Of volumed smoke at length the eddying wave Falls o’er the battlement and clears the ground. Still would the sons of France the fortress save, Amazed amid the ruin spread around; But onward to their breasts the assailants bound, And momently the baffled foemen scare. They rally--I ween none there hath quarter found; They stand--and desperate valour all doth dare. In vain--the stormers rush like lightning to their lair. XII. Red as the slaughter which their hands achieved, The British garb doth smite the foe with awe; And as our sturdy bowmen Creçy grieved O’er Gaul’s full-mailéd Knights triumphant saw, So the strong bayonet deals resistless law; And fly before that conflict hand to hand Of bone and muscle, ere a breath they draw, The sons of France, a wrongful Tyrant’s band, Who fight not heaven-inspired for Freedom in the land. XIII. Unconquered yeomen, England’s strength and pride! Who ne’er have yet been wanting at her call Against the world to stand, or dashing ride ’Gainst odds that all but Britons would appal! For where, brave hearts, doth rise your serried wall Of adamant, in vain the thunder-scar. Upon that conquering ground ye stand or fall. Oh, strenuous arms alike for toil and war, May ne’er be seen the day when Wrong your might shall mar! XIV. Oh, Rank and Dignity! I saw too flies Spawned in the self-same chamber, sporting gay. With equal force, on equal wing, they rise Through the short sunshine of a summer day. Yet one the other buzzed to keep away, And flouted oft--intensest scorn revealing, As telling him below the Knave should stay, Too far beneath him born for kindly feeling-- One hatched upon the floor, the other on the ceiling! XV. Five deadly hours that conflict fell endured; But onward now the tide of Valour flowing, Chafed by the long restraint all foaming poured, The seeds of Death with every wavelet sowing, And, ah, on Mercy scarce a thought bestowing! As destrier strong whose mouth with curbing bleeds, When loosed the rein, doth plunge with eye-ball glowing, Mad snort, and trampling hoof which Fury speeds, So dash the stormers in like spurred and panting steeds. XVI. A standard floats upon the cavalier. It is the far-renownéd tricolor, Whose folds more proudly ne’er have waved than here, Though many a victor field they’ve fluttered o’er. Up Nial springs with hand still dripping gore, And stoutly tears that tyrant-standard down. Three loud huzzas resound from sky to shore-- Floats in its stead the flag of Leon’s crown. ’Tis ours! And Spain once more is mistress of her town. XVII.