He scrambled to his feet, then to his knees Fell weakly; but with sword convulsive grasped, And energy tremendous, Nial sees Him drag his body o’er the floor, which rasped His blade in dire excitement, while he gasped With nostril panting. Nial’s hand in vain His movement bars, till Isabel is clasped In her wild father’s arms, who shrieks amain, Frantic with joy to think her Honour without stain! IX. And told young Isabel the debt she owed To Nial’s care, which soothed the old man much, And tears for his relief abundant flowed, Though thought of Isidora made him clutch His sword again. Oh villains, it might touch Your stony hearts, e’en your’s that did this wrong, To see its dire effect. Methinks, not such Are England’s men. I ween that ye belong To some base mongrel breed, against the helpless strong. X. And Nial’s gentle voice the old man’s ear Like music enters. Slowly he doth rise, And ’neath the hero’s guidance without fear Father and daughter, yet with many sighs, A step advance. In vain Salustian tries The turret to descend--his wound too deep. A litter Nial’s active zeal supplies; And careful borne adown the turret steep, Salustian soon within young Nial’s tent doth weep. XI. While Britain’s columns fierce assault the town, Rages terrific strife without the wall; The elements with fierce, o’ershadowing frown Dashed through Pyrene’s wind-compelling hall, And storm within and storm without appal! The noble Soult of nobler Moore the foe, Of San Sebastian strove to avert the fall; And now Behobia’s broken arch below By Biriatú he threats the Bidasoa’s flow. XII. At Andarlása craggy mount and moor Girding the rapid stream forbid its verge; But Oyarzún not yet may sleep secure. ’Twixt Jaizquibel and crested Haya urge His fiery columns straining to emerge. See on the crownéd heights our forces rest. Zugáramurdi, Echallar a dirge May roar for him who dares the eagle’s nest. Great Arthur guards the pass with high, heroic breast. XIII. Not his the blame for San Sebastian’s deeds; Upon the mountain-peaks he guides the war. No warning voice the ravening soldier heeds, And battling rides the Chief revered afar. To Fuentarabia’s walls our legions bar The French approach, and Bidasoa runs Round tall San Marcial’s foot their path to mar; And Spain hath banded there her warrior sons, While o’er the river’s edge France points her thunderous guns. XIV.