Classic Poem

Battle's blast is fiercely blowing,
Clarions sounding, coursers bounding,
Pennons o'er the tumult flowing,
Host on host the eye astounding,
Wave on wave that sea confounding,
And in headlong fury going,
Mounted kingdoms wildly dashing
Lance to lance, and steed to steed;
Now must haughtiest champions bleed,
And a myriad swords are flashing,
Loud on shield and helmet clashing;
Ne'er had Ruin nobler spoil
On this broad and bloody soil.
As the storms a forest crushing,
Oaks of thousand winters grind,
So the iron whirl is rushing,
Shouts before and groans behind.
Still amid the dead and dying,
All in shattered ridges lying,
Pride, Revenge, and youthful Daring,
And their Cause and Country's Name,
Drive them on with sweep unsparing,—
Naught for life, and all for fame!
Still above the surge of battle
Breathes the trump its fatal gale,
And the hollow tambours rattle
Chorus to the deadly tale.
Still is Joan the first in glory,
Still she sways the maddening fight,
Kindling all the flames of Story,
With an unimagined might.
Squadrons furious close around her,
Still her blade is waving free;
Sword nor lance avails to wound her,
Terror of a host is she.
Heavenly Guardian, maiden Wonder!
Long shall France resound the day,
When thou camest clad in thunder,
Blasting thy tremendous way.