Viii monologue — Ismael; an oriental tale. With other poems

Mean time brave Shawe usurps the martial plain, And spreads the field with Gallic heaps of slain; Where beams his sabre, wild confusion brings Terror and death upon her iron wings; A cuirass’d band of Gallic heroes saw His martial prowess with admiring awe. And first Bernot withdrew his wond’ring eyes, And thus the chief with indignation cries:-- 150 “O friends! O soldiers, shall the Gallic name Rest, for a moment, in disgraceful shame? And shall you Briton, glorying from far, Destroy our troops, and thin the ranks of war? Frenchmen, charge forwards! and your king’s applause Awaits your efforts in his glorious cause; For he that sends yon haughty Briton’s head, A worthy off’ring to the noble dead, Napoléon’s self shall grace his radiant name, And age to age perpetuate his fame.” 160 He ceas’d;--and, warm’d by hope, his legion broke Through fires of sulphur, and through mists of smoke[22]: Onwards they roll’d, elate with warrior’s pride, Each soldier charging by his comrade’s side. To check their course, drawn up in firm array, A gallant troop of Britons urge their way. Those arms destructive fill their mighty hands, The bayonet--weapon of the Anglian bands:-- They mingle!--hark! what mighty strokes resound-- What streams of slaughter dye the thirsty ground! 170