214
JOAN OF ARC.
The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sound,
When from the cannon burst its stores of death.
Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles,
And high heap'd carcasses, whence scar'd away 415
From his abhorred meal, on clattering wing
Rose the night-raven slow.
In the English forts,
Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night
Steals in the stragling fugitive; as when,
Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky 420
Serenely shines the sun; with every breeze
The waving branches drop their gather'd rain,
Renewing the remembrance of the storm.
When from the cannon burst its stores of death.
Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles,
And high heap'd carcasses, whence scar'd away 415
From his abhorred meal, on clattering wing
Rose the night-raven slow.
In the English forts,
Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night
Steals in the stragling fugitive; as when,
Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky 420
Serenely shines the sun; with every breeze
The waving branches drop their gather'd rain,
Renewing the remembrance of the storm.
