Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/405

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BOOK THE TENTH.
393
The famish'd troop come round: the affrighted muleSnorts loud with terror: on his shuddering limbsThe big sweat starts; convulsive pant his sides; 445Then on he rushes, wild in desperate speed.
Him dealing death an English Knight beheld,And spurr'd his steed to crush him: Conrade leap'dLightly aside, and thro' the Warrior's greevesFix'd a deep wound: nor longer could the foe, 450Tortur'd with anguish, guide his mettled horse,Or his rude plunge endure; headlong he fell,And perish'd. In his castle-hall was hungOn high his father's shield, with many a dintGraced on the blood-drenched plain of Azincour: 455His deeds the son had heard; and when a boy,Listening delighted to the old man's tale,His little hand would lift the weighty spearIn warlike pastime: he had left behindAn infant offspring, and did fondly deem 460He too in age the exploits of his youth

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