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They cast a lurid splendor; to the troops
Grateful, as to the way-worn traveller,
Wandering with parch'd feet o'er Arabian sands,
The far-seen cistern; he for many a league
Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved
With tempest swell the desert billows round,
Pauses, and shudders at his perils past,
Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave
So long bewail'd.

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Swift as the affrighted herd
Scud o'er the plain, when rattling thunder-cracks
Upon the bolted lightning follow close,
The English hasten to their sheltering forts,
Even there of safety doubtful, still appall'd
And trembling, as the pilgrim who by night
On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl
Hears the wood echo, when from close pursuit
Escaped, the topmost branch of some tall tree 445
He grasps elose clinging, still of the wild beast
Fearful, his teeth jar, and the cold sweat stands
Upon his clammy limbs.

Nor now the Maid
Greedy of vengeance presses the pursuit.
She bids the trumpet of retreat resound;
A welcome note to the affrighted foe
Blew that loud blast, whereat obediently

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The French, though eager on the invaders' heads To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword.

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Loud is the cry of conquest as they turn To Orleans. There what few to guard the town Unwilling had remain'd, haste forth to meet

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The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held, Which raised aloft amid the midnight storm Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced; Deep through the sky the hollow thunders roll'd; Innocuous lightnings round the hallowed banner Wreath'd their red radiance.

Through the city gate Then as the laden convoy pass'd was heard The shout of exultation; and such joy The men of Orleans at that welcome sight Possess'd, as when from Bactria late subdued, The mighty Macedonian led his troops Amid the Sogdian desert, where no stream Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves. Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed;

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Scorch'd by the sun that o'er their morning march
Steam'd his hot vapours, heart-subdued and faint;
Such joy as then they felt, when from the heights
Burst the soul-gladdening sound, for thence was seen
The evening sun silvering the fertile vale,
Where Oxus roll'd below.

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Clamours of joy

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Echo along the streets of Orleans, wont
Long time to hear the infant's feeble cry,
The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sound,
When from the cannon burst its stores of death.
Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles
And high heap'd carcasses, whence scared away
From his abhorred meal, on clattering wing
Rose the night-raven slow.

Sad was the scene.

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In the English forts There all the livelong night

Steal in the straggling fugitives; as when
Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky
Serenely shines the sun, with every breeze
The waving branches drop their gather'd rain, 490
Renewing the remembrance of the storm.

JOAN OF ARC.

THE SEVENTH BOOK.

STRONG were the English forts, by daily toil
Of thousands rear'd on high, when to ensure
His meditated conquest Salisbury
Resolved from Orleans to shut out all means
Of human succour. Round the city stretch'd
Their line continuous, massy as the wall
Erst by the fearful Roman on the bounds
Of Caledonia raised, when soul-enslaved
The race degenerate fear'd the car-borne chiefs
Who moved from Morven down.

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Broad battlements

Crested the bulwark, and safe standing place
For archer or for man-at-arms was there.
The frequent buttress at just distance rose
Declining from its base, and sixty forts
Seem'd in their strength to render all secure.
But loftier and massier than the rest,

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As though of some large castle each the keep, Stood six square fortresses with turrets flank'd, Piles of unequall'd strength, though now deem'd weak 'Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely thence The skilful bowman, entering with his eye

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The city, might, himself the while unseen, Through the long opening aim his winged deaths. Loire's waves diverted fill'd the deep-dug moat Circling the whole; a bulwark vast it was

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As that which round their camp and stranded ships
The Achaians raised, a common sepulchre
Of thousands slaughter'd, and the doom'd death-place
Of many a chief, when Priam's virtuous son
Assail'd them, then in hope, with favouring Jove.

But cowering now amid their sheltering forts 31 Trembled the invading host. Their leader's care In anxious vigilance prepares to ward

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The assault expected. Rightly he ared
The Maid's intent, but vainly did he seek
To kindle in their breasts the wonted flame
Of valour; for, by prodigies unmann'd,
They wait the morn. The soldiers' pride was gone;
The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay
Defiled and unrepair'd, they sharpen'd not 40
Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand
Relax'd not his bent bow. To them, confused
With fears of unknown danger, the long night
Was dreadful, but more dreadful dawn'd the day.

The morning came; the martial Maid arose ; 45 Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gate, Eager again for conquest, throng the troops. High tower'd the Son of Orleans, in his strength Poising the ponderous spear. His batter'd shield, Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight, Hung on his sinewy arm.

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