Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/31

 Roll'd undistinguish'd down the stream of Time, 'Till fourteen summers smiling o'er my head Saw my young mind rich with the precious lore Of virtue, and the leeches healing art By him—the good man—taught. "One morn it chanc'd, As wandering thro' the wilds my steps stray'd on, And from the high grass brushed the morning dew, The track of blood alarm'd me; void of fear, For the innocent fear little; eagerly I traced the stain, thinking some mangled fawn Or lamb had from the savage wolf escap'd, And I might haply heal its bleeding wounds. It led me where outstretch'd on the red earth There lay a youth wounded, and faint; his hair Clotted with gore; fast from his side stream'd out The blood; on his pale cheek the cold dews stood, And from his hand the blood-stain'd sword had fall'n. Fearful to leave, yet impotent alone To bear him to our cell—my echoing voice "Calls