And now upon Navarre’s Typhæan crest He stands triumphant, threatening haughty France, While bounds once more Iberia’s lovely breast, And close the wounds that held in death-like trance. Proud beams her eye--she bids the Chief advance, And points to Roncesvalles where of old She crushed the invading Gaul with mighty lance. See, see a Briton as Bernardo bold His conquering chariot-wheel o’er Gallia’s host hath rolled! XV. Sublime Pyrene feels his vigorous tread, And trembles Gaul with all her martial sons, For sure as Fate his legions shall be led To where Garumna’s stream to Ocean runs. Even now his mighty stride the nations stuns! Soult, on thine arm an Empire’s fate depends. From San Sebastian’s fortress to Bayonne’s, By Sarre and Ustaritz great Arthur bends. Soult spreads incessant toils which England’s lion rends. XVI. Through many a craggy pass and dread defile, From Oyarzún and Bidasóa’s stream, By rugged steeps that Ossa’s crest outpile, And cataract beds that Earth to sunder seem-- Pyrene’s fearful wilderness where teem All forms of savage beauty--olive, larch, Pine, myrtle mixed,--and forests hair-like gleam Upon that couchant monster’s spinal arch,-- Still slow the leaguered French recede before our march. XVII. What cavalcade through San Sebastian rides? A Chieftain mighty and a senior grave; A blooming warrior next his steed bestrides, Like young Achilles to whom Chiron gave The Centaur’s mastery. With bounding wave His light plume dances o’er a maiden fair, Who reins her genet too with spirit brave; Worthy, me seems, her grace and beauty rare With that young hero proud companionship to bear. XVIII. ’Tis Nial--Isabel; great Arthur’s form With grave Salustian’s stately fills the van. They reach the central square where late the storm Of War with surges wild hath rolled o’er San Sebastian dire calamity to Man. Great Arthur sad surveyed the ruin round, And at the sight a tear his eye o’erran, For every house was now a blackened mound, And Solitude more grim where Life so late was found. XIX. Round Santa Clara’s isle that instant came The Basque barqueras in their shallops slight; Their graceful oaring still was plied the same, But one fair pinnace less careered in sight. Ah, where is she--their glory and delight? Rose softly sad and low from distance borne A plaintive strain that in its dying flight Fell on the town where other breasts are torn. ’Tis thus in chorus sweet they raise their plaint forlorn:-- The Dirge.