Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/179

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BOOK THE FIFTH.
167
Shakes its hoarse head. Anon with louder din; 175And thro' the opening glade gleamed many a fire. The Virgin's tent they enter'd. There the board Was spread. The Wanderer, of the fare partook, Then thus her tale renew'd."Slow o'er the hillWhose rising head conceal'd our cot I past, 180Yet on my journey paus'd awhile, and gaz'd,And wept—for often had I crost the hillWith chearful step, and seen the rising smokeOf hospitable fire. Alas! no smokeCurl'd o'er the melancholy chimneys now. 185Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stoodThe Abbey—and ere long I learnt the fallOf Jenville."On a day, a soldier ask'dFor Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feetSupport me. It was Francis, and alone— 190The sole survivor of the fatal fight!

"And

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