Where darts that column to the mountain-shrine,
Nor fires a shot, but silent o’er the heath
Strains to the rugged summit, while their line
Is swept by fiery tempest. Bright doth shine
French valour there. Though ranks be swept away,
Unchecked their ardour. For the crest they pine,
And win it. Lusia’s rifles swell the fray,
And France upon this point an instant gains the day.
XLII.
But Ross his bold brigade of Britain’s sons