances, dew, All new as she was new, While she watched sheep at home. Even her lack of shoes Let closelier to her press The power she did not choose, Her land's live tenderness. When France was gashed by war Her flesh felt each quick scar Though she was safe and far: English men were her foes. As a bud unfurls in fire She opened, a lily of France. Her faith and her desire Took voice; whether by trance Those Voices spoke in her, Or in the natural air, Vivid and hushed they were To waft her high thoughts higher. They gave her spirit a sword, They taught her to lead men; Tall cities she restored To France's breast again. At her word great captains sped. Great English captains fled At her will. In fight she bled. She was revered, adored. She bade her King be crowned. Yet he, a weak vain King, When his court-captains frowned Hated her fostering, Ashamed of a woman's aid. By succour denied and stayed And a King's man's trick the Maid Was seized by foes and bound. Let it be quickly told A lord of Burgundy Sold her to us for gold; More than Judas had he. And Nicholas Loyseleur, Who lined his coat with our fur, Heard confession from her And her poor secrets sold. Pierre Cauchon as well, Of Beauvais bishop, decreed Her Voices were of Hell, Her witch's body must bleed. But English men were they Who took her clothes away And swore her foul, all say. An English man shames to tell English men blind and true Burnt that marvellous one; She bore the things men do, As women have always done; But our hold on France was lost: That a peasant's life was the cost, Though live flames over her tossed, Was sweet to her if she knew. O Maid, strong heart, clear soul, Say now it is well done In keeping your France whole That son and daughter and son Of your dead enemies Stand next your legionaries No more ashamed, with these, Of women's aid and toll. In your inheritance, O Maid, of Paradise When your young, morning glance Beholds heroes arise To you, for France being slain, As your own race bless then The pardoned English men Who sleep in fields of France. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JEANNE D'ARC by MARIA GOWEN BROOKS JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THE MAID by KATHERINE MARIE CORNELIA BREGY THE DESTINY OF NATIONS; A VISION by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE SAINT JEANNE by THEODOSIA (PICKERING) GARRISON THE SOUL OF JEANNE D'ARC by THEODOSIA (PICKERING) GARRISON QUATRAIN ON A PICTURE OF JOAN OF ARC by MARIE LE JARS DE GOURNAY JANE OF ARC by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR |
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