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

Then with a frantic energy he tore

The earth light-piled upon the new-made grave;

Digging with kite-like nails till they were sore,

But slow his progress, dire the toil he gave.

Ill brooked his soul of time to be the slave.

Again he tore the earth, till stiff and numb

His hands refuse the task. Not demons rave

More wild than he; he shrieked and howled o’ercome;

And tears like molten lead descend till he is dumb!