Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/265

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BOOK THE SEVENTH.
253
When over wild Caffraria's wooded hills,Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herdFly the death-boding sound. The forts they seek.Now reckless which, so from that battle's rage 625A present refuge. On their flying ranksThe victors press, and mark their course with blood.
But loud the trumpet of retreat resounds,For now the westering sun with many a hueStreak'd the gay clouds."Dunois!" the Maiden cried, 630"Form we around yon stronger pile the siege,There for the night encamping." So she said.The Chief to Orleans for their needful food,And enginery to batter that huge pile,Dismiss'd a troop, and round the Tournelles led 635The host beleagering. There they pitch their tents,And plant their engines for the morrow's war,Then to their meal, and o'er the chearful bowl,Recount the tale of danger; soon to restBetaking them, for now the night drew on. 640
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