XXIII.

The hour is come! The stream of valour doomed Pours through the openings of the huge seawall. Death reaps even now his harvest. Deep entombed I’ the earth full twoscore men like raindrops fall, By premature mine that else had swallowed all! Unchecked the rush of that tremendous crowd, And far beyond the Hope Forlorn appal The bristling ramparts, as with daring proud They fly to the horrid breach,--tho’ Hell should yawn, uncowed!