For pistol-shot might reach the hastening throng, Who through the horrid chasm defenceless crowd. The wounded men on branches borne along Were flung to earth--in vain their voices loud Implored for aid, all trampled in the shroud That wrapt them blood-besmeared. Confusion dire Possest the ranks. The bravest horsemen cowed Charged up the pass to escape the avenger’s ire; The footman ’gainst the hussar was forced to turn his fire. XXX. And many a stalwart cavalier and horse Was headlong flung in Echallara’s stream, And many an ailing man was soon a corse; From many a musket fires defensive teem, Held skyward--but in vain their flashes gleam, For terrible our vantage. Some too rushed In veteran might o’er Yanzi’s bridge, and deem Our flank to gall, but soon their fire was hushed. The wounded quarter sued--’twas given by conquerors flushed. XXXI. And prisoners fell by thousands in our hands, And all the convoy, treasure, spoil was our’s. At Echallar and Ivantelly stands The foe once more, and tempts the leaguering powers; But daring Barnes upon the mountain towers With lion-heart, and smites the clustering foe. Though five to one their number ’gainst us lours, In vain the arméd throng withstands the blow. The fortress-crag is won--the French are hurled below. XXXII. On Ivantelly’s giant peak they fling Their last defiance--soon their hope doth melt, Like hoar upon a sunny morn in Spring, For there our light brigades their way have felt Through mist thick gathering, as erewhile it dwelt Upon Lizasso’s brow, but not to arrest Again our footsteps. Many a blow they dealt, Though viewless fatal. Through the clouds they guest The foeman’s shadowy form, and scaled the mountain’s breast. XXXIII. Through misty veil that crowns the topmost crags Doth Nial with his rifles plunge amain; Nor Morton with his light battalion lags. Gaul’s chosen grenadiers Clausel with pain Sees from the mist emerging to the plain. Sharp rings the rifle;--with sonorous roll The musketry less keen replies--in vain! Disordered France retires, and rends the pole Our shout victorious raised--the peak is Glory’s goal! XXXIV. Pyrene’s won! Upon the tallest crest Did Nial, Morton mark with fond embrace The crowning victory. Why together rest Their eyes, the mist now melted, on that place Beneath? Ye Powers! It is great Arthur’s face. The flying French have eyed him too where o’er His mountain charts, and plans of war the base, With escort small intently he doth pore, And none suspects the prize the foemen swift explore. XXXV.