Fronting a hurricane of iron hail,
And mowed by shot and shell—yet made the foeman quail!
XIII.
For nought could baffle England’s trusted Chief,
Who Marmont’s lines on Salamanca’s plain
Smote like a thunderbolt, keen—rapid—brief,
And rent his legions like a shattered chain!
And at Vitoria wrenched the crown of Spain
From the poor tremulous Usurper’s hand,
The spoils of Empire seized, a countless train