Heavy the Morn, and sullenly and fierce

A thunder-storm o’ergathers Haya’s crest.

His rocky diadem red lightnings pierce,

Leap o’er each crag, and smite the eagle’s nest;

And volleying thunder rolls from East to West.

Now rain in gushing torrents drowns the sky;

Anon a fiery bolt on Mandal’s breast

Leaves its black scar;—anon the storm from high

O’er BidasÓa falls while winds like spirits cry!

Great Arthur seized the tempest as a boon,

His columns lit by glory to advance

Tow’rds Commissari, Bayonnette, and Rhune,

And entering tame the pride of haughty France.

Daring his mighty plan, whose toils enhance

The FuÉntarÁbian waters poured between.

A stronger than Bernardo wields the lance,

And Paladins again to quail are seen.

Our conquering footsteps Spain re-echoes proud, I ween.

For Roncesvalles is to Spain restored;

Her Mina’s legions fill its storied dell.

His Guerrilleros ’neath that Chief adored

’Gainst the marauding Gaul have battled well.

And at Baigorri hark where grandly swell

The war-notes of Castile, while rush the wild

Partidas ringing many a Norman’s knell;

And sweep from France the forage she hath piled

On Spanish soil profaned, from stall and sheepfold mild.

Unconsciously the lowing herds resent

Their change of masters, rudely by the horn

Seized in the foray while trabÚcos bent

’Gainst Gaulish bosoms vomit deathful scorn,

With loud explosive sound on Echo borne.

And innocent sheep in thousands piteous bleat

’Gainst hands that will restore them ere the Morn

To the sweet fold, and oxen loud repeat

Moan upon moan, by bayonet pricked or firelock beat.

And on Ayrola’s rock is swift surprised

By Campbell’s highlanders a post of Gaul;

For not more firm the red-deer’s limb is poised

For strength and fleetness mixed than doth befal

Those hardy mountaineers whose shouts appal

The braves of France—as e’en surprised them more,

When first beheld by Vimieiro’s wall,

Their antique garb, such as in days of yore

(In them revived to-day) the Roman legions wore.

Thus breaking fast the spirit of Gallia’s sons,

Great Arthur now begins his great emprize;

Where BidasÓa’s stream impetuous runs,

Resolved to pass though strenuous Soult defies.

And while the thunder-storm doth lash the skies,

His dread artillery’s ranged on Marcial’s flanks.

O’er the tall crest doth many a cannon rise;

His columns line the BidasÓa’s banks,

In silence poured along, and form their warlike ranks.

Full many a howitzer by fair IrÚn,

While rages still the blast, its thunder hoards;

And there lies closely moored each strong pontoon,

Beneath the town. Where BidasÓa’s fords,

Through fishermen unawed by Gallic swords,

To lynx-eyed vigilance their soundings yield,

Castile shall pass and flout her tyrant lords.

With deftest skill the troops are all concealed

By Jonco, BiriatÚ, and FuÉntarabia’s field.

And near to fair BehÓbia’s broken arch

The Lusitan battalion secret placed

Is with the British guards prepared to march

Beyond the Adour, till Gaul herself shall taste

Invasion’s sweets, her dreams of glory chased!

Still stand i’ the camp the tent-sheets as before,

Nor change appears nor new design embraced,

When breaks that clouded morn from mist-drops o’er

Pyrene’s towering hills, and gloom o’erspreads the shore.

Beneath Andaye our bold brigades emerge,

And in two columns rapid cross the sand.

Silent as Death they gain the river’s verge,

They pass the fords, they reach the further land.

Then rose on high a rocket streaming grand,

The signal true from FuÉntarabia’s tower;

And howitzer and cannon briskly manned

From tall San Marcial raised their voice of power,

And covered with their fire the fords in peril’s hour.

Seven columns o’er the sand like serpents wind,

With crimson bright and azure scales bespread—

The various garbs of Spain and England joined—

And glancing bayonets bristle o’er each head;

No Hydra in LernÆan marsh so dread!

The Gaul o’ermatched can scarcely trust his eyes.

Confusedly gathering each with shame is red;

And form our lines beyond the stream ere flies

A hostile shot, so great that terrible surprise!

Now mustering yet disordered forth they come,

For spreads the alarm: Alerte! alerte!’s the cry.

The hurrying leaders urge them—rolls the drum,

And to San Marcial’s thunderous guns reply

Their cannon from the Grand Monarque on high.

But all too late the movement—see, their camp

Beneath Andaye is carried manfully

At glittering point of bayonet. Nought can damp

The ardour of our men, or check their onward tramp.

