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?