But short the truce that they can keep-- For now the signals shrill Sounding along, from plain and steep, Longer forbid the fight to sleep; Light from the ground the warriors leap, And seize the rein and steel: All arm’d, all ardent, all array’d, Again their weapons wield; And echoing thro’ the livid shade, The clash of bayonet and blade Revives along the field. The hurried fight from post to post, Kindles, but on the center most, Whence, hoping on a happier stage, The renovated war to wage, France now assails the hill, And pours with aggregated rage The storm of fire and steel; Soon from the eye the hostile crowd The gathering shade conceals, While from its bosom, long and loud, Like thunder from a vernal cloud, The din of battle peals. XXVI. But when the freshening breezes broke A chasm in the volumed smoke, Busy and black was seen to wave The iron harvest of the field,-- That harvest, which, in slaughter till’d, Is gathered in the grave:-- And now before their mutual fires They yield, and now advance; And now ’tis Britain that retires, And now the line of France: They struggle long with changeful fate; And all the battle’s various cries, Now depress’d and now elate, In mingled clamours rise; Till France at length before the weight Of British onset flies: ‘Forward,’ the fiery victors shout, ‘Forward, the enemy’s in rout, Pursue him and he dies!’ XXVII. Hot and impetuous they pursued, And wild with carnage, drunk with blood, Rush’d on the plain below; The wily Frenchman saw and stood-- Screen’d by the verges of the wood He turn’d him on the foe. The gallant bands that guard the crown Of England, led the battle down, And, in their furious mood, Thrice they essay’d with onset fierce, Thrice fail’d, collected France to pierce-- Still France collected, stood! While full on each uncover’d flank Cannon and mortar swept their rank, And many a generous Briton sank Before the dreadful blaze; Yet ’midst that dreadful blaze and din The fearless shout they raise, And ever, as their numbers thin, Fresh spirits rush unbidden in, Thoughtless, but how the meed to win Of peril and of praise. And still, as with a blacker shade Fortune obscures the day, Commingled thro’ the fight they wade, And hand to hand and blade to blade, Their blind and furious efforts braid, As if, still dark and disarray’d, They fought the midnight fray. XXVIII.