IV. THE VOICES OF JEANNE D'ARC DURING HER MARTYRDOM:

My voices this foretold: I am a prisoner here,
No aid can I expect, except, my God, from Thee;
For love of Thee alone, I left my father dear;

My flower-decked fields, blue skies, my flocks, no more I see.

For Thee I left my home and her who gave me birth;

Then, lifting in my hand the standard of Thy choice,

Lord, in Thy holy Name, I led an army forth,

And far-famed generals then gave credence to my voice.

Behold my recompense -- this gloomy prison-place,

The price of all my toils, my prayers, my blood, my tears!

No more my flowery fields my longing eyes shall face,

Nor shall I see the home of all my childhood years.

No more shall I behold the mountains far away,

Whose distant summits seemed to pierce the azure sky;

And I shall hear no more the church-bells sweetly play.

How soft upon the air those holy notes swept by!

Here, in this gloomy cell, the star I seek in vain,

That used, at vesper hour, to shine so clear and fair;

In vain I seek the leaves, that when upon the plain

Beside my flock I slept, gave cooling shelter there.

Here, when at last I sleep after long bitter weeping,

Of morning's flowers I dream, and perfumes of the dawn;

But then my clanking chains disturb that happy sleeping, --

I wake -- my dream is past -- the verdant fields are gone.

Lord, for Thy love I go, martyrdom to embrace;

For Thee I dare to meet the lingering death of fire.

Now but one wish is mine, -- to see Thee face to face,

No more to part from Thee: -- behold my heart's desire!

To die for love of Thee, -- what happier lot than this?

I will take up my cross, and walk where Thou hast trod.

Ah! how I long to die, and enter into bliss!
Ah! how I long to die, and thus to see my God!

We have come down from heaven's eternal height,

To smile on thee and bear thee to thy rest.
See in our hands the immortal crown of light,
Designed to grace thy brow, O maiden blest!
Come with us, virgin pure and fair!
Oh! come where saints and martyrs trod;
Come unto joys beyond compare,
Come unto life most fair,
Daughter of God!
Hot burns the fire about thy tender frame,
But far more hotly burns thy holy love;
Soon Christ will call thee to Him by thy name,
And heavenly dews shall soothe thee from above.
An angel comes to set thee free
From every pain; from torture wild.
Behold, the palm descends to thee!
Look up! thy Saviour see,
Great-hearted child!
O virgin-martyr! one brief moment's pain
Thee shall conduct to heaven beside thy Lord.
Thy death saves France. See! heaven opes again
To her lost children ransomed by thy sword.
JEANE, DYING:
To my eternal home I fly;
Angelic faces meet my view
In God's great Name for France I die!
O Mary, now be nigh!
"Jesu! Jesu!"