Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend,
Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e’er to bend!
When Gallia pour’d to Pavia’s trophied plain,
Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train;
When, after many a toil and danger past,
The fatal morn of conflict rose at last;
That morning saw her glittering host combine,
And form in close array the threat’ning line;
Fire in each eye, and force in ev’ry arm,
With hope exulting, and with ardour warm;