XXVIII.

A precipice beneath o’erhung the bridge Of Yanzi. Hurrying past the French were seen Along the dread defile. Upon the ridge His men by Morton ranged their firelocks keen Discharged. ’Mongst clustering shrubs his rifles green Did Nial gather lower down the steep. Oh, dire the calls of duty oft had been, But direst this! The chieftains almost weep; The men avert their heads, Death’s harvest while they reap.