In the Minster; Chaucer was buried at the entrance of S. Benet’s Chapel in Westminster Abbey.
So many stars in heaven,—
Flowers in the meadow that shine;
—This little one of Domremy,
What special grace is thine?
By the fairy beech and the fountain
What but a child with thy brothers?
Among the maids of the valley
Art more than one among others?
Chosen darling of Heaven,
Yet at heart wast only a child!
And for thee the wild things of Nature
Sot aside their nature wild:—
The brown-eyed fawn of the forest
Came silently glancing upon thee;
The squirrel slipp’d down from the fir,
And nestled his gentleness on thee.
Angelus bell and Ave,
Like voices they follow the maid
As she follows her sheep in the valley
From the dawn to the folding shade:—
For the world that we cannot see
Is the world of her earthly seeing;
From the air of the hills of God
She draws her breath and her being.
Dances by beech tree and fountain,
They know her no longer:—apart
Sitting with thought and with vision
In the silent shrine of the heart.
And a voice henceforth and for ever
Within, without her, is sighing
’Pity for France, O pity,
France the beloved, the dying!’
—Now between church-wall and cottage
What comes in the blinding light,
—Rainbow plumes and armour,
Face as the sun in his height . . .
’Angel that pierced the red dragon,
Pity for France, O pity!
Holy one, thou shalt save her,
Vineyard and village and city!’
Poor sweet child of Domremy,
In thine innocence only strong,
Thou seest not the treason before thee,
The gibe and the curse of the throng,—
The furnace-pile in the market
That licks out its flames to take thee;—
For He who loves thee in heaven
On earth will not forsake thee!
Poor sweet maid of Domremy,
In thine innocence secure,
Heed not what men say of thee,
The buffoon and his jest impure!
Nor care if thy name, young martyr,
Be the star of thy country’s story:—
Mid the white-robed host of the heavens
Thou hast more than glory!
Angel that pierced; ’She had pity, to use the phrase for ever on her lip, on the fair realm of France. She saw visions; St. Michael appeared to her in a flood of blinding light’: (Green, B. IV: ch. vi).
The buffoon; Voltaire.
Palm Sunday: 1461
Love, Who from the throne above
Cam’st to teach the law of love,
Who Thy peaceful triumph hast
Led o’er palms before Thee cast,
E’en in highest heaven Thine eyes
Turn from this day’s sacrifice!
Slaughter whence no victor host
Can the palms of triumph boast;
Blood on blood in rivers spilt,—
English blood by English guilt!