But France though vanquished oft doth oft renew

The assault which British arms alone can quell.

Her columns fresh the wrested prize pursue,

And at the SiÉrra’s foot their numbers swell.

Exhausted War’s munitions now, so well

Have England’s sons with fire the foeman plied,

And anxious eyes upon their leaders dwell:—

“See, see, brave hearts,” young Morton stoutly cried,

“While rocks like these abound, we’ll guard the mountain’s side!”

And at the word he loosed with might and main

Such stone immense as feigned Æolides

In Orcus tortured flung. Down to the plain

It rolleth bounding with gigantic ease,

The mountain shaking, crashing through the trees,

Dislodging many a smaller granite mass.

Appalled its dire approach the foeman sees.

On, on it rolls, still thundering o’er the grass,

Till in the vale it rests, nor dares the Gaul to pass.

And on the foremost crest our men have now

Full many a rock’s Aiantine volume rolled;

Prepared to hurl them from the mountain-brow,

Their powerful hands this rude artillery hold,

Should thirst of vengeance make the assailants hold.

But men who Death had braved in every form

Of War’s destruction known to them of old,

Before this unfamiliar mountain-storm

Have quailed, and our’s the height all strewn with corses warm.

O’er ZabaldÍca and the torrent Lanz

Frowned a steep hill, where Spain her sons had placed

Beneath Murillo. There the host of France

Its efforts now concentring urged with haste,

And tirailleur and voltigeur embraced

The peak around, while marched Clausel and Reille

Their columns dense along the mountain-waste.

They charged—PravÍa stood the shock awhile,

But numbers soon o’erpower Hesperia’s broken file.

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.

But France not yet retires, for on this day

PyrenÉ’s fate and her’s will be decided.

Though, man ’gainst man, their courage melts away,

The charge by Gaulish chiefs again is guided—

Again the powers of Fate and Death derided!

Thrice the assault’s renewed, and thrice each chief

His wearied men doth onward drag to bide it.

In vain! The British shock makes contest brief.

Faint, spiritless, abashed, the foemen seek relief.

And Gaul, her infantry thus forced to yield,

Now tries the onset of her dashing horse;

And charging through the valley shakes the field

With thunderous gallop, trampling fallen horse

And writhing wounded men without remorse.

Our bold hussars beside the river’s edge

With flaming carbines they would backward force;

Their chargers’ strength they wield like potent wedge,

And strive to urge our men adown the rocky ledge.

Our fiery squadrons standing in reserve

Now join the mÊlÉe, flashing fast around

Pistol and carbine—then with powerful nerve

They bathe their swords in blood at every bound,

While ’neath the shock terrific quakes the ground.

See, where yon huge heart-piercÉd rider falls;

His horse affrighted at the clattering sound

Drags him by th’ foot which still the stirrup thralls,

Till Death arrests them both ’mid storm of flying balls.

Oh, generous, strong, and fleet are England’s steeds,

And mettled high their riders even as they!

Though with the cavalier the horse too bleeds,

Yet horse and cavalier have won the day.

Two Gaulish chiefs have perished in the fray.

To the streamlet edge the foe is backward driven;

With spur deep-plunged he leaps the stream—away!

But many a jaded horse his life hath given

Headlong adown the bank, where rider too is riven.

On every side now Britain’s foes repelled

Feel that to stand before her might is vain;

Our strong position is securely held—

Lords of the mountain, masters of the plain

From Vascongada’s frontier to the main.

Our batteries planted on the bloody hill

Before the Virgin’s shrine their death-shot rain

From far Illurdos to Elcano’s rill,

From towering CristovÁl to Oricain at will.

But D’Erlon hath concentred all his force,

And seeks, by steep Buenza, Hill to crush.

O’erpowering numbers urge their onward course,

And Hill retires—but not till he doth hush

The fire of D’Armagnac with torrent rush.

By Lecumberri Soult essays a path

To San Sebastian through our line to push.

But eye more keenly sure great Arthur hath,

And breaks the foe’s design with counter-stroke of wrath.

With rapid steps Zubiri Picton gains;

His skirmishers molest Foy’s shattered flank.

From ZabaldÍca’s crest Foy sees the plains

Strewn with the flower of many a fallen rank.

But powerless he for aid—the bayonet drank

Upon the hill the life-blood of his corps,

Where before Cole’s assault his veterans sank,

While gallant Inglis down the mountain o’er

Clausel and Conroux falls with shock that frights them sore.

And headlong from the Sierra Byng, too, comes

To where Maucune the smiling village keeps.

