Her legions enter. Many a brow doth ache.
Our warriors’ death-shots direful havoc make.
They quail—they fly—confused disorder reigns.
Rank upon rank doth every instant break,
Nor Soult’s commanding voice the rout restrains.
They pass, but many a captive leave to mourn his chains.
XXV.
To Yanzi now! where narrower still the cleft
Which France must pass. By Zubiéta came
Our Light Division, ne’er of hope bereft