The Maid of Orleans

AT thee the Mocker sneers in cold derision,
Through thee he seeks to desecrate and dim

Glory for which he hath no soul or vision,

For "God" and "Angel" are but sounds with him.

He makes the jewels of the heart his booty,

And scoffs at Man's Belief and Woman's Beauty.

Yet thou — a lowly shepherdess! — descended

Not from a kingly but a godly race,
Art crowned by Poesy! Amid the splendid

Of Heaven's high stars she builds thy dwellingplace,
Garlands thy temples with a wreath of glory,
And swathes thy memory in eternal Story.

The Base of this weak world exult at seeing
The Fair defaced, the Lofty in the dust;

Yet grieve not! There are godlike hearts in being
Which worship still the Beautiful and Just.

Let Momus and his mummers please the crowd,

Of nobleness alone a noble mind is proud.