Their last defiance—soon their hope doth melt,
Like hoar upon a sunny morn in Spring,
For there our light brigades their way have felt
Through mist thick gathering, as erewhile it dwelt
Upon Lizasso’s brow, but not to arrest
Again our footsteps. Many a blow they dealt,
Though viewless fatal. Through the clouds they guest
The foeman’s shadowy form, and scaled the mountain’s breast.
XXXIII.