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There is confusion in the English camp. Bid them come forth." On Conrade's steed the youth Leapt up, and hasten'd onward, He the while Turn'd to the war.                    Like two conflicting clouds, Pregnant with thunder, moved the hostile hosts. Then man met man, then on the batter'd shield Rung the loud lance, and through the darken'd sky Fast fell the arrowy storm. Amid his foes The Bastard's arm dealt irresistibly The strokes of death; and by his side the Maid Led the fierce fight, the Maid, though all unused To such rude conflict, now inspired by Heaven, Flashing her flamy falchion through the troops, That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell, Scatter'd the trembling ranks. The Saracen, Though arm'd from Cashbin or Damascus, wields A weaker sword; nor might that magic blade Compare with this, which Oriana saw Flame in the ruffian Ardan's robber hand, Wlien, sick and cold as death, she turn'd away Her dizzy eyes, lest they should see the fall Of her own Amadis. Nor plated shield. Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque, Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved Like as the Angel of the Lord went forth And smote his army, when the Assyrian king, Haughty of Hamath and Sepharvaim fallen, Blasphemed the God of Israel. Yet the fight Hung doubtful, where exampling hardiest deeds, Salisbury struck down the foe, and Fastolffe strove, And in the hottest doings of the war Towered Talbot. He, remembering the past day When from his name the affrighted sons of France Fled trembling, all astonish'd at their force And wontless valor, rages round the field Dreadful in anger; yet in every man Meeting a foe fearless, and in the faith Of Heaven's assistance firm. The clang of arms Reaches the walls of Orleans. For the war Prepared, and confident of victory, Forth speed the troops. Not when afar exhaled The hungry raven snuffs the steam of blood That from some carcass-cover'd field of fame Taints the pure air, flies he more eagerly To feed upon the slain, than the Orleanites, Impatient now for many an ill endured In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray; The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun Now quench'd in blood their radiance. O'er the host Howl'd a deep wind that ominous of storms Roll'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night Frown'd, and the thunder from the troubled sky Roar'd hollow. Javelins clash'd and bucklers rang; Shield prest on shield; loud on the helmet jarr'd The ponderous battle-axe; the frequent groan Of death commingling with the storm was heard, And the shrill shriek of fear. Even such a storm Before the walls of Chartres quell'd the pride Of the third Edward, when the heavy hail Smote down his soldiers, and the conqueror heard in the tempest, and remembered then With a remorseful sense of Christian fear What misery he had caused, and in the name Of blessed Mary vowed a vow of peace.

Lo! where the holy banner waved aloft, The lambent lightnings play. Irradiate round, As with a blaze of glory, o'er the field It stream'd miraculous splendor. Then their hearts Sunk, and the English trembled; with such fear Possess'd, as when the Canaanites beheld The sun stand still on Gibeon, at the voice Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote The country of the hills, and of the south, From Baal-gad to Halak, and their chiefs. Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fled From that portentous banner, and the sword Of France; though Talbot with vain valiancy Yet urged the war, and stemm'd alone the tide Of battle. Even their leaders felt dismay; Fastolffe fled first, and Salisbury in the rout Mingled, and all impatient of defeat. Borne backward Talbot turns. Then echoed loud The cry of conquest, deeper grew the storm, And darkness, hovering o'er on raven wing, Brooded the field of death. Nor in the camp Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives; On to the forts they haste. Bewilder'd there Amid the moats by fear and the thick gloom Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops, Crush'd by fast-following numbers, who partake The death they give. As swol'n with vernal snows A mountain torrent hurries on its way, Till at the brink of some abrupt descent Arrived, with deafening clamor down it falls, Thus borne along, tumultuously the troops Driven by the force behind them, plunge amid The liquid death. Then rose the dreadful cries More dreadful, and the dash of breaking waters That to the passing lightning as they broke Open'd their depth. Nor of the host so late Exultant in the pride of long success, A remnant had escaped, had not their chief, Slow as he moved unwilling from the field, What most might profit the defeated ranks Bethought him. He, when he had gain'd the fort Named from St. John, there kindled up on high The guiding fire. Not unobserved it rose; The watchful guards on Tournelles, and the pile Of that proud city in remembrance fond Call'd London, light their beacons. Soon the fires Flame on the summit of the circling forts, Which, with their moats and crenellated walls, Included Orleans. Far across the plain They cast a lurid splendor; to the troops Grateful, as to the way-worn traveller, Wandering with parch'd feet o'er Arabian sands, The far-seen cistern; he for many a league Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved With tempest swell the desert billows round, Pauses, and shudders at his perils past,