Classic Poem

Many a man of many a race
Has done a deed of shame,
But never a worse than this was done,
O England, in thy name!

The Maid of Orleans lay in her cell,
Fated and hung with fetters,
Ready for burning at the stake,
By men—at war her betters.

But if they burned her, would the might
And mystery she wielded
Be, by the flaming death of her,
Once and for ever yielded?

‘By God, it will not!’ said a lord
Of Albion, her foe;
A beast, the vision on whose face
Was mixed with patriot glow.

‘By God, it will not, for her strength
Lies in a secret thing—
And martyrdom of a virgin maid
Through all this land would ring.

‘But—give her body a child,’ he said,
And looked about him hot.
Through every man there coldly ran
The serpent of his thought.

‘Once give her body a child——’ He took
The keys from the warden's hand.
A maid is a maid, but England's aid
By men was ever planned:

‘A maid is a maid—but all the saints
That round about her stir
Shall be as whispering fiends, if once
Love has had toll of her.’

He rose; behind him clanged the door;
It shuddered in each heart.
He went into her cell—and saw
Fear on her cheek upstart.

‘The Virgin had a child,’ he said,
‘And you have none, my dear.’
He seized her in his arms: her cry
Rang forth, fleet and clear.

He seized her in his arms; she fought.
O brutal hand that rested
One moment on her maiden breast
Where only God had nested!

O brutal hand, O brutal lips,
O brutal soul that sought
To soil virginity as brave
As Heaven ever wrought!

She beat him from her, bleeding, blind—
She but a maid, a woman!
She beat him off with chastity
That strove divinely human.

He fell, shaken away—with passion
Burning still in his eye.
‘By God, for that one touch,’ he said,
‘I'd dare, though I should die.

‘And were you but an English wench
And I a king,’—he said …
She sank fainting upon the floor;
He left her there for dead.

O many a man of many a race
Has done a deed of shame.—
They took her on the morrow out
And burnt her in Christ's name.