Archbishop monologue (Act 3) — The Maid of Orleans: A Tragedy

(steps between them) Ye are united, princes! France doth rise A renovated phoenix from its ashes. The auspicious future greets us with a smile. The country's bleeding wounds will heal again, The villages, the desolated towns, Rise in new splendor from their ruined heaps, The fields array themselves in beauteous green; But those who, victims of your quarrel, fell, The dead, rise not again; the bitter tears, Caused by your strife, remain forever wept! One generation hath been doomed to woe; On their descendants dawns a brighter day; The gladness of the son wakes not the sire. This the dire fruitage of your brother-strife! Oh, princes, learn from hence to pause with dread, Ere from its scabbard ye unsheath the sword. The man of power lets loose the god of war, But not, obedient, as from fields of air Returns the falcon to the sportsman's hand, Doth the wild deity obey the call Of mortal voice; nor will the Saviour's hand A second time forth issue from the clouds.