By Biriatú now Reille the river fords, And climbs San Marcial with his fierce brigades, But tangled furze and copse impede their swords. Confusion mixes skirmishers and aids; The mountain steep their forceful vigour jades; And dashing down its sides Spain’s columns rush. Before that charge the might of Jena fades. As reeds are swept beneath the torrent’s gush, So headlong falls the Frank, and feels subjection’s blush. XV. But rapid Soult who notes the unequal fight O’er Bidasoa’s stream two bridges throws On barks securely moored and trestles light, And, quick, Villatte’s reserves their fronts disclose. O’er bridge and mount they fly to face their foes. San Marcial’s sides they climb, his shrine they gain. Thy line, Castile, an instant backward goes. But up great Arthur rides--the sons of Spain Recall their strength, and hurl the foemen to the plain. XVI. For ’neath that mighty Chief’s commanding eye Impossible to sink or droop or quail. And Aylmer’s British-born brigade is nigh To baffle France if, Spain, thy sons should fail. A loud Castilian shout doth rend the gale, Acknowledging the Hero’s presence there. Full swift the Gaul is dashed into the vale, Urged to the brink of Bidasoa fair; And drowned or slaughtered sink the victims of despair. XVII. Soult from the summit of the Grand Monarque (For sight in mountain war is baffled oft, And loftiest points befit the leader’s mark) Beheld the dreadful rout and mourned aloft; Then urged his columns onward, gliding soft To Vera’s fords, his loud artillery’s roar Covering the stream. Our men derisive scoft To see his shells descend destructive o’er His own astounded troops, their ranks molesting sore. XVIII. Ill brooks the Frenchman withering laughter’s scorn: The Lusitan brigade they swift assail, Whose head by rapid fire is backward borne. With wondrous fleetness mounting from the vale, Rough Haya’s slopes the active foemen scale. But Inglis’ columns now the skirmish join, And soon Clausel is on the English trail. ’Mid Haya’s dells and lofty ridges shine For many an hour their fires along each broken line. XIX. Joy! joy! the battle to the Frenchward side Is proudly borne, and pass Kempt’s rifles keen O’er Bidasoa’s stream, where swift they glide, In modest garments all of darkest green-- A hue for special service chos’n, I ween, For England loves the daring and the frank. In brightest red her columns robed are seen, A mark inviting like the target’s blank; And fair her mind is spoke, and fair her battle’s rank! XX.