Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/249

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BOOK THE SEVENTH.
237
One who did never say her daily prayers,Of him forgetful; who to every taleOf the distant war, lending an eager ear,Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door, 325The wretched one shall sit, and with dim eyeGaze o'er the plain, where on his parting stepsHer last look hung. Nor ever shall she knowHer husband dead, but tortur'd with vain hope,Gaze on—then heart-sick turn to her poor babe, 330And weep it fatherless!The enraged Knight Drew his keen falchion, and with dauntless step Moved to the closer conflict. Then the Frank,Laying his javelin by, his battle-axeUplifted. Where the buckler was below 335Rounded, the falchion struck; but impotent To pierce its plated folds, more forceful driven, Fierce on his crested helm, the Frenchman's stroke Fell; the helm shivered; from his eyes the blood Started; with blood the chambers of the brain 340

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