  Dear martyred maid, thy cruel death hath thrilled With loathing deep the whole of human kind Against the Hun who thy death sentence signed; Thy barb’rous death all manly hearts hath filled With feelings such as never can be stilled; In every home thy name is hence enshrined, Thy death scene pictured clear in every mind In thy life’s blood, the murd’rous Hun hath spilled Angelic maid, could we but lift the veil Which hides from mortal eyes God’s holy land With Joan of Arc and Florence Nightingale, Thy wounded temple with a filet bound, With harp in hand, thy head with glory crowned, Amidst the heavenly choir we’d see thee stand. decoration of text |
|
