Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/194

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JOAN OF ARC.
For ever the incessant storm of deathShowers down, and shrouded in unwholesome vaultsThe wretched females hide, not idle there, 440Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ'd,Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal,Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds:A sad equality of wretchedness!"
 "Now came the worst of ills, for Famine came! 445The provident hand deals out its scanty dole, Yielding so little a supply to life As but protracted death. The loathliest food Hunted with eager eye, and dainty deem'd.The dog is slain, that at his master's feet 450Howling with hunger lay. With jealous fear, Hating a rival's look, each man conceals His miserable meal. The famish'd babe Clings closely to his dying mother's breast; And—horrible to tell!—where, thrown aside 455There lay unburied in the open streets

"Huge

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