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JOAN OF ARC.
And to their wives and orphan little-ones That on their distant father vainly cry For bread, give these your pity. Wretched men, Forced or inveigled from their homes, or driven 90By Need and Hunger to the trade of blood; Or, if with free and willing mind they came, Most wretched—for before the eternal throne They stand, as hireling murderers arraign'd. But our dead comrades for their freedom fought; 95No arts they needed, nor the specious bribes Of promise, to allure them to this fight, This holy warfare! them their parents sent, And as they raised their streaming eyes to Heaven, Bade them go forth, and from the ruffian's sword 100Save their grey hairs: these men their wives sent forth, Fix'd their last kisses on their armed hands, And bade them in the battle think they fought For them and for their babes. Thus rous'd to rage By every milder feeling, they rush'd forth, 105They fought, they conquer'd. To this high-rear'd mound,

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