BOOK THE SEVENTH.
253
When over wild Caffraria's wooded hills,
Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herd
Fly the death-boding sound. The forts they seek.
Now reckless which, so from that battle's rage 625
A present refuge. On their flying ranks
The victors press, and mark their course with blood.
Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herd
Fly the death-boding sound. The forts they seek.
Now reckless which, so from that battle's rage 625
A present refuge. On their flying ranks
The victors press, and mark their course with blood.
But loud the trumpet of retreat resounds,
For now the westering sun with many a hue
Streak'd the gay clouds.
"Dunois!" the Maiden cried, 630
"Form we around yon stronger pile the siege,
There for the night encamping." So she said.
The Chief to Orleans for their needful food,
And enginery to batter that huge pile,
Dismiss'd a troop, and round the Tournelles led 635
The host beleagering. There they pitch their tents,
And plant their engines for the morrow's war,
Then to their meal, and o'er the chearful bowl,
Recount the tale of danger; soon to rest
Betaking them, for now the night drew on. 640
For now the westering sun with many a hue
Streak'd the gay clouds.
"Dunois!" the Maiden cried, 630
"Form we around yon stronger pile the siege,
There for the night encamping." So she said.
The Chief to Orleans for their needful food,
And enginery to batter that huge pile,
Dismiss'd a troop, and round the Tournelles led 635
The host beleagering. There they pitch their tents,
And plant their engines for the morrow's war,
Then to their meal, and o'er the chearful bowl,
Recount the tale of danger; soon to rest
Betaking them, for now the night drew on. 640
