The riders instant died--three gunners more Were gravely wounded. Mad with pain and fright, The horses started off at gallop o’er The plain, while blazed the waggon with that bright Combustion. One steed wounded fell outright; And frantic with the fiery mass each bound Whirled through the air--the wheels themselves alight-- They dragged both horse and waggon o’er the ground, Till all was shattered ’mongst Ernani’s orchards found. XXV. “Swift--to the Island!” both the friends exclaim; And as night fell their boats from cove concealed Beneath Antigua’s convent seaward came; Full soon with muffled oars that nought revealed, They lay ’neath Santa Clara’s rocky field; And Blanca in the crag disclosed a cleft, Where straight they land. But loud the sent’nel pealed The alarum gun, its post the picquet left, And flew like burghers bold to guard from midnight theft. XXVI. But soon, o’erpowered by numbers, their array Was beaten back--resistance now was vain. Submissively their arms were lowered away, And o’er their sorrowing breasts a captive chain Is gently flung: “Our battery soon shall reign “Triumphant here,” quoth Morton, “thanks to thee, “Sweet maiden.” Blanca smiled, and cried,--“For Spain!” Then to her bark once more she bounded free, And with her Nereids young thus sang and smote the sea: The Oar-Song. 1. Lean to your oars; Pull along cheerily; Ne’er let the shores Drag along drearily. Courts are but slavery, Grandeur is smoke; Our’s the true bravery; Bend to the stroke! 2. See where the tide Sparkles phosphorical; Learning is pride, Science an oracle! While through the water we Dash with our stems, Royally scatter we Myriads of gems. 3. Stoop with good will; Joyous our motion is. Breast with air fill; Sapphire-like Ocean is! Laugh at each lazy man, Keep the stroke--so; Poor lackadaisy man Never could row! 4. Where is the joy Like the oar feathering? Where’s the alloy Tempests in weathering? Lash the spray, scattering Many a beam; While our oars clattering Flash through the stream! XXVII. Upon thy buckler, Gaul, terrific rang Vittoria’s powerful stroke, and reeling back Thy phantom-King to tall Pyrene sprang; Thy shattered Army, sorrowing deep for lack Of conquest or of guiding, fell to wrack, By the great arm of Arthur paralyzed, Till rapid Soult, when loured the sky most black, From Dresden rushed and chaos methodized: No Marshal-Chief, be sure, Napoléon higher prized. XXVIII.