XII. Up starts the drunkard sobered by the sound, And runs with hasty sabre to the scene; But Blanca dropt the carbine to the ground, Which like Camilla’s battleaxe, I ween, The virgin bore; and like that Volscian queen, When fiery swift her footsteps past the steed Of Aunus’ son, she bounded o’er the green; And, Ana’s hand in her’s, with matchless speed, Reached the far shore, where swift her floating bark she freed. XIII. Maddened with rage quick followed the hussar, But soon his footsteps checked the foaming tide. Gnashed were his teeth while shot the bark afar, And rung the maidens’ laughter clear and wide; For greater not Penthesilea’s pride, Girt by her crescent-shielded Amazons In war’s array, whom Dian dared not chide! Full soon the joyous news like lightning runs, And wins undying fame ’mongst wild Cantabria’s sons. XIV. And ever after Blanca bore the name “La Espingarda,” which her daring told, And gave the carbine she discharged to fame, When Innocence was made by Virtue bold. Oh, selfish were the breast, methinks, and cold, That would not look with eye of favour there: Such was the maid who led that Nereid fold,-- Whose loud guitar, in scorn a chain to wear, Called her compatriot men to guard Iberia fair. XV. Thus oft between Isaro’s isle and San Sebastian Blanca past with fancy free, Till through her veins Love’s soft infection ran, And tamed her spirit of wild gaiety. A gallant youth and fond did Blanca see ’Mongst Albion’s sons who lay the town before. Of all the host was braver none than he, And Blanca trembled to her bosom’s core Beneath his eagle-glance, when love he whispered o’er. XVI. Full many a sweet, nor yet delusive tale He told the maid of mingling heart and hand, And home and household gods in sweetest vale Amid the glories of his Motherland, Of joys that glistened ’neath Hope’s faëry wand, And life’s long course by Gnidian torches lighted, Of foreheads pure by milder zephyrs fanned, And England’s happier clime by war unblighted. His passion soon declared, their mutual vows were plighted. XVII. Hast thou not seen a clear and sparkling rill, Upon whose ripplings joyous sunbeams quiver, Flow swift, yet tranquil, from its native hill Straight to the bosom of some mighty river,-- Its separate existence lost for ever, Its name, its nature, sunk in the devotion Of that great confluence? Calm as to the Giver, Her life she gave, nor struggle nor commotion Showed where that streamlet flowed, for ever mixed with Ocean. XVIII.