But D’Erlon hath concentred all his force, And seeks, by steep Buenza, Hill to crush. O’erpowering numbers urge their onward course, And Hill retires--but not till he doth hush The fire of D’Armagnac with torrent rush. By Lecumberri Soult essays a path To San Sebastian through our line to push. But eye more keenly sure great Arthur hath, And breaks the foe’s design with counter-stroke of wrath. XII. With rapid steps Zubiri Picton gains; His skirmishers molest Foy’s shattered flank. From Zabaldíca’s crest Foy sees the plains Strewn with the flower of many a fallen rank. But powerless he for aid--the bayonet drank Upon the hill the life-blood of his corps, Where before Cole’s assault his veterans sank, While gallant Inglis down the mountain o’er Clausel and Conroux falls with shock that frights them sore. XIII. And headlong from the Sierra Byng, too, comes To where Maucune the smiling village keeps. Our cannon from the height the ear benumbs; The bullets crash where that Arcadia sleeps, And many a peasant for his Lares weeps. Along the valley booms the thunderous sound; And quivering child and pallid virgin creeps For shelter to the mountain-caves around, While swells the demon-strife, and death-shot ploughs the ground. XIV. Sauróren bridge where late great Arthur wrote His rapid mandate o’er the torrent’s fall, The deep Lanz valley by the thunder smote, The hills above, the blooming village--all Are covered o’er with dense, sulphureous pall; And musketry its sharp and rattling peal Incessant echoes ’gainst the mountain-wall. While fills the glen tumultuous shot and steel, The volumed smoke can scarce the form of death reveal. XV. Sauróren’s won! The Gallic host is broken, And thousand prisoners own our conquering hand; Disarmed and guarded well in Victory’s token, But nobly used as fits a generous land. Gaul’s columns fly in many a scattered band To Urtiága’s pass and Ostiz’ steep, By Lusia’s sons pursued with flaming brand. But, ah, Sauróren’s maids and matrons weep, For from the Virgin’s shrine did many a death-bolt leap! XVI. As mariners who on a stormy sea The magnet lose that guides them o’er the wave; As warriors marshalled oft to victory, Who lose the sacred banner of the brave: So with their tears these mountain-children lave Lanz’ trodden glen; for, ah, the diadem That girds the Virgin’s brow no more shall save. Death rained on Lanz beneath each sparkling gem. A Madre de Dolór is Mary now to them! XVII.