Kempt holds Lesaca, and the chain’s complete From Santa Barbara now to Haya’s crest. Clausel beholds the movement of defeat, And dreads to tempt the battle further west. Hill threatens D’Erlon at his Chief’s behest. Dalhousie, Colville gall the Gallic line; Girón’s Castilians aim at Conroux’ breast; The Lusitan battalion’s bayonets shine; And swift the French are forced their stronghold to resign. XXI. See blaze their camp in fires terrific whirled By rising tempest-blasts along the sky; Tent, abatís, redoubt, and breastwork hurled To ruin far and near--below--on high. Red streams the fluttering canvass in the eye Of that autumnal sun--fierce embers flare, And strew the gale--fall blackening timbers nigh; Pyrene’s sides reflect the lurid glare, And myriad crackling sparks are borne upon the air. XXII. But now resounds the cannonade of Graham-- That direful torrent o’er the stormers’ heads-- And bids Soult pause. A moment grief o’ercame The hero’s soul--almost a tear he sheds, For ominous boding and profound he dreads The noble city’s fall. Yet firm he stands, And menacing the foe his phalanx treads San Marcial’s sides, where still their blazing brands And glittering points of steel are swayed by sturdy hands. XXIII. And now the direful storm that fell when San Sebastian’s scarp was won the battle palls. The tempest louder shouts than warring man; San Marcial’s voice on Haya echoing calls, And rattles Jaizquibel his thunder-balls, Mocking weak mortals, far along the sky. Terrific lightnings o’er Pyrene’s walls Flash like the swords of mountain spirits on high; And halts the strife of Man--his pellets cease to fly. XXIV. Louder and louder grows the tempest’s voice. From secular oak and pine huge branches riven Are whirled through air by winds that fierce rejoice; And trees for playthings to the blast are given, As howls the whirlwind breath of angry Heaven! And pettiest streams to cataracts are swelled, And torrents dash adown the mountain driven; While Druid stone and cairn are instant felled, And boulders rolled along like pebbles are compelled. XXV. Dismayed and scattered fly the rival hosts, Full many a Gaul in Bidasoa drowned; But, ah, no respite San Sebastian boasts-- No truce proclaimed upon that fatal ground. Still havoc, plunder, stalk the streets around, Still bloodhounds bathe their sides in streaming gore! No angel-voice to plead for mercy found, No power to quell the fierce hyæna’s roar-- Even Hope doth seem to fly from that devoted shore! XXVI.