XVII.

Soult from the summit of the Grand Monarque (For sight in mountain war is baffled oft, And loftiest points befit the leader’s mark) Beheld the dreadful rout and mourned aloft; Then urged his columns onward, gliding soft To Vera’s fords, his loud artillery’s roar Covering the stream. Our men derisive scoft To see his shells descend destructive o’er His own astounded troops, their ranks molesting sore.