Though many a victor field they’ve fluttered o’er.
Up Nial springs with hand still dripping gore,
And stoutly tears that tyrant-standard down.
Three loud huzzas resound from sky to shore—
Floats in its stead the flag of Leon’s crown.
’Tis ours! And Spain once more is mistress of her town.
XVII.
Thus strove Peleides with the King of Men
For fair Briseïs many a stubborn hour,