Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/297

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BOOK THE EIGHTH.
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At him he drew the string: the powerless dartFell blunted from his buckler. Fierce he cameAnd lifting high his ponderous battle-axe, 460Full on his shoulder drove the furious strokeDeep-buried in his bosom: prone he fell—The cold air rush'd upon his heaving heart.A gallant man, of no ignoble line,Was Glacidas. His sires had lived in peace; 465Wisely secluded from the jarring worldThey heap'd the hospitable hearth, they spreadThe feast; their vassals loved them, and afarThe traveller told their fame. In peace they died;Exhausted Nature sinking slow to rest. 470For them the venerable fathers pour'dA requiem when they slept, and o'er them rais'dThe sculptur'd monument. Now far awayTheir offspring falls, the last of all his race!Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share 475The common grave.And now their leader slain,

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