Page:England and Spain.pdf/21



Pale set the sun—the shades of evening fell, The mournful night-wind rung their funeral knell; And the same day beheld their warriors dead, Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled! Fled, like the lightning's evanescent fire, Bright, blazing, dreadful—only to expire! Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess'd her might, Iberia's planet shed meridian light! Nor less, on famed St Quintin's deathful day, Castilian spirit bore the prize away— Laurels that still their verdure shall retain, And trophies beaming high in glory's fane! And lo! her heroes, warm with kindred flame, Still proudly emulate their fathers' fame; Still with the soul of patriot-valour glow, Still rush impetuous to repel the foe; Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear, And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear!