XXII.

’Twas gallant Rey, who made a night-sortie-- Last effort tried ere come the dire assault. Our piquets on the Isthmus slaughtered see, Ta’en by surprise or ere they can cry Halt! Loud rose the Frenchmen’s _En avant!_ At fault, Our sentries for a time unaided bleed, The deadly death-tubes rending the black vault; But soon a furious contest raged indeed-- Our startled piquets rush, their firelocks flash with speed.