The Maid Of Orleans
by
Humanity’s bright image to impair.
Scorn laid thee prostrate in the deepest dust;
Wit wages ceaseless war on all that’s fair,–
In angel and in God it puts no trust;
The bosom’s treasures it would make its prey,–
Besieges fancy,–dims e’en faith’s pure ray.
Yet issuing like thyself from humble line,
Like thee a gentle shepherdess is she–
Sweet poesy affords her rights divine,
And to the stars eternal soars with thee.
Around thy brow a glory she hath thrown;
The heart ’twas formed thee,–ever thou’lt live on!
The world delights whate’er is bright to stain,
And in the dust to lay the glorious low;
Yet fear not! noble bosoms still remain,
That for the lofty, for the radiant glow
Let Momus serve to fill the booth with mirth;
A nobler mind loves forms of nobler worth.