BOOK THE FIFTH.
167
Shakes its hoarse head. Anon with louder din; 175
And thro' the opening glade gleamed many a fire.
The Virgin's tent they enter'd. There the board
Was spread. The Wanderer, of the fare partook,
Then thus her tale renew'd.
"Slow o'er the hill
Whose rising head conceal'd our cot I past, 180
Yet on my journey paus'd awhile, and gaz'd,
And wept—for often had I crost the hill
With chearful step, and seen the rising smoke
Of hospitable fire. Alas! no smoke
Curl'd o'er the melancholy chimneys now. 185
Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood
The Abbey—and ere long I learnt the fall
Of Jenville.
"On a day, a soldier ask'd
For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet
Support me. It was Francis, and alone— 190
The sole survivor of the fatal fight!
And thro' the opening glade gleamed many a fire.
The Virgin's tent they enter'd. There the board
Was spread. The Wanderer, of the fare partook,
Then thus her tale renew'd.
"Slow o'er the hill
Whose rising head conceal'd our cot I past, 180
Yet on my journey paus'd awhile, and gaz'd,
And wept—for often had I crost the hill
With chearful step, and seen the rising smoke
Of hospitable fire. Alas! no smoke
Curl'd o'er the melancholy chimneys now. 185
Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood
The Abbey—and ere long I learnt the fall
Of Jenville.
"On a day, a soldier ask'd
For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet
Support me. It was Francis, and alone— 190
The sole survivor of the fatal fight!
"And
