Letter of Maria White (Mrs. James Russell) Lowell to Sophia (Mrs. Nathaniel) Hawthorne

Alas! that Christian ministers should dareTo preach the views of Gibbon and Voltaire!Alas! that one whose life and gentle waysE'en Hate could find it in its heart to praise,Whose intellect is equalled but by few,Should strive for what he'd weep to find were true!

Here blooms the legend, fed by Time and Chance,Fresh as the morning, though with centuries old;The whitest lily in the shield of France,With heart of virgin gold.

Along this square she moved, sweet Joan of Arc,With face more pallid than a daylit star,Half-seen, half-doubted,—while before her darkStretched the array of war.

Swift passed the battle-smoke of lying breathFrom off her path, as if a wind had blown,Showing no faithless King,—but righteous DeathOn the low wooden throne.

He would reward her: she who meekly woreAlike the gilded mail, the peasant gown,As meekly now received one honor more,The formless fiery crown.

A white dove trembled up the heated air,And in the opening zenith found its goal;Soft as a downward feather dropped a prayerFor each repentant soul.