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Perfom'd a friendly part, hastening the hour Grief else had soon brought on. The English chief, Pointing again his arbalist, let loose The string; the quarrel, by that impact driven, True to its aim, fled fatal: one it struck Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd Deep in his liver; blood and mingled gall Flow'd from the wound, and writhing with keen pangs, Headlong he fell. He for the wintry hour Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale, A man in his small circle well beloved. None better knew with prudent hand to guide The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time To press the full-swollen clusters; he, heart-glad, Taught his young boys the little all he knew, Enough for happiness. The English host Laid waste his fertile fields: he, to the war, By want compelled, adventured, in his gore Now weltering. Nor the Gallic host remit Their eager efforts; some, the watery fence, Beneath the tortoise roofed, with engines apt Drain painful; part, laden with wood, throw there Their buoyant burdens, laboring so to gain Firm footing: some the mangonels supply, Or charging with huge stones the murderous sling, Or petrary, or in the espringal Fix the brass-winged arrows: hoarse around The uproar and the din of multitudes Arose. Along the ramparts Gargrave went, Cheering the English troops; a bow he bore; The quiver rattled as he moved along. He knew aright to aim his feathered shafts, Well skilled to pierce the mottled roebuck's side, O'ertaken in his speed. Him passing on, A ponderous stone from some huge martinet, Struck: on his breastplate falling, the huge weight Shattered the bone, and to his mangled lungs Drove in the fragments. On the gentle brow Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home, A stately mansion, far and wide from whence The sight ranged unimpeded, and surveyed Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety! The traveller knew its hospitable towers, For open were the gates, and blazed for all The friendly fire. By glory lured, the youth Went forth; and he had bathed his falchion's edge In many a Frenchman's blood; now crush'd beneath The ponderous fragments' force, his lifeless limbs Lie quivering. Lo! towards the levelled moat, A moving tower, the men of Orleans wheel Four stages elevate. Above was hung, Equalling the walls, a bridge; in the lower stage A battering-ram: within a chosen troop Of archers, through the opening, shot their shafts. In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepared To mount the rampart; for, no hunter he, He loved to see the dappled foresters Browze fearless on their lair, with friendly eye, And happy in beholding happiness, Not meditating death: the bowman's art Therefore he little knew, nor was he wont To aim the arrow at the distant foe, But uprear in close conflict, front to front, His battle-axe, and break the shield and helm, First in the war of men. There too the Maid Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower, Slow o'er the moat and steady, though the foe Showered there their javelins, aimed their engines there, And from the arbalist the fire-tipt dart Shot burning through the sky. In vain it flamed For well with many a reeking hide secured, Passed on the dreadful pile, and now it reached The wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven, The iron headed engine swings its stroke, Then back recoils; while they within who guide, In backward step collecting all their strength, Anon the massy beam with stronger arm Drive full and fierce. So rolls the swelling sea Its curly billows to the unmoved foot Of some huge promontory, whose broad base Breaks the rough wave; the shivered surge rolls back, Till, by the coming billow borne, it bursts Again, and foams with ceaseless violence: The wanderer, on the sunny clift outstretched, Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock His weary senses to forgetfulness.

But nearer danger threats the invaders now, For on the ramparts, lowered from above The bridge reclines. A universal shout Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant French Break out in loud rejoicing, whilst the foe Raise a responsive cry, and call aloud For speedy succor there, with deafening shout Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din The mountain torrent flings precipitate Its bulk of waters, though amid the fall Shattered, and dashing silvery from the rock.

Lo! on the bridge forth comes the undaunted man, Conrade! the gathered foes along the wall Throng opposite, and on him point their pikes, Cresting with armed men the battlements. He undismayed, though on that perilous height, Stood firm, and hurled his javelin; the keen point Pierced through the destined victim, where his arm Joined the broad breast: a wound which skilful care Haply had healed; but, him disabled now For further service, the unpitying throng Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to throw His deadly javelins fast, for well within The tower was stored with weapons, to his hand Quickly supplied. Nor did the missioned Maid Rest idle from the combat; she, secure, Aimed the keen quarrel; taught the crossbow's use By the willing mind that what it well desires Gains aptly: nor amid the numerous throng, Though haply erring from their destined mark, Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower