Prayer to Jehanne of France

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PRAYER TO JEHANNE OF FRANCE

O Jehanne, with the trumpets in your name,
By all the lilies of the Oriflamme,
By all the faggots and the final shame,
By all the burning voices at the Tree,
By all the visions that we cannot see,
By all you were that we can never be,
By all the little lambs, by every lark
That spilled a fiery fountain, spark on spark,
Of music to your heart, Jehanne of Arc,
By all your simple strength, and by the few
Straight words like light, and by the dream that grew
In your gray well-spaced eyes until you knew
The work you had to do—
The glory that flared up, and darkened, and withdrew,
The death they did to you—

Is this your France that made the great horn blow
Across the blood-red gap at Roncevaux?
Are these the mighty men
Who time and time again
Rebuffed the Roman, broke the Saracen?
Is this indeed the Gaul
Who stood, a terrible and living wall
Of flesh and blood and bone and spirit's pith compounded,
Forged in the furnaces of hell,
A solid mass
Chanting with hoarse monotonous iteration
The battle cry of a beleaguered nation,
"They shall not pass!"
(Christ, how that cry resounded!)
And drove the guttural and gloating Hun
Back from the very citadel
Of desperate Verdun,
Depleted and defeated and confounded?

O flash again, bright shield and furious lance,
And save the soul of France!
Strike down the traitor, cut the coward down,
The wolf and buzzard running beak to fang
In field and town!
Ring out, as yesterday you rang,
Clarion of hope, bugle of liberation,
To a bewildered and heroic nation
By knave and lout
Sold out,
The furtive coin clenched in the shameful fist
Of dupe and parricide and terrorist!

Ah France, beloved, brave and beautiful land,
On every side they stand,
On every hand
The dear magnificent dead,
A ghostly glorious band—
Roland and Oliver and Charlemagne,
And the tall Paladins who fought and bled
And with the uncounted slain
Fattened the kites of Spain;
And that bright-bearded captain-king whose name
Is a shooting star,
A flying flame—
Navarre!
And she,
The gallant martyr-maid of Domremy,
Who, when the hearts of men grew faint,
Rallied for Dauphin and for St. Denis,
Soldier and Saint,
The swords that set France free!

Ah sweet Jehanne, Jehanne,
Now that the spirits of your people languish,
And the grim traps are laid,
The sordid ambuscade
Wherein, convulsed with unendurable anguish,
France is once more betrayed—
Ah let your piercing clarion
Shatter this hideous trance,
This nightmare sickness in the soul of France!
Refuse this foul infection,
And, by the virtue of that proud rejection,
Rekindle, repossess
The sacred fire, the ancient fearlessness!

France is one vast Bastille;
The people turning and twisting under a vicious heel:
Your France, whose blood-soaked pikestaff banners gave
New hope to the oppressed, the prisoner, the slave;
Your France, that raised the heart like Lazarus from the grave,
Bends now her neck in the vile dust to kiss
A monstrous parody of peace.

Ride on, Jehanne, ride on and on and on
Through the thick darkness ringing your clarion!
Lightning of long deliverance,
Jehanne of France,
Jehanne! Jehanne! Jehanne!
—by Joseph Auslander

Prayer by courtesy of the magazine, THIS WEEK, and the Author.
Drawing by Adolph Treidler, after Frémiet.
As an expression of faith in the ultimate victory of courageous idealism, these inspired lines are printed here—a contribution of the Advertising Agency BERMINGHAM, CASTLEMAN & PIERCE, New York
Published November 9th, 1942 on the occasion of the first decisive blow for the liberation of France—The invasion of French North Africa by American forces.
[signature:] ADOLPH TREIDLER