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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^[1]
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
God 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.^[2]

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,

1. ???
2. ???