Weep, Biscaya, weep! ’Mongst dead and dying, On the bloody heap Is Blanca lying. William’s sword hath smote Her bosom heaving, Her on whom we doat Of life bereaving. Weep, Biscaya, weep! Pierced though William’s sword That bounding billow, Yet his corse adored She makes her pillow. Red is William’s vest, With glory wreathéd. Redder is the breast Transfixed beneath it. Weep, Biscaya, weep! Ne’er could William stain That bosom tender. How the deed would pain Her brave defender! Who in all the land So crime-convicted? Ah, ’twas Blanca’s hand The wound inflicted. Weep, Biscaya, weep! Heaven for deeds of note So daring made her. Her’s the arm that smote The French invader. Flashed her carbine true, The Norman felling. Pierced that spirit, too, Its own pure dwelling. Weep, Biscaya, weep! Ne’er was true-love seen Like her’s undying. Few like her, I ween, The grave defying. Broken heart the sod Can fittest cover. _She_ could not, oh God! Survive her lover. San Sebastian, weep! XX. “Now, Don Salustian”--thus great Arthur said-- “This piteous scene doth touch my heart full sore, And if War brought not Peace, the Invader fled, My sword were haply sheathed for ever more; For none can deeplier Battle’s wreck deplore. But e’en these ills can Spaniards bear for Spain, As England bears her warriors’ streaming gore; And from this hour the villain wears a chain, Who dares by deeds like these our triumphs to profane.” XXI. Salustian bowed with grave Hidalgo pride:-- “Your words, great Chief, console the Spanish heart.” Then Nial bounded to great Arthur’s side; His hat is doffed, his plume doth bird-like start, His curls rich wave, his eyes new lightnings dart: “Give, give the right this maiden fair to shield; Still suffering she from San Sebastian’s smart, Saved from the wreck of worse than battle-field: Give, give at altar-foot a husband’s right to wield.” XXII. A word Salustian with the Chief exchanged, And smiles on both their faces cordial beam. Sweet Isabel her timid glances ranged From side to side--a momentary gleam O’ercast with blushes that like roses seem. Her fluttering breast now pants like prisoned bird, Her downcast eyes reluctant ye might deem; But oh, what joy doth light them at a word: Young Nial says, “Thou’rt mine!” and every heart is stirred. XXIII.