"Strike! all my gallant comrades!
Strike! gentlemen of Spain!
Upon the traitor wretches
Your deadly anger rain,
Or never to your native land
Return in pride again!"
Then hosts of angry foemen
We fiercely held at bay,
Through living walls of Pagans
We cut our bloody way;
And though by thousands round they swarmed,
We kept our firm array.
At length they feared to follow;
We stood upon the plain,
And dressed our shattered column;
When, slacking bridle rein,
De Soto, wounded as he was,
Led to the charge again.
For now our gallant horsemen
Their steeds again had found,
That had been fastly tethered
Unto the trees around,
Though some of these, by arrows slain,
Lay stretched upon the ground.
And as the riders mounted,
The foe, in joyous tones,
Gave vent to shouts of triumph,
And hurled a shower of stones;
But soon the shouts were changed to wails,
The cries of joy to moans.
Down on the scared Mobilians
The furious rush was led;
Down fell the howling victims
Beneath the horses' tread;
The angered chargers trod alike
On dying and on dead.
Back to the wooden ramparts,
With cut and thrust and blow,
We drove the panting savage,
The very walls below,
Till those above upon our heads
Huge rocks began to throw.
Whenever we retreated
The swarming foemen came—
Their wild and matchless courage
Put even ours to shame—
Rushing upon our lances' points,
And arquebuses' flame.
Three weary hours we fought them,
And often each gave way;
Three weary hours, uncertain
The fortune of the day;
And ever where they fiercest fought
De Soto led the fray.
Baltasar de Gallegos
Right well displayed his might;
His sword fell ever fatal,
Death rode its flash of light;
And where his horse's head was turned
The foe gave way in fright.