With repetitions harsh the vacuum fill;

When from their iron jaws the thunders cease,
Leaving incontinent the winds at peace;
Against the ramparts scaling ladders rose,
Already bearing squadrons of its foes,

With foot on step, and grasped in hand the glave,
Each soldier urges on his comrade brave.

Nor Poton or La Hire in peril dire,

That foresight had forgot which all admire,

Each change of fate they watched with prudent eye,
Prepared to meet each cast of fortune's die;
There was the molten pitch; the boiling oil;

Of stakes a forest to make foes recoil,

Large cutting scythes in sharp array were seen,
Emblems of death, destructive weapons keen;
And muskets launching forth the storms of lead,
Tempestuous rattling round each Briton's head.
All that necessity combined with art,
Misfortune, intrepidity, impart,

And, fear itself, alike were marshalled there,
The deeds ensanguined of that day to share.

How many Britons then were boiled, pierced, riven,
Dying in crowds, and ranks on ranks hard driven;
Just so beneath a hundred hands we view,
Cropt yellow ears the harvest's plain bestrew.

Still the attack's pursued with courage stern,
With numbers falling, numbers still return;
Like Hydra with creative powers imbued,

To earth heads falling, are by heads renewed;
Yet these affrighted not the son of Jove,

And Britons thus, through fire and carnage drove,
More formidable still though efforts fail,
And brave, in mastering numbers that assail.

Fierce Richemont, hope of Orleans in the fight,
Thou didst rush onward to the ramparts' height;
Five hundred citizens, a chosen band,

Reeling, march forward under thy command,
Illumined by the generous wine's oblation,
Its zest excelling virtuous animation;

As daring Richemont bellowed out amain:
"Your legs, good folks, your weight cannot sustain ;
But I'm your head, 'tis fit we come to blows."
He spake, then rushed 'mid thickest of the foes;
Talbot already had carved out a way

Along the ramparts, urged by fury's sway;

One direful arm hurled foes to death's drear night,
The other urged his phalanx to the fight,
Crying out: "Louvet," in stentorian vein.

By Louvet heard, he thought it honor's strain;
Thus "Louvet " sounded forth from Britain's band,
Though not a soul the cause could understand;
Oh! stupid mortals, with what ease we teach
Your tongues those things which are beyond our
reach.

in sadness Charles within the fort was locked, Fast by another English cohort blocked;

The town besieged, unable thus to gain,

His soul of ennui felt the dreadful bane;

"What!" he exclaimed, " and must I thus stand by, Nor succor those who in my service die? With joyous hymns, their sire's return they hailed, I should have entered-fought, perhaps prevailed; And saved them from inhuman Britain's bands, But here sad destiny enchains my hands!" "Ah, no," quoth Joan, "'tis fitting you be seen, Come, signalize your blows; let vengeance keen These Britons place 'twixt you and Orleans town; March on, the city save, and reap renown; Though small our band, we thousands boast in you." "What!" quoth the monarch, "canst thou flatter too?

My worth's but small, yet soon my name shall teem, Deserving Gaul's as well as thine esteem;

And England's too"- he spake, spurred on for fame.

Before his person, streamed the oriflamme;
Joan and Dunois both galloped at his side,
Horsemen behind, to list his orders ride,
And 'midst a thousand cries is heard to ring:
"Long live St. Denis, Montjoie, and the King."
Charles, Dunois, and of Barr the haughty belle,
Rushed on the rear of Britain's sons, pell mell;
As from those hills whose entrails vast confine,
The reservoirs of Danube and the Rhine;
Or as the eagle towering with wings spread,
Fixed piercing eye, and pointed talons dread,