His regiment comes. Oh, then where is he?
"There is dust in my eyes, for I cannot see,—
Is that my Michel to the right of thee,
Soldier of France?"
Then out of the ranks a comrade fell,—
"Yesterday—'t was a splinter of shell—
And he whispered thy name, did thy poor Michel,
Dying for France."
The tread of the troops on the pavement throbbed
Like a woman's heart of its last joy robbed,
As she lifted her boy to the flag, and sobbed:
"Vive la France!"
Charlotte Holmes Crawford
THE SOUL OF JEANNE D'ARC
She came not into the Presence as a martyred saint might come, Crowned, white-robed and adoring, with very reverence dumb,—
She stood as a straight young soldier, confident, gallant, strong, Who asks a boon of his captain in the sudden hush of the drum.
She said: "Now have I stayed too long in this my place of bliss,
With these glad dead that, comforted, forget what sorrow is
Upon that world whose stony stairs they climbed to come to this.
"But lo, a cry hath torn the peace wherein so long I stayed,
Like a trumpet's call at Heaven's wall from a herald unafraid,—
A million voices in one cry, 'Where is the Maid, the Maid?'
"I had forgot from too much joy that olden task of mine,
But I have heard a certain word shatter the chant divine,
Have watched a banner glow and grow before mine eyes for sign.