O Royal-hearted peasant-maid of France
Whom that " still voice " which those alone can hear
Who walk in innocence and void of fear,
To war-fields called from rural toils or dance;
Whom God's great saints, revealed to thee in trance,
For knightly onset girt with shield and spear,
Thy task a Christian throne from dust to rear
And work a Christian realm's deliverance;
O thou that charioted by martyr-fires
Rod'st to thy God that task fulfilled, this day
A deeper need a saintlier aid requires;
Invaders worse possess thy France, their prey
This hour suffice not crown restored, or chrism:
Her foes within: thy prayers are exorcism.