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JOAN OF ARC.
As him the centinel conduced, roundHe gaz'd and cried; "Oh! I am sad to thinkSo many men shall never see the sunGo down! Ye English mothers mourn ye now, 230Daughters of England weep! for hard of heart Still your mad leaders urge the impious war,And for their folly and their wickedness,Your sons, your husbands, by the sword must fall.Widow'd and friendless, ye shall sit and weep, 233And, wanting bread, groan for the murdered onesIn whom your joys were murdered!"So he cried, And they who heard him trembled. Thro' the host Ran the strange tidings. For the fight they arm, Eager for war no longer, nor of blood 245Greedy, but palsied by religious dread. Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear Even from themselves; some of the coming fray Murmuring in hints half heard, tho' understood; Some deadly pale and ominous of death, 245

Silently

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