The Gaul who had strove to compass round our left Himself is now encompassed--in that dire Extremity of daring not bereft, But facing all around in conflict’s ire His fierce assailants--scattering with his fire Full many a corse, where Frenchmen thicker fell. But climbs Clausel’s reserve the mountain higher, Up craggy steep where doth the Virgin dwell. Stern was the fight, and Gaul had battled ne’er so well. XLI. See from Sauróren in the vale beneath Where darts that column to the mountain-shrine, Nor fires a shot, but silent o’er the heath Strains to the rugged summit, while their line Is swept by fiery tempest. Bright doth shine French valour there. Though ranks be swept away, Unchecked their ardour. For the crest they pine, And win it. Lusia’s rifles swell the fray, And France upon this point an instant gains the day. XLII. But Ross his bold brigade of Britain’s sons Hath close at hand; and Nial, Morton there With martial ardour each impetuous runs, Heading their veterans in the fray to share. With lusty shouts against the French they bear, And strongly charge and down the mountain dash. Yet undismayed again the foemen dare The dire ascent--again their firelocks flash. Again o’erturned they fall, and vain their valour rash. XLIII. Through sulphurous shroud new skirmishers ascend, And mount the crest new columns of attack; Ev’n gallant Ross an instant forced to bend Before that fiery crowd recedeth back, But to return next instant with no lack Of desperate courage. Up the crest once more Our heroes charge, nor Gallic fire doth slack. Charge upon charge succeeding o’er and o’er, Each gains and yields by turns--the sod is dyed with gore. XLIV. But Britain must the foemen hold at bay, Whom Creçy, Poictiers, Azincour beheld, Whom Blenheim, Ramilies, and Malplaquet, And Oudenarde saw by Britain’s yeomen felled-- The foe on every field in Spain she quelled! Brief, potent words did Nial, Morton then, While proud effusion from their bosoms welled, Address with voice inspiring to their men, And lead with flashing swords the charge again, again! XLV. Oh, solid Infantry! oh granite breasts! Like Rome’s Triarians there they stand or fall. Each flashing death-tube not an instant rests, Save where the bayonet-flash may more appal. By France outnumbered, yet till slaughtered all The ground they’d hold. Their wounded and their dead Are laid in one terrific line, a wall Of dauntless valour: by Leucadia’s head, So stood Leonides with Persia’s life-blood red! XLVI.