Rheims is down in fire and smoke,
The hour of God is at the stroke,
Round and round the ruined place,--
Jesus, Mary, give us grace!
There are two riders clad in mail
Silver as the moon is pale.
One is tall as a knight's spear,
The younger one is lowlier.
Small and slim and like a maid--
Steeds and riders cast no shade.
Who are then these cavaliers?
There was a sound as Heaven dropt tears.
Who are those who ride so light,
Soundless in the flaming light,
Where Rheims burns, that was given
By France to Mary, Queen of Heaven?
Oh, our Rheims, our Rheims is down,
Naught is left of her renown.
Hist! what sound is in the breeze
Like the sighing of forest trees?
Or the great wind, or an army,
Or the waves of the wild sea?
The tall knight rides fierce and fast
To the sound of a trumpet-blast.
The little knight in fire and flame,
Slender and soft as a dame,
Rides and is not far behind:
His long hair floats on the wind,
And ever the tramp of chivalry
Comes like the sound of the sea.
This is Michael rides abroad,
Prince of the army of God,
And this like a lily arrayed
Is Joan, the blesséd Maid.
Rheims is down in fire and smoke
And the hour of God's at the stroke.