182
JOAN OF ARC.
For ever the incessant storm of death
Showers down, and shrouded in unwholesome vaults
The wretched females hide, not idle there, 440
Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ'd,
Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal,
Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds:
A sad equality of wretchedness!"
Showers down, and shrouded in unwholesome vaults
The wretched females hide, not idle there, 440
Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ'd,
Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal,
Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds:
A sad equality of wretchedness!"
"Now came the worst of ills, for Famine came! 445
The provident hand deals out its scanty dole,
Yielding so little a supply to life
As but protracted death. The loathliest food
Hunted with eager eye, and dainty deem'd.
The dog is slain, that at his master's feet 450
Howling with hunger lay. With jealous fear,
Hating a rival's look, each man conceals
His miserable meal. The famish'd babe
Clings closely to his dying mother's breast;
And—horrible to tell!—where, thrown aside 455
There lay unburied in the open streets
The provident hand deals out its scanty dole,
Yielding so little a supply to life
As but protracted death. The loathliest food
Hunted with eager eye, and dainty deem'd.
The dog is slain, that at his master's feet 450
Howling with hunger lay. With jealous fear,
Hating a rival's look, each man conceals
His miserable meal. The famish'd babe
Clings closely to his dying mother's breast;
And—horrible to tell!—where, thrown aside 455
There lay unburied in the open streets
"Huge
