Dark fell the night like thickest, deadliest pall On Blanca’s bosom fluttering nigh to swoon; But while she drained her bitterest cup of gall, O’er fair Biscaya’s bay arose the Moon In wondrous beauty, and dispelled full soon Her gloom by enchantment. So serenely bright, It seemed as ’twere from Heaven a special boon, And Blanche with tears invoked the Virgin’s might, And deemed she saw her form within that orb of light! IX. A cherry-coloured riband from her head, Which used to bind and float beneath her hair, With trembling hand she loosed, and o’er it spread A golden curl of William’s, tied it there In fashion of a cross, and with this prayer Consigned it to her bosom: “Empress-Queen “Of Heaven, Immaculate Virgin! Spare, oh, spare “His life. _Mi Madre_, on Isaro’s green “Thy shrine shall have a crown as fair as e’er was seen.” X. At length the foeman’s guns are nearly mute, The hour doth come for the terrific shock. Where thou hast sown, Britannia, pluck the fruit; Sebastian hoary, tremble on thy rock! With false assault the gallant Rey to mock, And haply make the veteran spring his mines (Oh, perilous emprize, where Death will lock With icy arms the form that fairest shines) Leap forth a dauntless score of warriors from the lines. XI. Oh England! great thy glory, great the love Thy children bear thee, when to certain death, Or death nigh certain, dauntlessly they move, Condensed in shouts for thee their parting breath! ’Tis not one Curce or Ion gloryeth Thy history to record, one Mutius fierce, One Regulus self-devoted. Hundreds hath Each fleet and army, prompt for thee to pierce Their panting breasts, and choose for bridal bed a hearse! XII. Young Nial forward flies with impulse dire-- Of these heroic warriors he the head; They gain the breach--they mount--they shout--they fire, Their shouts are drowned in showers of answering lead; But still unsprung the mines, nor terror fed A valour calm as sleeps the Ocean near. Vain is the assault, and stretched full soon lie dead All who so late upraised that gallant cheer-- All save their leader bold who stalks the trenches near. XIII. The hour is come! Breaks heavily the morn From densest misty shroud. Great Arthur calls For nigh a thousand hearts that danger scorn To rush like Ocean-surge against the walls, And swarm where thickest fly the deadly balls: “Men who can show what ’tis to mount a breach.” That voice inspires with valour where it falls; A thousand men leap forward--heroes each-- With arms to pluck the prize where Romans dare not reach! XIV.