Swayed by the surge against the cliffs is torn.
But nought could drown unconquerable scorn
Of death in that young hero. Up once more
He rushed to the crest, and fell. Young Blanca, mourn!
Thy lover’s heart is pierced, he totters o’er,
And falls ’mid heaps of slain—his dirge the artillery’s roar:—
The Rally.
1.
As a torrent that bounds
From its mountainous dwelling