XIII.

For nought could baffle England’s trusted Chief, Who Marmont’s lines on Salamanca’s plain Smote like a thunderbolt, keen--rapid--brief, And rent his legions like a shattered chain! And at Vitoria wrenched the crown of Spain From the poor tremulous Usurper’s hand, The spoils of Empire seized, a countless train Of cannon, standards, eagles--trophies grand-- Nor, fiery Jourdan, least, thy bâton of command!