XXXII.

Thrice to the deadly summit of the breach Did Morton rush, and thrice was backward borne, Like mariner that, dashed on stormy beach, Swayed by the surge against the cliffs is torn. But nought could drown unconquerable scorn Of death in that young hero. Up once more He rushed to the crest, and fell. Young Blanca, mourn! Thy lover’s heart is pierced, he totters o’er, And falls ’mid heaps of slain--his dirge the artillery’s roar:--

The Rally.

1.

As a torrent that bounds From its mountainous dwelling Obstruction but chafes Into foamier swelling; As snorts the wild bull Whom the banderils pierce, So the death-scattered breach Makes the phalanx more fierce!

2.

Each shower that is cast From the foemen’s fell cannon But makes the assault To lift prouder its pennon. Each shaft from the walls Gives to Valour new wings; O’er each hero that falls See, a new hero springs!

3.

There is that to be done At which nations shall wonder; The scarp shall be our’s, Although tenfold its thunder; In spite of wide Earth, And in spite of deep Hell. Where a Briton resolved, Could a Gaul ever quell?

4.

Come, cannon and musquet, Rain grapeshot and mortar! We laugh at the rattling, We ask for no quarter. By the breach shall we climb To yon turret-clad town, And the tricolor tear From the cavalier down!

5.

On the death-dealing fort Shall we plant our proud standard. Was red-coat e’er seen, Who to cowardice pandered? Each traverse we’ll cross With invincible steel. Then swift to your knees, Or the bayonet feel!

6.

See, see the breach strewn With our corses all gory. ’Tis but the first crop In the harvest of glory! Sebastian is our’s, Though it rain shot and shell. Where a Briton resolved, Could a Gaul ever quell?