Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/271

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JOAN of ARC.

BOOK THE EIGHTH.

Now was the noon of night; and all was stillSave where the centinel paced on his roundsHumming a broken song. Along the campHigh flames the frequent fire. The warrior Franks,On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs5Fatigued, their spears lay by them, and the shieldPillowed the helmed head: secure they slept,And busy Fancy in her dream renewedThe fight of yesterday.But not to JOAN,But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid,10Soother of sorrows, Sleep! no more her pulse,Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast,

Allow'd

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