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JOAN OF ARC.
Drove there their dreadful darts; the war-wolfs thereHurl'd their huge stones; and, by the pavais fenced,The Knights of France sped there their well-aim'd shafts. 550
"Feel ye not, Comrades, how the ramparts shake Beneath the ponderous ram's unceasing stroke?"Cried one, a venturous Englishman. "Our foes,In woman-like compassion, have dismissedA powerful escort, weakening thus themselves, 555And giving us fair hope, in equal field, Of better fortune. Sorely here annoyed,And slaughtered by their engines from afar,We perish. Vainly does the soldier boastUndaunted courage and the powerful arm, 560If thus pent up; like some wild beast he falls,Mark'd for the hunter's arrows: let us rushAnd meet them in the battle, man to man,Either to conquer, or, at least, to dieA soldier's death.""Nay nay—not so," replied 565

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