Their arms are strong and sinewy—see how the splinters fly—
Their axes they are sharp and good—"Back, comrades! or ye die—
Look to the walls!"—a rending crash—they topple—down they come—
A cloud of sparks—a feeble cheer—again!—and all is dumb.
A pause—as on that battle-day, 'twixt France and England's might,
When huge L'Orient blew up at once, in the hottest of the fight:
There was not one, they say, but wink'd, and held his breath the while,
Though brave were they that fought that day with Nelson at the Nile.
And by to-morrow's sunrise, amid the steaming stones,
A chain of gold half-melted, and a few small white bones,