Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, O! had you known her in the softer hour,-- Marked her black eye, that mocks her coal-black veil,-- Heard her light, lively tones in lady’s bower,-- Seen her long locks, that foil the painter’s power,-- Her fairy form, with more than female grace,-- Scarce would you deem that Saragossa’s tower Beheld her smile in danger’s Gorgon face, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory’s fearful chase! Her lover sinks--she sheds no ill-timed tear; Her chief is slain--she fills his fatal post; Her fellows flee--she checks their base career; The foe retires--she heads the sallying host, Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost? Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall? What maid retrieve, when man’s flushed hope is lost? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foiled by a woman’s hand, before the battered wall!” [Sidenote: DESPERATE CONFLICT.] On the 4th of August, the French stormed the city, and penetrated as far as the Corso, or public square. Here a terrible conflict was maintained. Every inch of ground was manfully contested; but the enemy’s cavalry was irresistible, and the besieged began to give way. All appeared lost. The French, thinking the victory gained, began to plunder. Seeing this, the besieged rallied, and attacked them. They succeeded in driving the enemy back to the Corso. They also set fire to the convent of Francisco, and many perished in its conflagration. Night now came, to add its horrors to the scene. The fierce contest still raged on. The lunatic asylum was invaded, and soon the dread cry of “Fire” mingled with the incoherent ravings of its inmates. “Here,” says one writer, “were to be seen grinning maniacs, shouting with hideous joy, and mocking the cries of the wounded; there, others, with seeming delight, were dabbling in the crimson fluid of many a brave heart, which had scarcely ceased to beat. On one side, young and lovely women, dressed in the fantastic rigging of a mind diseased, were bearing away headless trunks and mutilated limbs, which lay scattered around them, while the unearthly cries of the idiot kept up a hideous concert with the shouts of the infuriated combatants. In short, it was a scene of unmingled horror, too fearful for the mind to dwell upon.” After a severe contest and dreadful carnage, the French forced their way into the Corso, in the very centre of the city, and before night were in possession of one-half of it. Lefebre now believed that he had effected his purpose, and required Palafox to surrender, in a note containing only these words: “Headquarters, St. Engrucia,--Capitulation.” Equally laconic the brave Spaniard’s answer was: “Headquarters, Saragossa,--War to the knife’s point.”