XXXII.

On Ivantelly’s giant peak they fling Their last defiance--soon their hope doth melt, Like hoar upon a sunny morn in Spring, For there our light brigades their way have felt Through mist thick gathering, as erewhile it dwelt Upon Lizasso’s brow, but not to arrest Again our footsteps. Many a blow they dealt, Though viewless fatal. Through the clouds they guest The foeman’s shadowy form, and scaled the mountain’s breast.