170
JOAN OF ARC.
The foe. The hollow chambers of the dead
Echoed beneath. The brazen-trophied tomb
Thrown in the furnace, now prepares to give 225
The death it late recorded. It was sad
To see so wide a waste; the aged ones
Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went
O'er the fall'n dwellings of their happier years;
The stern and sullen silence of the men 230
Musing on vengeance: and but ill represt
The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd
Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay
One ample ruin; the huge stones remov'd,
Wait in the town to rain the storm of death." 235
Echoed beneath. The brazen-trophied tomb
Thrown in the furnace, now prepares to give 225
The death it late recorded. It was sad
To see so wide a waste; the aged ones
Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went
O'er the fall'n dwellings of their happier years;
The stern and sullen silence of the men 230
Musing on vengeance: and but ill represt
The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd
Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay
One ample ruin; the huge stones remov'd,
Wait in the town to rain the storm of death." 235
"And now without the walls the desolate plain
Stretch'd wide, a rough and melancholy waste.
With uptorn pavements and foundations deep
Of many a ruined dwelling—horrid scene!
Nor was within less drear. At evening hour 240
No more the merry tabor's note was heard,
Stretch'd wide, a rough and melancholy waste.
With uptorn pavements and foundations deep
Of many a ruined dwelling—horrid scene!
Nor was within less drear. At evening hour 240
No more the merry tabor's note was heard,
"No
