“The Spanish maid, aroused,
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,
Sung the loud song, and dared the deeds of war.
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
Appalled, an owlet’s ’larum filled with dread,
Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar,
The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead
Stalks with Minerva’s step, where Mars might quake to tread.
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,