XVII.

XVII.

And now, exulting o’er the glorious slain, The troops of Ponsonby usurp the plain: Where’er their leader’s conq’ring claymore shone, _There_, may the widow make her joyless moan; 260 The orphan’s wailing, and the mother’s tear; The maiden’s anguish, and the sire’s despair; The dying warrior’s last accusing breath, And all the laurell’d pageantry of death; Pursue the path their chieftain’s bloody blade Through the thick whirl of eddying hosts has made. And now the Poles on ev’ry side give way, And, routed, yield the fortunes of the day: But, warm’d by fame, exulting in their might, Too far the conq’rors urge the conquer’d’s flight; 270 And their dread _leader_’s[19] all-surveying eyes Saw the rash deed of heated enterprise. To check their unadvis’d, and hasty speed, Across the plain, he spurr’d his foaming steed; Fleeter than air, and swifter than the wind, The scene of conquest soon he leaves behind.