To men whose hearts not this e’en can appal.
Still brandish the besieged their fiery shield,
Till thicker strew the dead than live possess the field!
VI.
Nor yet Graham’s thunder ceases. Volleying rolls
The red artillery, on each lightning-flash
Dismay is borne to the defenders’ souls,
Destruction’s bolts against the ramparts dash,
And ruin strews the battlements. As lash
The stormy billows Achill’s rock-bound shore