LITMIR.BIZ

                     What's the hero's name?

         'Tis Baudricour. But much I fear the knight

         Will not be able to elude the foe,

         Who track him closely with too numerous hosts.

         Where halts the knight? Pray tell me, if you know.

         About a one day's march from Vaucouleurs.

         Why, what is that to thee? Thou dost inquire

         Concerning matters which become thee not.

         The foe being now so strong, and from the king

         No safety to be hoped, at Vaucouleurs

         They have with unanimity resolved

         To yield them to the Duke of Burgundy.

         Thus we avoid the foreign yoke, and still

         Continue by our ancient royal line;

         Ay, to the ancient crown we may fall back

         Should France and Burgundy be reconciled.

         Speak not of treaty! Speak not of surrender!

         The savior comes, he arms him for the fight.

         The fortunes of the foe before the walls

         Of Orleans shall be wrecked! His hour is come,

         He now is ready for the reaper's hand,

         And with her sickle will the maid appear,

         And mow to earth the harvest of his pride.

         She from the heavens will tear his glory down,

         Which he had hung aloft among the stars;

         Despair not! Fly not! for ere yonder corn

         Assumes its golden hue, or ere the moon

         Displays her perfect orb, no English horse

         Shall drink the rolling waters of the Loire.

         Alas! no miracle will happen now!

         Yes, there shall yet be one – a snow-white dove

         Shall fly, and with the eagle's boldness, tear

         The birds of prey which rend her fatherland.

         She shall o'erthrow this haughty Burgundy,

         Betrayer of the kingdom; Talbot, too,

         The hundred-handed, heaven-defying scourge;

         This Salisbury, who violates our fanes,

         And all these island robbers shall she drive

         Before her like a flock of timid lambs.

         The Lord will be with her, the God of battle;

         A weak and trembling creature he will choose,

         And through a tender maid proclaim his power,

         For he is the Almighty!

                      What strange power

         Hath seized the maiden?

                      Doubtless 'tis the helmet

         Which doth inspire her with such martial thoughts.

         Look at your daughter. Mark her flashing eye,

         Her glowing cheek, which kindles as with fire.

         This realm shall fall! This ancient land of fame,

         The fairest that, in his majestic course,

         The eternal sun surveys – this paradise,

         Which, as the apple of his eye, God loves —

         Endure the fetters of a foreign yoke?

         Here were the heathen scattered, and the cross

         And holy image first were planted here;

         Here rest St. Louis' ashes, and from hence

         The troops went forth who set Jerusalem free.

         Hark how she speaks! Why, whence can she obtain

         This glorious revelation? Father Arc!

         A wondrous daughter God hath given you!

         We shall no longer serve a native prince!

         The king, who never dies, shall pass away —

         The guardian of the sacred plough, who fills

         The earth with plenty, who protects our herds,

         Who frees the bondmen from captivity,

         Who gathers all his cities round his throne —

         Who aids the helpless, and appals the base,

         Who envies no one, for he reigns supreme;

         Who is a mortal, yet an angel too,

         Dispensing mercy on the hostile earth.

         For the king's throne, which glitters o'er with gold,

         Affords a shelter for the destitute;

         Power and compassion meet together there,

         The guilty tremble, but the just draw near,

         And with the guardian lion fearless sport!

         The stranger king, who cometh from afar,

         Whose fathers' sacred ashes do not lie

         Interred among us; can he love our land?

         Who was not young among our youth, whose heart

         Respondeth not to our familiar words,

         Can he be as a father to our sons?

         God save the king and France! We're peaceful folk,

         Who neither wield the sword, nor rein the steed.

         – Let us await the king whom victory crowns;

         The fate of battle is the voice of God.

         He is our lord who crowns himself at Rheims,

         And on his head receives the holy oil.

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