To the music of the storm.
Quit thee bravely, stout Colonna,
Drive the Paynim crew before thee;
We must win our country's freedom
In the battle-dance to-day.
Thus we'll dance down all our tyrants—
Thus we'll dance thy routed armies
Down the hills of Vescovato,
Heaven-accurséd Genoa!
—still new evolutions, till at length they dance the last figure, called the resa, and the Saracen yields.