Morton the youth was named--majestic tall, For strength and symmetry his shape combined; Gentle as valiant, generous, loved by all; A soldier frank, pellucid was his mind, His judgment sound, his bearing ever kind; To her ’twas tenderest love that hourly grew. The pride that scorns unequal lots to bind In wedlock deeply he contemned, nor knew A thought that was not all to humbler Blanca true. XIX. And Morton from the maiden learnt how soon Might Santa Clara’s rocky isle be won, Where batteries planted ere another moon The siege must end, and Mota’s fortress stun With many a thunder-voiced o’erpowering gun; And Blanca promised to the shore to guide. Swift Morton warm with warlike zeal doth run, His plans unfolding to his Chief with pride, And valiant Graham doth give to Morton margin wide. XX. Soon were his comrades chos’n, and Nial first, His bosom-friend, companion oft in arms; Both of the Light Brigades, and both athirst For Glory! Nial led ’mid War’s alarms A file of Rifles. Danger still had charms For him transcendent; young, as woman fair, Slight-formed yet lion-brave--his vigour warms The veteran. Clothed his cheek with beauty rare, Yet none in all the host so actively would dare. XXI. The Spaniards oft declared he was a girl In male attire, till they beheld his deeds. The oldest soldiers watched his looks in per’l, Obeyed his slightest sign, and where he leads Follow in battle--though the column bleeds. Yet Nial hath not reached his twentieth year! Noble and proud is every thought he feeds. Such was the youth, who Morton counselling clear, His plans to take the Isle arranged the trenches near. XXII. And as they spoke the batteries raised their voice, From crowned La Mota raining shot and shell, Drove through the ranks, and made the Gaul rejoice With many a horrid gap that, ah, could well Its tale of dire disaster silent tell! For fragments strewn of gunner and his art Lay quivering round while fierce the foemen yell. Dismounted gun, and shattered carriage, chart, Line, linstock, bullet, corse, were tossed in every part. XXIII. “Rey’s petulant to-day,” quoth Nial. Straight A huge artillery waggon by their side, That fed our batteries, six strong horses’ freight, Struck by a shell, up-bounding scattered wide War’s provender. The missile dumb doth bide-- A minute’s pause of horrible suspense, That hushed each heart, and paled the cheek of Pride! Then with explosion terrible, immense, Its dire contents around were showered in ruin dense. XXIV.