Witching souls,
By the blue Guadalquivír!
XXIII.
The hour is come! The stream of valour doomed
Pours through the openings of the huge seawall.
Death reaps even now his harvest. Deep entombed
I’ the earth full twoscore men like raindrops fall,
By premature mine that else had swallowed all!
Unchecked the rush of that tremendous crowd,