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JOAN OF ARC.
Nor the Gallic host remit 250Their eager efforts; some, the watry fence,Beneath the tortoise roof'd, with engines aptDrain painful; part, laden with wood, throw thereTheir buoyant burdens, labouring so to gainFirm footing: some the mangonels supply, 255Or charging with huge stones the murdering sling,Or petrary, or in the espringalFix the brass-winged arrows. Hoarse aroundRose the confused din of multitudes.
Fearless along the ramparts Gargrave moved, 260Cheering the English troops. The bow he bore;The quiver rattled as he moved along.He knew aright to aim the feather'd shafts,Well-skill'd to pierce the mottled roebuck's side,O'ertaken in his flight. Him, passing on, 265From some huge engine driven, a ponderous stoneCrush'd: on his breast-plate falling, the vast force,Shattered the bone, and with his mangled lungs

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