XXXVII.

But thirsteth Pride for San Sebastian’s towers, For foiled one effort to surmount her wall; And Death that sweeps each host had swept down our’s A moon before in numbers to appal. ’Tis Honour’s voice, then, bids each bastion fall; Such man’s decree! The galleries swift advance. A triple mine upheaves the firm sea-wall With fierce sulphureous shock. Rocks heavenward dance To ope our troops a path against the sons of France.