Our cannon from the height the ear benumbs;

The bullets crash where that Arcadia sleeps,

And many a peasant for his Lares weeps.

Along the valley booms the thunderous sound;

And quivering child and pallid virgin creeps

For shelter to the mountain-caves around,

While swells the demon-strife, and death-shot ploughs the ground.

SaurÓren bridge where late great Arthur wrote

His rapid mandate o’er the torrent’s fall,

The deep Lanz valley by the thunder smote,

The hills above, the blooming village—all

Are covered o’er with dense, sulphureous pall;

And musketry its sharp and rattling peal

Incessant echoes ’gainst the mountain-wall.

While fills the glen tumultuous shot and steel,

The volumed smoke can scarce the form of death reveal.

SaurÓren’s won! The Gallic host is broken,

And thousand prisoners own our conquering hand;

Disarmed and guarded well in Victory’s token,

But nobly used as fits a generous land.

Gaul’s columns fly in many a scattered band

To UrtiÁga’s pass and Ostiz’ steep,

By Lusia’s sons pursued with flaming brand.

But, ah, SaurÓren’s maids and matrons weep,

For from the Virgin’s shrine did many a death-bolt leap!

As mariners who on a stormy sea

The magnet lose that guides them o’er the wave;

As warriors marshalled oft to victory,

Who lose the sacred banner of the brave:

So with their tears these mountain-children lave

Lanz’ trodden glen; for, ah, the diadem

That girds the Virgin’s brow no more shall save.

Death rained on Lanz beneath each sparkling gem.

A Madre de DolÓr is Mary now to them!

Night falls around—in dark and dense defile

Nial and Morton with their gallant host,

Where even by daylight rarest sunbeams smile,

In Leron’s frightful wilderness are lost.

By frowning precipice, through crags high-tost

By earthquakes old—through forests grimly black,

Like ghosts they wandered, crost and then re-crost,

Nor pathway saw to forward move or back,

Nor means of exit found, nor even a desert-track.

“Cheer up, my friends,” said Nial; “whom the foe

“Hath ne’er made flinch the forest shall not quell.

“Full many a pine-branch waves at hand to show

“The way—no torch so fitly or so well.”

Then many a pine-branch torn, with resinous smell

Told of its fiery aliment—the flash

Of muskets gave them kindling.—Through the dell,

Waving on high these flaming brands they dash,

And to their comrades shout who tempt the forest rash.

Thus on they moved through thicket, glen, and brake,

By precipice, and crag, and torrent brink,

And yawning chasm that made the boldest quake,

Till without end the dark ravine they think;

And wildered many a foot by flaming link,

That guided few save them the links who bore:

Benighted thus till with fatigue they sink,

Steep crag and glen profound they wandered o’er,

Their beacon fires alight—but none can find a shore.

And pealed their shouts incessant through the gloom,

With clamour wounding the dull ear of Night,

Till as in churchyards peopled grows each tomb

To midnight wanderers, rose their souls to fright

Infernal Phantoms! On each towering height

Seemed demons sprung with torches from their den,

Their footsteps to mislead with Hellish light;

Till Morning rose, and showed the mount and glen

All strewn with faces wan and worn and wearied men.

But daylight woke their hearts to hope and joy;

Refreshment needful cheered their bivouac.

The column they rejoined without annoy:

And there of gladness was, I ween, no lack,

Where soldiers hailed their former comrades back.

Now Soult by perils prest hath outlet none,

Save by Maria’s pass with omens black;

And swiftly, near Lizasso, Hill hath won

Upon his rear, unchecked by Leo’s burning sun.

His cannon opened loud with bellowing sound,

And ’neath its deadly roar the French ascend;

Till near the summit of the pass they found

A wood that stretched its branches to befriend.

Yet see, they turn, and skirmishers defend

The steep, but Stewart leads the stern assault.

Soon broke their files, their menace soon doth end.

Headlong they fly, and dareth none to halt—

But thickest mist doth fall—and leave our men at fault.

Thus MenelaÜs, while his brazen spear

Thirsting for Paris’ blood is brandished high,

No longer sees the slender youth appear,

But riseth cloud to thwart his vengeance nigh,

Which Aphrodite gliding from the sky

(So sings MÆonia’s bard) doth interpose;

And even while glares Atrides’ conquering eye,

And to his men the adulterer’s helm he throws,

The mist o’erspreads his form and shields from deathful blows.

But o’er the heights that gird the fearful pass

Our troops are gathered soon, and France doth quake,

For now the terrible defile in mass

Her legions enter. Many a brow doth ache.

