The Maid of Orleans. Friedrich von Schiller

         Farewell ye mountains, ye beloved glades,

         Ye lone and peaceful valleys, fare ye well!

         Through you Johanna never more may stray!

         For, ay, Johanna bids you now farewell.

         Ye meads which I have watered, and ye trees

         Which I have planted, still in beauty bloom!

         Farewell ye grottos, and ye crystal springs!

         Sweet echo, vocal spirit of the vale.

         Who sang'st responsive to my simple strain,

         Johanna goes, and ne'er returns again.

         Ye scenes where all my tranquil joys

         I knew, Forever now I leave you far behind!

         Poor foldless lambs, no shepherd now have you!

         O'er the wide heath stray henceforth unconfined!

         For I to danger's field, of crimson hue,

         Am summoned hence another flock to find.

         Such is to me the spirit's high behest;

         No earthly, vain ambition fires my breast.

         For who in glory did on Horeb's height

         Descend to Moses in the bush of flame,

         And bade him go and stand in Pharaoh's sight —

         Who once to Israel's pious shepherd came,

         And sent him forth, his champion in the fight, —

         Who aye hath loved the lowly shepherd train, —

         He, from these leafy boughs, thus spake to me,

         "Go forth! Thou shalt on earth my witness be.

         "Thou in rude armor must thy limbs invest,

         A plate of steel upon thy bosom wear;

         Vain earthly love may never stir thy breast,

         Nor passion's sinful glow be kindled there.

         Ne'er with the bride-wreath shall thy locks be dressed,

         Nor on thy bosom bloom an infant fair;

         But war's triumphant glory shall be thine;

         Thy martial fame all women's shall outshine.

         "For when in fight the stoutest hearts despair,

         When direful ruin threatens France, forlorn,

         Then thou aloft my oriflamme shalt bear,

         And swiftly as the reaper mows the corn,

         Thou shalt lay low the haughty conqueror;

         His fortune's wheel thou rapidly shalt turn,

         To Gaul's heroic sons deliverance bring,

         Relieve beleaguered Rheims, and crown thy king!"

         The heavenly spirit promised me a sign;

         He sends the helmet, it hath come from him.

         Its iron filleth me with strength divine,

         I feel the courage of the cherubim;

         As with the rushing of a mighty wind

         It drives me forth to join the battles din;

         The clanging trumpets sound, the chargers rear,

         And the loud war-cry thunders in mine ear.

         No longer I'll endure it. I renounce

         This recreant monarch who forsakes himself.

         My valiant heart doth bleed, and I could rain

         Hot tear-drops from mine eyes, that robber-swords

         Partition thus the royal realm of France;

         That cities, ancient as the monarchy,

         Deliver to the foe the rusty keys,

         While here in idle and inglorious ease

         We lose the precious season of redemption.

         Tidings of Orleans' peril reach mine ear,

         Hither I sped from distant Normandy,

         Thinking, arrayed in panoply of war,

         To find the monarch with his marshalled hosts;

         And find him – here! begirt with troubadours,

         And juggling knaves, engaged in solving riddles,

         And planning festivals in Sorel's honor,

         As brooded o'er the land profoundest peace!

         The Constable hath gone; he will not brook

         Longer the spectacle of shame. I, too,

         Depart, and leave him to his evil fate.

         Here comes the king.

         The Constable hath sent us back his sword

         And doth renounce our service. Now, by heaven!

         He thus hath rid us of a churlish man,

         Who insolently sought to lord it o'er us.

         A man is precious in such perilous times;

         I would not deal thus lightly with his loss.

         Thou speakest thus from love of opposition;

         While he was here thou never wert his friend.

         He was a tiresome, proud, vexatious fool,

         Who never could resolve. For once, however,

         He hath resolved. Betimes he goeth hence,

         Where honor can no longer be achieved.

         Thou'rt in a pleasant humor; undisturbed

         I'll leave thee to enjoy it. Hark, Duchatel!

         Ambassadors are here from old King Rene,

         Of tuneful songs the master, far renowned.

         Let them as honored guests be entertained,

         And unto each present a chain of gold.