XIII.

XIII.

But here, while Mars and dread Bellona rag’d, And the hot conflict Gaul and Albion wag’d, An hostile race, from Poland’s northern shore, On Wellesley’s bands their martial numbers pour; Skill’d in the art, a piercing death they bear, Their native arms, the far-extending spear. Th’ heroic Ponsonby perceiv’d the band,-- Forth from the scabbard leapt his beamy brand; His heaving breast with indignation burn’d, While to his troops the godlike warrior turn’d: 200 “Shall haughty Poland triumph o’er the plain, And boast her heaps of Britain’s mighty slain? Shall Poland conquer in this glorious day, And bear the prize from Albion’s race away? Forward, my friends! exalt your matchless name, And seize the moment to increase your fame!”