XXXIII.

“But weak the impulse, uncombined the assault; Divisions, jealousies, our councils blight. Too oft on Victory’s field our leaders halt, And leave unplucked the fruit that gleams in sight: Oh, that our men had Chiefs to lead them right. In vain! France rallies through the land once more. Our peasant warriors gather to the fight, But compact serried legions gall them sore. The soiled Escorial holds the Usurper as before!