Nor does the gallant foe resign,
Even while his hopes and strength decline,
A tame inglorious prize;--
Long, long on Britain’s rallied line
The deadly fire he plies;
Long, long where Britain’s banners shine
He vainly toils and dies!
Ne’er to a battle’s fiercer groan
Did mountain echo roar,
Nor ever evening blush upon
A redder field of gore.
But feebler now, and feebler still,
The panting French assail the hill,
And weaker grows their cannon’s roar,
And thinner falls their missile shower,
Fainter their clanging steel;
The hot and furious fit is o’er,
They shout--they charge--they stand no more--
And staggering in the slippery gore,
Their very leaders reel.