Vain, Boyer, thy decision—vain, Maucune,

Thy energy. Soult hears the cannonade

At Espelette, and rushes forth full soon;

But ere he comes his camps a prey are made

By Britain’s sons beneath Andaya’s shade.

ZugÁramurdi feels the advancing power,

And D’Erlon sees his post by Fate betrayed—

The Lusitan battalion’s fairest flower

Alone by France cut down in that eventful hour.

Our German Chasseurs now by Halket led

The Grand Monarque with vigorous footsteps climb.

Before their onset fierce the Gaul hath fled;

But, guardian of the pass, that peak sublime

Must not be yielded in an instant’s time.

Reille pours his masses on the mountain’s brow,

With field artillery, to efface the crime

Of light concession. Halt the Germans now,

For tired and wounded sore their spirits an instant bow.

But Cameron with his gallant warriors rushed

Straight through their broken ranks, and gained the peak,

Where stands the WreathÉd Cross. Ne’er torrent gushed

From Mandal more impetuous fierce to seek

The plain. Beneath the shock Gaul’s columns break.

First fly their cannon down the mountain-side,

And next—the mouths secured that dare not speak—

To a lower ridge the infantry doth glide

Where forms their line, not yet abated all their pride.

Narrow the pathway leading to the ridge,

Which now the Frenchmen clustering strongly hold;

But o’er it urge, like passing tiniest bridge,

In single column led by Cameron bold,

Our heroes as at Azincour of old.

The hill doth inward curve—concentrate fire

The foemen pour; but by the shout appalled

Of sturdiest freemen, swift the French retire,

The British bayonet ne’er withstanding in its ire.

And Freyre’s Spaniards now the peak have won

Of Mandal lording o’er his craggy slopes,

Where the Green Mountain glistens in the sun,

And tow’rds Urogne an easy pathway opes.

Thus turned his flanks, and foiled in front his hopes,

Reille by the causeway of Bayonne recedes,

Till Soult’s great voice the flight majestic stops.

In vain the foeman’s breast contending bleeds;—

The BidasÓa’s won—not least of England’s deeds!

But yet the pass of Vera we must gain,

Where now GirÓn from Ivantelly’s come

And Longa with the skirmishers of Spain,

And Alten too with men Old England from—

Not these the least, I ween, in Victory’s sum!

Dire were the works upon the heights above

Which Gaul could raise, but not the brave benumb.

And here was Nial, oft with tenderest love

Musing on Isabel, poor lorn and fluttering dove!

The youth looked up: by outward posts defended

And star-redoubts he saw the Bayonnette;

The Commissari with that mountain blended

Was girt with abatÍs incessant met.

He thought those bulwarks would be England’s yet!

A gulf profound with skirmishers was filled,

And thickest woods where marksmen keen were set.

Rugged the path where Spain her hope must build,

With turns abrupt where men by striplings might be killed.

An isolated mountain midway rose—

’Tis called “The Boar”—by France’s warriors crowned;

And Longa’s guns and Colborne’s rifles chose

The toilsome task to gain this lofty ground—

So high, though dwarfed amongst the peaks around,

That the spent musket-bullets singing fell

All harmless at its foot with feeble sound,

Which marksmen from the crest directed well

’Gainst our advancing men, but none its tale could tell.

The word is given, and swift our heroes climb

The mountain, Nial first their steps to guide.

A pine-wood’s gained far up in quickest time—

They breathe a moment—with disdainful pride

Doth Nial dash each shadowing branch aside,

And forward rush, exclaiming, “On men, on!”

His gallant followers scorn secure to bide

Behind—the summit’s gained—the foemen wan

Scarce meet their dashing charge; an instant—they are gone!

Emboldened by this triumph rush the Allies;

Our columns plunge into the rough defile.

The dark ravine to the left with lusty cries

Is ta’en by Longa’s Leonese, the while

Colborne’s brigade o’er narrow pathways toil

To the Bayonnette with skirmishers before,

Breastwork, redoubt, and abatÍs to spoil.

With men and fire the slopes are covered o’er,

And curls white smoke above the forest-battle’s roar.

Through each intrenchment in the greater pass

Soon Kempt’s brigade doth force resistless sway,

His skirmishers wide scattered o’er the grass

To small detachments broke, as melt away

The lessening slopes into the ridges gray.

The platform’s won, and Colborne’s bold brigade

Of rifles far above, like huntsmen gay,

Is seen to emerge from forth the forest shade

To the broad space before the star-redoubt displayed.

Nial was there, and swift he led his men

With rapid fire the strong redoubt to storm.

Their dark attire the French mistaking then

For garb of Southron soldiers, forth they swarm,

And face our caÇadores in conflict warm.

