His ribs, huge ridges, part on either hand,
His mouths are deep ravines where torrents tear
Through rocks a course to Man that seemeth banned.
Yet there our heroes march, their brows by Victory fanned.
XXX.
At Zabaldíca now with gathering ire
The rival armies stand on fearful steeps,
Where rocks on rocks are piled like bastions dire,
And savage Solitude sublimely sleeps,
And Cristovál’s and Lanz’s torrent leaps