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JOAN OF ARC.

THE SEVENTH BOOK.

STRONG were the English forts, by daily toil
Of thousands rear'd on high, when arrogant
With hop'd-for conquest Salisbury bade rise
The mighty pile, from succour to include
Besieged Orleans. Round the city walls
Stretch'd the wide circle, massy as the fence
Erst by the fearful Roman on the bounds

Of Caledonia rais'd, when soul-enslav'd

Her hireling plunderers fear'd the car-borne chiefs Who rush'd from Morven down.

Strong battlements

Crested the ample bulwark, on whose top
Secure the charioteer might wheel along.

The frequent buttress at just distance, rose

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Declining from its base, and sixty forts
Lifted aloft their turret-crested heads,

All firm and massy. But of these most firm,
As tho' of some large castle each the keep,
Stood six square fortresses with turrets flank'd,
Piles of unequall'd strength, tho' now deem'd weak
'Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely hence
The skilful archer, entering with his eye

The city, might, himself the while unseen,

Thro' the long opening shower his winged deaths.
Loire's waves diverted fill'd the deep-dug moat
Circling the pile, a bulwark vast, as what
Round their disheartened camp and stranded ships
The Greeks uprear'd, a common sepulchre

Of thousands slaughter'd, and the doom'd death-place
Of many a chief, when Priam's patriot son

Rush'd in his wrath and scatter'd their pale tribes.

But cowering now amid their sheltering forts
Tremble the invading host. Their leaders care

In anxious vigilance prepares to ward
Assault expected. Nor the Maid's intent
Did he not rightly areed; tho' vain his hope
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
Unburnish'd and defil'd, they sharpen'd not
Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand
Relax'd not his bent bow. To them, confus'd
With fears of unknown danger the long night
Was dreadful, but more dreadful dawn'd the day.

The morning came. The martial Maid arose.
Lovely in arms she mov'd. 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.

"Maiden of Arc,"

So as he spake approaching, cried the chief,
"Well hast thou prov'd thy mission, as, by words
"And miracles attested when dismay'd

"The stern theologists forgot their doubts,

"So in the field of slaughter now confirm'd.

"Yon well-fenced forts protect the fugitives,

"And seem as in their strength they mock'd our force. "Yet must they fall."

The Maid of Orleans.

"And fall they shall!" replied

"Ere the sun be set

"The lily on that shattered wall shall wave "Triumphant. Men of France! ye have fought well

"On

yon blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foes

"Lurk trembling now amid their massy walls.
"Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock!
"The Shepherd-the Great Shepherd is arisen!
"Ye fly! yet shall not ye by flight escape
"His vengeance. Men of Orleans! it were vain

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By words to waken wrath within your breasts. "Look round! Your holy buildings and your homes—

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