JOAN OF ARC. THE SEVENTH BOOK. STRONG were the English forts, by daily toil 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 The frequent buttress at just distance, rose Declining from its base, and sixty forts All firm and massy. But of these most firm, The city, might, himself the while unseen, Thro' the long opening shower his winged deaths. Of thousands slaughter'd, and the doom'd death-place Rush'd in his wrath and scatter'd their pale tribes. But cowering now amid their sheltering forts In anxious vigilance prepares to ward They wait the morn. The soldiers pride was gone, The morning came. The martial Maid arose. Hung on his sinewy arm. "Maiden of Arc," So as he spake approaching, cried the chief, "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. By words to waken wrath within your breasts. "Look round! Your holy buildings and your homes— |