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. XII. 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. XIII. 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. XIV. 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. XV. 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. XVI. 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! XVII.