XII.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that view’d
Changed its proud glance of fortitude,
Nor was one forward footstep staid,
As dropp’d the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,
Fast they renew’d each serried square;
And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminish’d files again,
Till from their line scarce spears’ lengths three,
Emerging from the smoke they see
Helmet and plume and panoply,—
Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer’s revolving knell,
As fast, as regularly fell,
As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day.
Then down went helm and lance,
Down were the eagle banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent;
And to augment the fray,
Wheel’d full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen’s foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way.
Then to the musket-knell succeeds
The clash of swords—the neigh of steeds—
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scatter’d band
Raged the fierce rider’s bloody brand,
Recoil’d in common rout and fear,
Lancer and guard and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot,—a mingled host,
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.