ling of Heaven,
Yet at heart wast only a child!
And for thee the wild things of Nature
Sot aside their nature wild:--
The brown-eyed fawn of the forest
Came silently glancing upon thee;
The squirrel slipp'd down from the fir,
And nestled his gentleness on thee.

_Angelus_ bell and _Ave_,
Like voices they follow the maid
As she follows her sheep in the valley
From the dawn to the folding shade:--
For the world that we cannot see
Is the world of her earthly seeing;
From the air of the hills of God
She draws her breath and her being.

Dances by beech tree and fountain,
They know her no longer:--apart
Sitting with thought and with vision
In the silent shrine of the heart.
And a voice henceforth and for ever
Within, without her, is sighing
'Pity for France, O pity,
France the beloved, the dying!'

--Now between church-wall and cottage
What comes in the blinding light,
--Rainbow plumes and armour,
Face as the sun in his height . . .
'Angel that pierced the red dragon,
Pity for France, O pity!
Holy one, thou shalt save her,
Vineyard and village and city!'

Poor sweet child of Domremy,
In thine innocence only strong,
Thou seest not the treason before thee,
The gibe and the curse of the throng,--
The furnace-pile in the market
That licks out its flames to take thee;--
For He who loves thee in heaven
On earth will not forsake thee!

Poor sweet maid of Domremy,
In thine innocence secure,
Heed not what men say of thee,
The buffoon and his jest impure!
Nor care if thy name, young martyr,
Be the star of thy country's story:--
Mid the white-robed host of the heavens
Thou hast more than glory!

_Angel that pierced_; 'She _had pity_, to use the phrase for ever on her
lip, _on the fair realm of France_. She saw visions; St. Michael
appeared to her in a flood of blinding light': (_Green_, B. IV: ch. vi).

_The buffoon_; Voltaire.

TOWTON FIELD

Palm Sunday: 1461

Love, Who from the throne above
Cam'st to teach the law of love,
Who Thy peaceful triumph hast
Led o'er palms before Thee cast,
E'en in highest heaven Thine eyes
Turn from this day's sacrifice!
Slaughter whence no victor host
Can the palms of triumph boast;
Blood on blood in rivers spilt,--
English blood by English guilt!

From the gracious Minster-towers
Of York the priests behold afar
The field of Towton shimmer like a star
With light of lance and helm; while both the powers
Misnamed from the fair rose, wi