Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/251

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BOOK THE SEVENTH.
239
He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd 360The feather'd dart—with force he drew the bow:Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string:Deep in his shield it hung: then Conrade rais'dAgain his echoing voice, and call'd for aid,Nor was the call unheard: the troops of France, 365From St. Loup's captur'd fort along the wallHaste to the portal; cheering was the soundOf their near footsteps to the Chief: he drewHis falchion forth, and down the steps he rush'd.Then terror seized the English, for their foes 370Swarm'd thro' the open portal, and the swordOf Conrade was among them. Not more fierceThe injur'd Turnus swayed his angry arm,Slaughtering the robber emigrants of Troy:Nor with more fury thro' the streets of Paris 375Rush'd he, the King of Sarza, RodomontClad in his dragon mail.Like some tall rock, Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves

Waste

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