IX.

“For though the sabre clove, the charger trod, The scattering grape-shot mowed your dense array, Daïz, Velarde gave their souls to God In no unprospering cause that gallant day! If hundred martyrs perished in the fray, ’Twas myriad men to rouse through prostrate Spain. Not Murat’s arm could bend her to obey. Judicial murder bared the knife in vain-- The priestly rite denied--the unoffending slain!