XXXVII.
But thirsteth Pride for San Sebastian’s towers,
For foiled one effort to surmount her wall;
And Death that sweeps each host had swept down our’s
A moon before in numbers to appal.
’Tis Honour’s voice, then, bids each bastion fall;
Such man’s decree! The galleries swift advance.
A triple mine upheaves the firm sea-wall
With fierce sulphureous shock. Rocks heavenward dance
To ope our troops a path against the sons of France.