IX.

And upon Talavera’s glorious hill, Scorched by the glare of Leo’s burning sun, Where drank the rival warriors from the rill, And fired Belluno many a thunderous gun, Which Britain’s warriors fiercely shouting won; And plunged our horsemen down the fearful chasm, Though smote, victorious; and terrific run The flames through shrubs all parched by heat’s miasm, Burning the wounded men who lay in mortal spasm!