And France stood looking idly on, nor dared to strike a blow,
Her guardian angel’s life to save, but gave it to the foe!
Ungrateful France her saviour’s fate beheld with careless smile,
While Superstition, hiding hate and vengeance, fired the pile!
What holy horror of her crime is looked by yonder priest,
Like that grim bird that hovers nigh, and scents the funeral feast!
Is this the maiden’s triumph, won in battle’s dreadful scenes,
Whose banner so triumphant flew before thy walls, Orleans!
Hark to the trumpet’s solemn sound! Low roll the muffled drums
As slowly through the silent throng the sad procession comes;