BOOK THE SEVENTH.
239
He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd 360
The feather'd dart—with force he drew the bow:
Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string:
Deep in his shield it hung: then Conrade rais'd
Again his echoing voice, and call'd for aid,
Nor was the call unheard: the troops of France, 365
From St. Loup's captur'd fort along the wall
Haste to the portal; cheering was the sound
Of their near footsteps to the Chief: he drew
His falchion forth, and down the steps he rush'd.
Then terror seized the English, for their foes 370
Swarm'd thro' the open portal, and the sword
Of Conrade was among them. Not more fierce
The injur'd Turnus swayed his angry arm,
Slaughtering the robber emigrants of Troy:
Nor with more fury thro' the streets of Paris 375
Rush'd he, the King of Sarza, Rodomont
Clad in his dragon mail.
Like some tall rock,
Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves
The feather'd dart—with force he drew the bow:
Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string:
Deep in his shield it hung: then Conrade rais'd
Again his echoing voice, and call'd for aid,
Nor was the call unheard: the troops of France, 365
From St. Loup's captur'd fort along the wall
Haste to the portal; cheering was the sound
Of their near footsteps to the Chief: he drew
His falchion forth, and down the steps he rush'd.
Then terror seized the English, for their foes 370
Swarm'd thro' the open portal, and the sword
Of Conrade was among them. Not more fierce
The injur'd Turnus swayed his angry arm,
Slaughtering the robber emigrants of Troy:
Nor with more fury thro' the streets of Paris 375
Rush'd he, the King of Sarza, Rodomont
Clad in his dragon mail.
Like some tall rock,
Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves
Waste
