In silence stern a British column waits,
Till on the summit France a footing get;
Then rose the charging cry whose peal elates
The Island-warrior’s breast. With bayonets set,
They rushed upon the advancing crowd, and wet
Was every sod with blood. The broken mass
Was down the mountain hurled, as from the net
The fisher casts his prey. Impetuous pass
Tempestuous bullets showered, and shiver them like glass.