The hour is come! The stream of valour doomed Pours through the openings of the huge seawall. Death reaps even now his harvest. Deep entombed I’ the earth full twoscore men like raindrops fall, By premature mine that else had swallowed all! Unchecked the rush of that tremendous crowd, And far beyond the Hope Forlorn appal The bristling ramparts, as with daring proud They fly to the horrid breach,--tho’ Hell should yawn, uncowed! XXIV. Who leads the van? Green Erin’s son, Mac Iar, Fleet as the roebuck on his native hills; Dauntless as Brian’s sword, through showering fire, He boundeth o’er the seabeach rocks and rills, Impetuous. How his manly figure fills The eyes of thousands! How his dancing plume Of streaming snow enchains his followers’ wills, Doubling their speed, while copes i’ the front with doom That gallant form that seems defiant of the tomb! XXV. Alcides’ arm--the eye that Python slew, The limbs and shoulder of the Delian God! Now ’neath the breach that form triumphant view, Now see it stretched supine upon the sod! Ay, instant struck, as strikes Heaven’s fire the rod That points from loftiest pinnacle. No dirge Shall wail that fall, no cypress o’er it nod. ’Tis War’s repast! Their course the stormers urge, And o’er the Hero’s corse go sweeping like a surge! XXVI. And Morton now, and Nial by his side, In peril’s front the impetuous stormers lead; Nor less their beauty nor their valour’s pride Than his whose doom was first that day to bleed. In generous rivalry, like mettled steed, They strain to win the breach, their grisly goal. Their flashing swords, athirst for Glory’s meed, Their tossing plumes, the advancing crowd controul,-- And daring like to their’s inspires each warrior soul. XXVII. On, on they rush, their line with dead bestrewing, While Mont ’Orgullo and Santelmo pour Both shot and shell, the living brave renewing The venturous rank where heroes fall before. Up, up the breach they climb, swift mounting o’er Bastion and parapet in fragments hurled-- Titanic ruins strewn along the shore-- While nearer now the culverin smoke is curled, And deadly grapeshot paves the path to a new world. XXVIII. From every quarter sweeps an iron shower-- Cannon and musketry in front and rear-- From nearest horn and distant fort and tower, From rampart, bastion, curtain, cavalier. Up, up the breach they climb and laugh at fear! The summit’s gained--it seems the verge of Hell-- A gulf impassable! Live thunder near Leaps forth from guns whose momentary knell Rings for the brave who fall where late they stood so well.