Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/223

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BOOK THE SIXTH.
211
Call'd London, light the beacon. Nor aloftDid they not flame from every smaller fort,That firm entrenched with walls and deep-delved moatsIncluded Orleans. O'er the shadowy plain 360They cast a lurid splendor; to the troopsGrateful, as to the way-worn traveller,Wand'ring with parched feet o'er the Arabian sands,The far-seen cistern; he for many a leagueTravelling the trackless desolate, where heaved 365With tempest swell the desart billows round,Pauses, and shudders at his perils past,Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the waveSo long bewail'd.Swift as the affrighted herd Scud o'er the plain, when frequent thro' the sky 370Flash the fierce lightnings, speed the routed host Of England. To the sheltering forts they haste, Tho' safe, of safety doubtful, still appall'd And trembling, as the pilgrim who by night On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl 375

Hears

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