XXVII.

Upon thy buckler, Gaul, terrific rang Vittoria’s powerful stroke, and reeling back Thy phantom-King to tall Pyrene sprang; Thy shattered Army, sorrowing deep for lack Of conquest or of guiding, fell to wrack, By the great arm of Arthur paralyzed, Till rapid Soult, when loured the sky most black, From Dresden rushed and chaos methodized: No Marshal-Chief, be sure, Napoléon higher prized.