JOAN of ARC.
BOOK THE EIGHTH.
Now was the noon of night; and all was still
Save where the centinel paced on his rounds
Humming a broken song. Along the camp
High flames the frequent fire. The warrior Franks,
On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs5
Fatigued, their spears lay by them, and the shield
Pillowed the helmed head: secure they slept,
And busy Fancy in her dream renewed
The fight of yesterday.
But not to JOAN,
But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid,10
Soother of sorrows, Sleep! no more her pulse,
Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast,
Save where the centinel paced on his rounds
Humming a broken song. Along the camp
High flames the frequent fire. The warrior Franks,
On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs5
Fatigued, their spears lay by them, and the shield
Pillowed the helmed head: secure they slept,
And busy Fancy in her dream renewed
The fight of yesterday.
But not to JOAN,
But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid,10
Soother of sorrows, Sleep! no more her pulse,
Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast,
Allow'd
