Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/285

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BOOK THE EIGHTH.
273
Perform'd a friendly part, hastening the hour, Grief else had soon brought on.The English Chief,Pointing again his arbalist, let looseThe string; the quarrel, driven by that strong blow, 235True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struckDragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'dDeep in his liver; blood and mingled gallFlow'd from the wound; and writhing with keen pangs,Headlong he fell: he for the wintry hour 240Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale,A man in his small circle well-beloved.None better knew with prudent hand to guideThe vine's young tendrils, or at vintage timeTo press the full-swoln clusters: he, heart-glad, 245Taught his young boys the little all he knew,Enough for happiness. The English hostLaid waste his fertile fields; he, to the war,By want compell'd, adventur'd,—in his goreNow weltering.

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