Joan Of Arc - Tapa blanda

Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original artwork and text.

0, WONDROUS maid Let him beware Who calls thee witch, and een declare i k s e ltfh y judge on bended knees Before that throne no mortal sees. Proud France, whode 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 Englands 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 Hells tormenting darts Transfixed their fainting, bleeding hearts, They cried with each distressing breath For mercy from the god of Death. Their earnest yrayrs, their bitter cries, Unlocked the portals of the skies, And fiom Jehovahs throne above Descended liberty and love For in the greatness of His power He blessed them at this dreadful hour. He chose, not thunder-bolt and hail, To make the tyrants cowr and quail But, like His dear and only Son, He chose the simplest, weakest one, - A little child - a feeble spark - Immortal flame - Joan of Arc. Such were the miseries and woes That darkened France, when there arose, To cause a ray of light divine Through the appalling gloom to Bhine, The peasant of Lorraine, whose lance Preserved her king and country - France. Her childish life, her sweetest hours, Were spent among the birds and flowers. By these instructors she was taught, And from them views of Heaven caught. Her mother knew not how to read, But knew far more knew how to plead With Him above who sits alone And governs Empire fromH is throne. So, with a mothers fervent zed, The little one was taught to kneel. YOAN OF ARC. What better training could there be To mould and shape her destiny Than mothers fond, devoted care And simple, solemn, earnest prayer Now as she reached her maiden state, Admiring youth at evry gate Stood watching with those dreamy eyes, Which lovers use to win their prize, For her bewitching, lovely face Which had no equal in its grace. But no her nature never yields To blal dishments which Cupid wields. Her ardent love, that loves desire Inspired by Gods eternal fire, Burned for her mother, country, king, For happiness that peace would bring. While others played without a care, Her soul was pouring out in prayer. Her new delights could now be found In natures grandeur, deep, profound. She oved the mountain, hill, and vale, The sunshine, shadow, breeze, and gale. She loved the brook, the lake, the sea She loved the birds so light and free She loved the forest, trees, and rocks She loved the happy, grazing flocks She loved the stars, the moon, the sun She loved the flowers evry one. Heis daily custom was to go And sit beneath the trees and sew. This spot she sought with great delight, Because it brought within her sight The distant mountain on whose crest The heavy clouds, retiring, rest The little church where daily prayrs Release her from her sinful cares The clear, blue sky which seemed to tell Where spirits found a place to dwell,-This trio bound her to the spot As if it were her happy lot To meet the angels here alone And learn of things unseen, unknown. One day, at noon, while waiting there To meet her playmates of the air While gazing into azure skies A voice cried out Joan, arise Go to thy King His crown restore And make him king of France once more She, trembling, on her knees, replied Forgive me I am young, untried. The bloody fight, the dying groans, The sobs, the tears, the gasping moans, The awful scenery of death That chills the blood,-arrests the breath, - From these my timid soul would fly And cry in anguish How can I