Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/257

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BOOK THE SEVENTH.
245
Had listened sadly, till at that loved nameShe wept. "Nay, Maid!" he cried, "I did not thinkTo wake a tear; but pleasant is thy grief! 475Thou know'st not what it is, round thy warm heartTo have a false one wreath in viper folds.But to the battle! in the clang of arms,We win forgetfulness."Then from the bank He sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose, 480 Bidding awhile adieu to milder thoughts. On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'd England's proud capital to the English host, Now half subdued, anticipating death, And vainly wishing they from her white clifts 485Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creeps Thro' every vein: already they turn back Their eager eyes to meditate the flight, Tho' Talbot there presided, with their Chief, The gallant Salisbury."Soldiers fam'd in arms!" 490

Thus

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