XV.

Sauróren’s won! The Gallic host is broken, And thousand prisoners own our conquering hand; Disarmed and guarded well in Victory’s token, But nobly used as fits a generous land. Gaul’s columns fly in many a scattered band To Urtiága’s pass and Ostiz’ steep, By Lusia’s sons pursued with flaming brand. But, ah, Sauróren’s maids and matrons weep, For from the Virgin’s shrine did many a death-bolt leap!