V.

In silence stern a British column waits, Till on the summit France a footing get; Then rose the charging cry whose peal elates The Island-warrior’s breast. With bayonets set, They rushed upon the advancing crowd, and wet Was every sod with blood. The broken mass Was down the mountain hurled, as from the net The fisher casts his prey. Impetuous pass Tempestuous bullets showered, and shiver them like glass.