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JOAN OF ARC.
More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound 415Of clanking anvils, and the lengthened breath Provoking fire are heard: and now they reach A vast expanded den, where all around Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze, Flamed dreadful. At the heaving bellows stood 420The meagre form of Care, and as he blew To augment the fire, the fire augmented, scorch'd His wretched limbs: sleepless for ever thus He toil'd and toil'd, of toil to reap no end But endless toil, and never-ending woe. 425
An aged man went round the infernal vault Urging his workmen at their ceaseless task: White were his locks, as is the wintry snow On hoar Plinlimmons head. A golden staff His steps supported; powerful talisman, 430Which whoso feels shall never feel again The tear of Pity or the throb of Love. Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way,

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