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Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his focman aimed
His barbed javelin, there he swung around
The guardian shield: the long and vain assault
Exhausted Talbot now; foredone with toil
He bare his buckler low for weariness,
His buckler now splintered * with many a stroke
Fell peacemeal; from his riven arms the blood
Streamed fast: and now the Frenchman's bat:le-axe
Drove unresisted thro' the shieldless mail.

Backward the Frank recoiled. Urge not to death " This fruitless contest," cried he; “ live, oh Chief! ~ Are there not those in England who would feel

* L'écu des Chevaliers était ordinairement un bouclier de forme à peu près triangulaire, large par le haut pour couvrir le corps, et se terminant en pointe par le bas, afin d'être moins lourd. On les faisait de bois qu'on recouvrait avec du cuir bouilli, avec des nerfs ou autres matieres dures, mais jamais de fer ou d'acier. Seulement il était permis, pour les empêcher d'être coupés trop aisément par les cpées, d'y mettre un cercle d'or, d'argent, ou de fer, qui les entourât.

Le Grand,

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" Keen anguish at thy loss? a wife perchance “ Who trembles for thy safety, or a child Needing a Father's care !".

Then Talbot's heart Smote him. “ Warrior! he cried, “ if thou dost think “ That life is worth preserving, hie thee hence, “ And save thyself: I loath this useless talk.”

So saying, he addressed him to the fight,
Impatient of existence: from their arms
Flashed fire, and quick they panted; but not long
Endured the deadly combat. With full force
Down thro' his shoulder even to the chest,
Conrade impelled the ponderous battle-axe;
And at that instant underneath his shield
Received the hostile spear. Prone fell the Earl,
Even in his death rejoicing that no foe:
Should live to boast his fall.

Then with faint hand, Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his brow.

Wiping the cold dews, ominous of death,
He laid him on the earth, thence to remove,
While the long lance hung heavy in his side,
Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe
He lay, the Herald of the English Earl
With faltering step drew near, and when he saw
His master's arms,

« Alas! and is it you, My Lord?” he cried. “God pardon you your sins ! “ I have been forty years your officer, «. And time it is I should sarrender now. “ The ensigns of my office!" So he said, And paying thus his rite of sepulture, Threw o'er the slaughtered chief his blazoned * coat.

* This fact is mentioned in Andrews's History of England. I have merely versified the original expressions.

“ The herald of Talbot sought out his body among the slain. “ Alas my Lord! and is it you! I pray God pardon you all your misdoings. I have been your officer of arms forty years and more: it is time that I should surrender to you the ensigns of my office.” Thus saying, with the tears gushing from his eyes, he threw his coat of arms over the corpse, thus performing one of the ancient rites of sepulture."

Then Conrade thus bespake him: - Englishman,
Do for a dying soldier one kind act !
“ Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her hasté
“ Hither, and thou shalt gain what recompénce
It pleases thee to ask.”

The herald soon,
Meeting the missioned Virgin, told his tale.
Treinbling she hastened on, and when she knew
The death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could JOAN
Lift up the expiring warrior's heavy hand,
it to her heart.

" I sent for thee, My friend !" with interrupted voice he cried, " That I might comfort this my dying hour “ With one good deed. A fair domain is mine; « Let Francis and his Isabel possess

That, mine inheritance." He paused awhile, Struggling for utterance; then with breathless speed, And pale as him he mourned for, Francis came, And hung in silence o'er the blameless man,

Even with a brother's sorrow: he pursued, " This JOAN will be thy care. I have at home " An aged mother-Francis, do thou soothe “ Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus :

Sweet to the wretched is the tomb's répose !"

So saying Conrade drew the javelin forth,
And died without a groan.

By this the Scouts,
Forerunning the King's march, upon the plain
Of PATAY had arrived, of late so gay
With marshalled thousands in their radiant arms,
And streamers glittering in the noon-tide sun,
And blazon'd shields, and gay accoutrements,
The pageantry of murder: now defiled
With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms,
And mangled bodies. Soon the Monarch joins
His victor army. Round the royal flag,
Uprear'd in conquest now, the Chieftains flock
Proffering their eager service. To his arms,

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