Our warriors’ death-shots direful havoc make.

They quail—they fly—confused disorder reigns.

Rank upon rank doth every instant break,

Nor Soult’s commanding voice the rout restrains.

They pass, but many a captive leave to mourn his chains.

To Yanzi now! where narrower still the cleft

Which France must pass. By ZubiÉta came

Our Light Division, ne’er of hope bereft

To reach the ground ere Gaul can thwart the aim

That there full terrible her pride shall tame.

Our warriors through ElgoriÁga glide,

Fatigue exhausting many a wearied frame,

And toil they faintly up the mountain-side;

But Morton urged their zeal, and Nial touched their pride.

Light-hearted chieftain-boys! No knapsacks they,

No firelock’s weight, no full cartouches bore.

The promptings of their valour they obey;

And Leo’s sun in vain o’er them doth pour

His maddening rays—for courage warms them more!

But clambering Santa Cruz’s torrid steep,

Full many a soldier fell convulsed, while gore

And froth commixed their parchÉd mouths o’erleap,

And respite found from toil in Death’s eternal sleep!

And leaned their comrades on their firelocks then,

Whose spirits stern had ne’er before been quelled;

And muttered, “What could more be asked of men?”

And for an instant’s time almost rebelled.

But rose a tear to Morton’s eye, and held

His forehead Nial aching at the sight

Of warriors whom fatigue like death-shot felled.

When saw the men their leaders felt aright,

A hearty cheer they gave, and scaled the fearful height.

A precipice beneath o’erhung the bridge

Of Yanzi. Hurrying past the French were seen

Along the dread defile. Upon the ridge

His men by Morton ranged their firelocks keen

Discharged. ’Mongst clustering shrubs his rifles green

Did Nial gather lower down the steep.

Oh, dire the calls of duty oft had been,

But direst this! The chieftains almost weep;

The men avert their heads, Death’s harvest while they reap.

For pistol-shot might reach the hastening throng,

Who through the horrid chasm defenceless crowd.

The wounded men on branches borne along

Were flung to earth—in vain their voices loud

Implored for aid, all trampled in the shroud

That wrapt them blood-besmeared. Confusion dire

Possest the ranks. The bravest horsemen cowed

Charged up the pass to escape the avenger’s ire;

The footman ’gainst the hussar was forced to turn his fire.

And many a stalwart cavalier and horse

Was headlong flung in Echallara’s stream,

And many an ailing man was soon a corse;

From many a musket fires defensive teem,

Held skyward—but in vain their flashes gleam,

For terrible our vantage. Some too rushed

In veteran might o’er Yanzi’s bridge, and deem

Our flank to gall, but soon their fire was hushed.

The wounded quarter sued—’twas given by conquerors flushed.

And prisoners fell by thousands in our hands,

And all the convoy, treasure, spoil was our’s.

At Echallar and Ivantelly stands

The foe once more, and tempts the leaguering powers;

But daring Barnes upon the mountain towers

With lion-heart, and smites the clustering foe.

Though five to one their number ’gainst us lours,

In vain the armÉd throng withstands the blow.

The fortress-crag is won—the French are hurled below.

On Ivantelly’s giant peak they fling

Their last defiance—soon their hope doth melt,

Like hoar upon a sunny morn in Spring,

For there our light brigades their way have felt

Through mist thick gathering, as erewhile it dwelt

Upon Lizasso’s brow, but not to arrest

Again our footsteps. Many a blow they dealt,

Though viewless fatal. Through the clouds they guest

The foeman’s shadowy form, and scaled the mountain’s breast.

Through misty veil that crowns the topmost crags

Doth Nial with his rifles plunge amain;

Nor Morton with his light battalion lags.

Gaul’s chosen grenadiers Clausel with pain

Sees from the mist emerging to the plain.

Sharp rings the rifle;—with sonorous roll

The musketry less keen replies—in vain!

Disordered France retires, and rends the pole

Our shout victorious raised—the peak is Glory’s goal!

Pyrene’s won! Upon the tallest crest

Did Nial, Morton mark with fond embrace

The crowning victory. Why together rest

Their eyes, the mist now melted, on that place

Beneath? Ye Powers! It is great Arthur’s face.

The flying French have eyed him too where o’er

His mountain charts, and plans of war the base,

With escort small intently he doth pore,

And none suspects the prize the foemen swift explore.