Sudden their charge, and struggling hand to hand,

The firelock and its fixÉd bayonet form

Against the unarmÉd rifle surer brand,

And shrill the Frenchmen cried as backward drew the band.

But Nial with his sword the bayonet matched,

And as he fought upon the rocky verge

That bounds the platform, he a firelock snatched

From forth a Frenchman’s hands whom he did urge

At swordpoint till he slew him. While the surge

Of foemen rushed, he kept them all at bay,

Till from the forest swift our troops emerge.

Their crimson garb with panic struck the fray,

And Nial cheered his men to give their rifles play.

Then loud arose the sturdy British shout.

Rifles and foot in full career advance.

The foe to their intrenchment wheel about;

And England’s sons, improving well the chance,

The fort have entered with the sons of France.

Dense clouds of smoke o’er all the works ascended.

Sharp rang the musket, active played its lance.

But soon the mass of French and English blended

Emerged, while British cheers proclaimed the conflict ended.

Up, up the crags the rapid Frenchman flies,

The powerful Briton following in his trail,

Till new intrenchment, new redoubts, arise.

Once more they stand—once more our troops assail

Their abatÍs, till France again doth quail.

And ever Nial flourished in the van

His faithful sword that turned the foeman pale,

And cheered his rifles on, and foremost ran,

Like gallant chief whose port gives courage to each man.

And Colborne nobly guided the brigade,

Which now the mount hath carried to its crest;

But there a terrible redoubt’s displayed,

Where loop-holed works with musketry arrest

The brave who fall with many a piercÉd breast.

No howitzer is there—no mountain-gun,

But missiles scarce less dire our troops molest;

For thundering down the steep comes many a stone,

Huge, rugged, dealing death, or shattering flesh and bone.

But Kempt’s brigade its toilsome way hath gained

With Andaluzan comrades up the steep,

And turned the fort’s left flank—’tis scarce attained,

When rush the foemen in disordered heap

Down the far hill-side to the valley deep.

The fort is our’s! The tricolor is torn

By Nial from the flag-staff at a leap;

And, Spain, thy lions and thy towers upborne

In many a victor field its summit proud adorn.

The Bayonnette is won! The mountain’s brow

Doth bear a signal-tower whose beechen arms

Soult’s mandates wonted to transmit till now,

And o’er his lines convey with magic charms

Of fleetness War’s instructions and alarms.

“Now down,” quoth Nial, “with the wooden head,

Whose baleful movement oft the Spaniard harms.

His clumsy flourishes through Æther sped

No more shall wound the Allies, no more by Soult be read.”

From Leon’s corps two sturdy pioneers

With gleaming axes clove the column’s foot.

The laughing Andaluz the tell-tale jeers:

“’Tis thus we lay the hatchet to the root.”

“That tree,” said Nial, “shall no more give fruit!”

The Andaluzes yet more fiercely mock,

Keen as the shafts their bullring Majos shoot:—

“Now did king Joseph’s self receive the shock,

Right lustily the axe should cleave the senseless block!”

Soon pierced the column round, till scarce a thread

Supports its weight:—“Look out—look out below!”

Another stroke—and stoops its monstrous head.

It sways—it topples o’er—first bending slow,

Then falls with mighty crash beneath the blow.

As when ’mid storms, some labouring ship to ease,

The mast is hewn away, and falls where flow

The seething billows—tackles, shrouds, and trees,

Canvass and cordage sink, a victim to the seas.

Meanwhile great Arthur hath so well combined

His several forces tow’rds the frontier nigh,

That Commissari and PuÉrto, as designed,

Our flag now wear upon their summits high.

Five perilous hours our heroes by the cry

Of Freedom spurred, o’er crags stupendous toiling,

Have ceaseless fought where dead and wounded lie,

At every guarded post the Frenchman foiling,

And round Pyrene’s girth like powerful serpent coiling.

But now the greater Rhune must too be won,

And Colborne’s corps and Longa’s force the hill.

Through wooded gorge, up craggy slopes they run,

Then breathless pause—again with lusty will

Burst fresh and sparkling like a mountain rill.

And many and fleet the skirmishers of France,

With fusillade severe but conquering still,

They backward drive along the broad expanse,

And Nial’s gleaming sword was ever in advance.

Strong was the line of abatÍs that rose

Full in the path of Longa’s wearied men.

They halt irresolute before their foes,

Nor list to Longa’s voice nor mark his ken.

But Nial whom all loved was ’mongst them then,

And “adelante” crying waved his sword—

Leapt o’er the abatÍs i’ the lion’s den.

