XXXVIII.

“Roriça, hail! Vimièiro, blest thy sod! For there the might of France is hurled to dust. The robber-host is victory-smote by God. Junot retires with all his spoils unjust, But sated once for aye his gory lust! And other fields by England’s might are tried, In Heaven and in her arm reposing trust. Corunna’s heights see crushed the Gaulish pride, But sad the victory gained where Moore heroic died.