The Bayonnette is won! The mountain’s brow Doth bear a signal-tower whose beechen arms Soult’s mandates wonted to transmit till now, And o’er his lines convey with magic charms Of fleetness War’s instructions and alarms. “Now down,” quoth Nial, “with the wooden head, Whose baleful movement oft the Spaniard harms. His clumsy flourishes through æther sped No more shall wound the Allies, no more by Soult be read.” XXX. From Leon’s corps two sturdy pioneers With gleaming axes clove the column’s foot. The laughing Andaluz the tell-tale jeers: “’Tis thus we lay the hatchet to the root.” “That tree,” said Nial, “shall no more give fruit!” The Andaluzes yet more fiercely mock, Keen as the shafts their bullring Majos shoot:-- “Now did king Joseph’s self receive the shock, Right lustily the axe should cleave the senseless block!” XXXI. Soon pierced the column round, till scarce a thread Supports its weight:--“Look out--look out below!” Another stroke--and stoops its monstrous head. It sways--it topples o’er--first bending slow, Then falls with mighty crash beneath the blow. As when ’mid storms, some labouring ship to ease, The mast is hewn away, and falls where flow The seething billows--tackles, shrouds, and trees, Canvass and cordage sink, a victim to the seas. XXXII. Meanwhile great Arthur hath so well combined His several forces tow’rds the frontier nigh, That Commissari and Puérto, as designed, Our flag now wear upon their summits high. Five perilous hours our heroes by the cry Of Freedom spurred, o’er crags stupendous toiling, Have ceaseless fought where dead and wounded lie, At every guarded post the Frenchman foiling, And round Pyrene’s girth like powerful serpent coiling. XXXIII. But now the greater Rhune must too be won, And Colborne’s corps and Longa’s force the hill. Through wooded gorge, up craggy slopes they run, Then breathless pause--again with lusty will Burst fresh and sparkling like a mountain rill. And many and fleet the skirmishers of France, With fusillade severe but conquering still, They backward drive along the broad expanse, And Nial’s gleaming sword was ever in advance. XXXIV. Strong was the line of abatís that rose Full in the path of Longa’s wearied men. They halt irresolute before their foes, Nor list to Longa’s voice nor mark his ken. But Nial whom all loved was ’mongst them then, And “_adelante_” crying waved his sword-- Leapt o’er the abatís i’ the lion’s den. The generous Spaniards bounded at the word, Saved “the fair boy” and smote the French with one accord. XXXV.