LITMIR.BIZ

         Give me the helmet!

                    Why, what boots it you?

         It is not suited to a maiden's head.

         Mine is the helmet – it belongs to me!

         What whim is this?

                   Nay, let her have her way!

         This warlike ornament becomes her well,

         For in her bosom beats a manly heart.

         Remember how she once subdued the wolf,

         The savage monster which destroyed our herds,

         And filled the neighb'ring shepherds with dismay.

         She all alone – the lion-hearted maid

         Fought with the wolf, and from him snatched the lamb

         Which he was bearing in his bloody jaws.

         How brave soe'er the head this helm adorned,

         It cannot grace a worthier one than hers!

         Relate what new disasters have occurred.

         What tidings brought the fugitives?

                            May God

         Have pity on our land, and save the king!

         In two great battles we have lost the day;

         Our foes are stationed in the heart of France,

         Far as the river Loire our lands are theirs —

         Now their whole force they have combined, and lay

         Close siege to Orleans.

                      God protect the king!

         Artillery is brought from every side,

         And as the dusky squadrons of the bees

         Swarm round the hive upon a summer day,

         As clouds of locusts from the sultry air

         Descend and shroud the country round for miles,

         So doth the cloud of war, o'er Orleans' fields,

         Pour forth its many-nationed multitudes,

         Whose varied speech, in wild confusion blent,

         With strange and hollow murmurs fill the air.

         For Burgundy, the mighty potentate,

         Conducts his motley host; the Hennegarians,

         The men of Liege and of Luxemburg,

         The people of Namur, and those who dwell

         In fair Brabant; the wealthy men of Ghent,

         Who boast their velvets, and their costly silks;

         The Zealanders, whose cleanly towns appear

         Emerging from the ocean; Hollanders

         Who milk the lowing herds; men from Utrecht,

         And even from West Friesland's distant realm,

         Who look towards the ice-pole – all combine,

         Beneath the banner of the powerful duke,

         Together to accomplish Orleans' fall.

         Oh, the unblest, the lamentable strife,

         Which turns the arms of France against itself!

         E'en she, the mother-queen, proud Isabel

         Bavaria's haughty princess – may be seen,

         Arrayed in armor, riding through the camp;

         With poisonous words of irony she fires

         The hostile troops to fury 'gainst her son,

         Whom she hath clasped to her maternal breast.

         A curse upon her, and may God prepare

         For her a death like haughty Jezebel's!

         The fearful Salisbury conducts the siege,

         The town-destroyer; with him Lionel,

         The brother of the lion; Talbot, too,

         Who, with his murd'rous weapon, moweth down

         The people in the battle: they have sworn,

         With ruthless insolence to doom to shame

         The hapless maidens, and to sacrifice

         All who the sword have wielded, with the sword.

         Four lofty watch-towers, to o'ertop the town,

         They have upreared; Earl Salisbury from on high

         Casteth abroad his cruel, murd'rous glance,

         And marks the rapid wanderers in the streets.

         Thousands of cannon-balls, of pond'rous weight,

         Are hurled into the city. Churches lie

         In ruined heaps, and Notre Dame's royal tower

         Begins at length to bow its lofty head.

         They also have formed powder-vaults below,

         And thus, above a subterranean hell,

         The timid city every hour expects,

         'Midst crashing thunder, to break forth in flames.

         But where were then our heroes? Where the swords

         Of Saintrailles, and La Hire, and brave Dunois,

         Of France the bulwark, that the haughty foe

         With such impetuous force thus onward rushed?

         Where is the king? Can he supinely see

         His kingdom's peril and his cities' fall?

         The king at Chinon holds his court; he lacks

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