Of cannon, standards, eagles—trophies grand—
Nor, fiery Jourdan, least, thy bâton of command!
XIV.
And now upon Navarre’s Typhæan crest
He stands triumphant, threatening haughty France,
While bounds once more Iberia’s lovely breast,
And close the wounds that held in death-like trance.
Proud beams her eye—she bids the Chief advance,
And points to Roncesvalles where of old
She crushed the invading Gaul with mighty lance.