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JOAN OF ARC.
Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his foeman aim'd 570His barbed javelin, there he swung aroundThe guardian shield: now pierced with many a stroke,The Earl's emblazon'd buckler to the earthFell sever'd: from his riven arms the bloodStream'd fast; and now the Frenchman's battle-axe 575Drove unresisted thro the shieldless mail.Backward the Frank recoil'd. "Urge not to deathThis fruitless contest," cried he; "live, oh Chief!Are there not those in England who would feelKeen anguish at thy loss? a wife perchance 580Who trembles for thy safety, or a childNeeding a Father's care!"Then Talbot's heartSmote him. "Warrior! he cried, "if thou dost thinkThat life is worth preserving, hie thee hence,And save thyself: I loath this useless talk." 585
So saying, he address'd him to the fight,Impatient of existence; from their arms

Flash'd

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