Rushed Nial, Morton madly down the steep

In generous rivalry who first should reach

To avert the peril. Roelike was each leap

From crag to crag—they are come—the danger teach,

Which Arthur learns with gracious smile to each.

Swift to his charger strong the Chieftain springs:

The Frenchmen’s bullets whistle vain as Speech

Where Action’s wanting. See, his steed hath wings;

And safe is he whose fate had sealed the doom of Kings!

Strove Arthur long to learn which youth he owed

For safety and deliverance gratitude;

But Nial said ’twas Morton forward strode

The first, and Morton urged that Nial viewed

The peril soonest—Friendship’s generous feud!

Where each desired that each the prize should hoard;

And eyes that witnessed it were tear-bedewed.

Great Arthur gave each noble youth a sword,

That bore his mighty name—magnificent reward!

But thirsteth Pride for San Sebastian’s towers,

For foiled one effort to surmount her wall;

And Death that sweeps each host had swept down our’s

A moon before in numbers to appal.

’Tis Honour’s voice, then, bids each bastion fall;

Such man’s decree! The galleries swift advance.

A triple mine upheaves the firm sea-wall

With fierce sulphureous shock. Rocks heavenward dance

To ope our troops a path against the sons of France.

And pant for glory ’midst their brave compeers

Nial and Morton—keen as curbÉd steed.

Though soft their souls in love to melt in tears,

In war they could unmoved see hundreds bleed.

Of passionate fervour was their patriot creed,

And next to Heaven they loved their native land.

With Blanca there to fly, when Spain was freed,

Before the frowning wall young Morton planned,

And murmur thus his lips while waits his eager band:—

Nor slow was Rey the city to defend,

Exhausting all the arts that War supplies.

A yawning chasm within the breach doth end;

Loopholed with fire a counterwall defies

Approach;—where’er the rampart broken lies,

A traverse cuts it off—the streets are trenched;

Mines trebly charged prepare to blot the skies

With shattered limb, and head from shoulder wrenched,

Of him who dares the assault, yet not a cheek is blenched!

And strongest whetstone of fierce Valour’s edge

Thy name, NapolÉon! For thee would dare

Thy Guard to leap adown Destruction’s ledge,

For thee would scoff in mockery of Despair!

Genius and energy thou well couldst share

With all thy Chiefs, and courage give thy men,

That scorned to yield with life their lion-lair.

A barbarous strife thou didst require—what then?

The last Barbarian thou that rushed from Scythian den!

Meteor of Conquest! terribly endowed

With every faculty to bless or mar,

With voice to speak to Man like trumpet loud,

And eagle-eye with ken for peace or war

Omnipotent, save when Heaven dealt the scar!

Thy course for bale that might have been for bliss,

Thy darling Victory streamed a crimson star.

Around thy laurelled forehead serpents hiss;

And closed thy glory’s dawn, Destroyer, choice like this!

Trampler on Human Liberty! Thy plan

Embraced no welfare save thine own; thy aim

A pyramid—each stone a sword-hewn man,—

Rivers of blood o’er Earth to write thy name.

Gigantic was thy crime—as great thy shame!

Even now with gory talon to the North

Thou fliest, the elements but canst not tame;

And there, to teach the peaceful victor’s worth,

Men rigid as their frosts have sent thee howling forth!

Scourge of the Nations! thy appointed time

Is near its close—exhausted is thy quiver.

Vain is thy complex thought, thy grasp sublime;

Nor whirlwind, plague, nor tyrant lasts for ever!

Couldst thou not from the ground one blade dissever

Of joyous herbage, save with butchering steel,

Nor give one glory to the Eternal Giver?

Couldst thou but wound that mightst so nobly heal?

I see thy end begin—for Man thou didst not feel!

And yet France loved thee—loved thy daring flight,

Thy mighty genius—thy creative power;

The soldier’s idol and the hind’s delight—

For ’twas the people made thee like a tower

That topt all Nations! In thy happier hour

A glorious code thou gav’st. Thy sway was just

To France—thy monuments a deathless dower.

No luxury turned thy energies to rust.

A Conqueror why become? why serve Ambition’s lust?

What are thy mightiest triumphs? Pages torn

From bloodiest records. What thy phalanx armed?

Assassins. Thy parade of Conquest? Shorn

Of glare deceptive, plunder. Earth alarmed

Saw the career, that dazzled it and charmed,

Sunk in fell Tyranny. Thy potent rays,

Melting all fetters, might have millions warmed

With Freedom. Thou didst forge, to fiends’ amaze,

New shackles for thy kind. Let Hell eclipse thy blaze!