San Marcial’s sides they climb, his shrine they gain.
Thy line, Castile, an instant backward goes.
But up great Arthur rides—the sons of Spain
Recall their strength, and hurl the foemen to the plain.
XVI.
For ’neath that mighty Chief’s commanding eye
Impossible to sink or droop or quail.
And Aylmer’s British-born brigade is nigh
To baffle France if, Spain, thy sons should fail.
A loud Castilian shout doth rend the gale,