XXIV.

But o’er the heights that gird the fearful pass Our troops are gathered soon, and France doth quake, For now the terrible defile in mass Her legions enter. Many a brow doth ache. Our warriors’ death-shots direful havoc make. They quail--they fly--confused disorder reigns. Rank upon rank doth every instant break, Nor Soult’s commanding voice the rout restrains. They pass, but many a captive leave to mourn his chains.