Iberia Won; A poem descriptive of the Peninsular War / With impressions from recent visits to the battle-grounds, and copious historical and illustrative notes

by T. M. Hughes

But onward to their breasts the assailants bound,

And momently the baffled foemen scare.

They rally—I ween none there hath quarter found;

They stand—and desperate valour all doth dare.

In vain—the stormers rush like lightning to their lair.

XII.

Red as the slaughter which their hands achieved,

The British garb doth smite the foe with awe;

And as our sturdy bowmen Creçy grieved

O’er Gaul’s full-mailéd Knights triumphant saw,