Fled, like the lightning’s evanescent fire,
Bright, blazing, dreadful—only to expire!
Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess’d her might,
Iberia’s planet shed meridian light!
Nor less, on famed St Quintin’s deathful day,
Castilian spirit bore the prize away—
Laurels that still their verdure shall retain,
And trophies beaming high in glory’s fane!
And lo! her heroes, warm with kindred flame,
Still proudly emulate their fathers’ fame;