Place de la Pucelle

(Rouen)

HER

JERE blooms the legend, fed by Time and
Chance,

Fresh as the morning, though with centuries old,
The whitest lily on the shield of France,
With heart of virgin gold.

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

Swift passed the battle-smoke of lying breath
From off her path, as if a wind had blown,
Showing no faithless king, but righteous Death,
On the low wooden throne.

He would reward her: she who meekly wore
Alike the gilded mail and 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 prayer
For each repentant soul.

Maria Lowell.

From Joan of Arc

(Rouen)

GRE

'REAT was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them; not she by them, but they by her should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well Joanna knew, early at Domrémy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her! — Thomas De Quincey.

From Aurora Leigh

(Paris)

So, I mused

Up and down, up and down, the terraced streets,

The glittering boulevards, the white colonnades,
Of fair fantastic Paris who wears trees

Like plumes, as if man made them, spire and tower
As if they had grown by nature, tossing up
Her fountains in the sunshine of the squares,
As if in beauty's game she tossed the dice,
Or blew the silver down-balls of her dreams
To sow futurity with seeds of thought,
And count the passage of her festive hours.

The city swims in verdure, beautiful
As Venice on the waters, the sea swan.

What bosky gardens, dropped in close-walled courts,

As plums in ladies' laps, who start and laugh;
What miles of streets that run on after trees,
Still carrying the necessary shops,

Those open caskets, with the jewels seen!
And trade is art, and art's philosophy,

In Paris.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Leonardo's "Mona Lisa"

(Paris)

MA

AKE thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair Of knowing thee be absolute: I wait Hour-long and waste a soul. What word of fate Hides 'twixt the lips which smile and still forbear? Secret perfection! Mystery too fair!

Tangle the sense no more, lest I should hate

The delicate tyranny, the inviolate

Poise of thy folded hands, the fallen hair

Nay, này, I wrong thee with rough words; still be

Serene, victorious, inaccessible;

Still smile, but speak not; lighted irony
Lurk ever 'neath thy eyelids' shadows, still
O'ertop our knowledge; Sphinx of Italy,

Allure us and reject us at thy will!

Edward Dowden.

Souvenir d'Enfance

(Paris)

DAN

(From Les Feuilles d'Automne)

ANS une grande fête, un jour, au Panthéon,
J'avais sept ans, je vis passer Napoléon.

Pour voir cette figure illustre et solennelle,
Je m'étais échappé de l'aile maternelle;
Car il tenait déjà mon esprit inquiet

Mais ma mère aux doux yeux, que souvent s'effrayait

En m'entendant parler guerre, assauts et bataille, Craignait pour moi la foule, à cause de ma taille.

Et ce qui me frappa, dans ma sainte terreur,
Quand au front du cortége apparut l'empereur,
Tandis que les enfants demandaient à leurs mères
Si c'est là ce héros dont on fait cent chimères,
Ce ne fut pas de voir tout ce peuple à grand bruit
Le suivre comme on suit un phare dans la nuit,
Et se montrer de loin sur sa tête suprême
Ce chapeau tout usé plus beau qu'un diadème,
Ni, pressés sur ses pas, dix vassaux couronnés
Regarder en tremblant ses pieds éperonnés,
Ni ses vieux grenadiers, se faisant violence,
Des cris universels s'enivrer en silence;
Non, tandis qu'à genoux la ville tout en feu,

Joyeuse comme on est lorsqu'on n'a qu'un seul vou, Qu'on n'est qu'un même peuple et qu'ensemble on respire,

A Recollection of Childhood

(Paris)

A

T the Pantheon, going to high mass,

I, seven years old, once saw Napoleon pass. To view the features of this scourge of kings I had escaped from the maternal wings; The thought of him already racked my mind; My mild-eyed mother, oftentimes inclined. To tremble, when she heard me prate aloud Of wars, and fights, dreaded for me the crowd, Because of my small size.

What struck me most,

Awed as I was when followed by his host
The Emperor appeared, while children there
Were asking of their mothers everywhere
Was that the man

was that the warrior bold

Of whom so many prodigies were told?

Was not to mark him like a light at sea
Close followed by the people's noisy glee,

Not his worn hat, more glorious seen from far
On his dread brow than crowns of monarchs are,
Not his old soldiers, hardly keeping in

Their exultation at the general din,

Not ten crowned vassals bustling in his rear,
Eying the spurs upon his heels with fear,
Not that the kneeling city, all on fire,
United in the joy of one desire

To be one people, and to breathe as one