The generous Spaniards bounded at the word,

Saved “the fair boy” and smote the French with one accord.

To Rhune’s enormous sides the foemen fled,

Where ’neath Clausel the Gaul doth muster strong.

The Hermitage upon the mountain’s head

Is thick with armÉd men,—though Fate should wrong,

Full stern resolved the contest to prolong.

By others not less fierce are held his flanks;

To Sarre and to Ascain extends the throng.

A lower ridge the greater Rhune embanks,

And this too bristles o’er with Gallia’s hostile ranks.

Now—now the Andaluzes scale the Rhune,

By Colborne’s caÇadores supported still.

A musket-shot below the crest full soon

Their charge doth reach, to where a craggy hill

Detached doth rise. This natural bulwark fill

The skirmishers of France, whose fusillade

Not long withstands the assailants’ vengeful will.

The bulwark’s cleared, the pathway free is made,

And up the Spaniards climb—nor ask for British aid.

But from the Hermitage terrific rocks

Come bounding fierce, of such enormous size,

That seemeth each of those succeeding shocks

Enough to sink a column ne’er to rise!

Not Valour’s self can with unmovÉd eyes

That horrid task of Sisyphus survey.

Appalled and unadvancing the allies

With distant fire along the mountain way

The foe in vain assail, withheld by dire dismay.

But saw great Arthur now with Lyncean ken,

Though Rhune was there impregnable, a side

Which might a pathway open to his men,

And give their arms of Gaul to tame the pride.

O’er Sarre the ascent arose more fair and wide,

And strongly there concentred the brigades

Assail the rocks that long approach defied.

The rocks are won—the Gaulish valour fades,—

And won a height intrenched their camp at Sarre which shades.

From Echallar on Barbe our men descend,

And win the fort with British shouts of power.

The camp of Sarre’s outflanked, Clausel doth end

Resistance there, retiring in that hour.

He dreads his rear cut off, resigns his tower

Of strength—the greater Rhune, and takes his stand

Upon the lesser height. But soon the flower

Of Britain’s rifles crown the mountain grand,

And from the Hermitage the lower heights command.

And while the garrison was swift retiring

From that strong ground, their path young Nial crost

With six poor rifles not a shot e’en firing,

When forth the gallant stept, and from his post,

“Lay down your arms!” he shouted to the host—

Three hundred men! His mandate they obeyed,

Scared by that voice of power, and deeming lost

All means of ’scape. Resistance none they made,

And Nial at their head regained his bold brigade.

And when the eye of England’s glorious Chief,

Great Arthur, fell with favour on the youth,

And praise he spoke in stirring words though brief,

Such as with thought impregnate all and truth

It was his wont to utter, Envy’s tooth

Of calumny to silence proudly shaming,

Beat Nial’s heart, and soldiers all uncouth

Felt tears well nigh to flow, the stripling naming

So loved by all, their hearts with gentlest Valour taming.

And Nial thought upon his Isabel,

For all his proudest feelings centred there,

Prophetic that the maid he loved so well

The praise would echo sweetly, smiling fair;

And while his brow a loftier plume doth wear

Through glory for that day’s achievements done,

With her he thought the joyous fruits to share,

With her to feel the glow of Victory’s sun,

For still for her and Spain was Freedom’s battle won.

Now our’s the BidasÓa, our’s the Rhune,

And Bayonnette, and Commissari too.

Oh France! thy fields shall now be entered soon,

For at our feet the fair Nivelle doth flow.

Saint Jean de Luz, thy vesper-lights below

O’erhang the Gascon gulf. Invasion’s tread

Hath passed thy border, yet no sound of wo

Shall rend thy sky, thy homes shall mourn no dead,

For Justice now humane with Britain’s arms is wed.

The wail of San Sebastian reached thy heart,

Great Arthur, and provoked the stern command,

Which none may dare dispute. The conqueror’s part

Shall Mercy temper in the Gaulish land.

Now on Pyrene’s farthest summit stand

Thy legions bolder than e’er CÆsar’s arm

To victory marshalled. Every crag was manned

By armÉd foes, yet quelled is War’s alarm

Through Spain, such Valour’s power, such godlike Freedom’s charm!

But mourn the brave who nobly fighting fell

Upon Pyrene’s mountains, mourn the brave

Whose breasts were pierced, where strove those bosoms well,

And, ah, too oft have found not e’en a grave!

For o’er those pathless solitudes the wave

Of War hath rolled, and ’mid those regions vast

Full many a wounded man, with none to save,

Hath sighed his aidless death-groan to the blast,

And vultures strip the bones which Heaven will clothe at last!