XXIX.

The Bayonnette is won! The mountain’s brow Doth bear a signal-tower whose beechen arms Soult’s mandates wonted to transmit till now, And o’er his lines convey with magic charms Of fleetness War’s instructions and alarms. “Now down,” quoth Nial, “with the wooden head, Whose baleful movement oft the Spaniard harms. His clumsy flourishes through æther sped No more shall wound the Allies, no more by Soult be read.”