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JOAN OF ARC.
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee." So saying,He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words 160Disturb'd, the warrior virgin pass'd along,And much revolving in her troubled mind,Retreads the palace: there the feast was spread,And sparkling with the red dew of the vine-yard,The bowl went round. Meantime the minstrel struck 165His harp: the Palladins of France he sung;The warrior who from Arden's fated fountDrank of the bitter waters of aversion,And loathing beauty, spurn'd the lovely Maid,Suppliant for Love; soon doom'd to rue the charm 170Revers'd: and that invulnerable ChiefOrlando, he who from the magic hornBreath'd such heart-withering sounds, that every foeFled from the fearful blast, and all-appall'd,Spell-stricken Valour hid his recreant head. 175
 The full sound echoed o'er the arched roof, And listening eager to the favourite lay,

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