Wielding the wrathful weapon, from whose death,
Their stern hearts palsied by the arm of God,
Far from Orleans shall the English wolves
Speed their disastrous flight. Monarch of France!
Spread the good tidings through thy ravag'd realm. 200
The Maid is come—the mission'd Maid—whose hand
Shall in the consecrated walls of Rheims
Place on thy head the crown."
In wonder mute
The courtiers heard. The astonish'd King exclaim'd
"This is indeed the agency of Heaven! 205
Hard, Maiden, were I of belief," he cried,
"Did I not now with full and confirm'd faith
Thee the redeemer of this ravag'd realm
Believe. Not doubting therefore the strange will
Of the all-wise, nor those high miracles 210
Vouch'd by the Son of Orleans, do I now
Delay to marshal the brave sons of France
Beneath thy banners; but to satisfy
Those who at distance from this most clear proof
"May