The flower of Christendom is given
    To gain the Holy Grave;
O’er Acre and o’er Askelon
    The blessed banners wave;
By Edward’s bed I see thee kneel,
    O Queen beloved and brave!

Who art thou, girl, in warrior garb—
    St. Catherine’s sword in hand?
’Tis La Pucelle—and France is free;
    O shame that thou must stand
Bound—helpless—at the cruel stake,
    To wait the headman’s brand!

And now upon the wild North Sea
    From Lindisfarne’s bleak shore,
To save the lives of shipwrecked men
    A maiden plies the oar;
Seamen and landsmen honour thee,
    Grace Darling, evermore!

And swifter, closer, as I muse,
    The splendid spectres loom;
And stately stands among them one
    To glory passed from gloom—
But late,—by waters of the Nile,—
    In walls of lost Khartoum!