X.

And on Busaco’s horrid mountain-crest, Where topples o’er the crags the convent-tower, And bayonets bristled o’er the eagle’s nest. The foeman climbs the steep with wondrous power, But swift our charging files their host devour, And down the mountain-side they slaughtered roll. Massena rash, of valour Ney the flower, Vainly up wooded dell and pine-clad knoll Urged their fierce veterans. Our’s that day was Glory’s goal!