Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

Here, cried a Spaniard, far unlike his race,
Nor shall his abject name my verse debase,
Marking his few associates march along,
O that our band were but a hundred strong!

111

The brave Gonsalo with disdain replied:
Rather let two be sever'd from our side,
Kind Heaven! that Memory may our feats proclaim,
And call our little troop The Twelve of Fame!

[OMITTED]

Now in the turbid air a stormy cloud
Spreads its terrific shadow o'er the crowd;
The gathering darkness hides the solar ray,
And to th' affrighted earth denies the day;
The rushing winds, to which the forests yield,
Rive the tall tree, and desolate the field:
In drops distinct and rare now falls the rain;
And now with thickening fury beats the plain.
As the bold master of the martial drum,
Ere to the shock th' advancing armies come,
In aweful notes, that shake the heaven's high arch,
Intrepid strikes the slow and solemn march;

112

But, when the charging heroes yield their breath,
Doubles the horrid harmony of death:
So the dark tempest, with increasing sound,
Pours the loud deluge on the echoing ground.