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The deathful onset of the foe
None further dares sustain:
Each slings behind his unstrung bow,
And horse-hoof beat in quick retreat
Recurrent shakes the plain.
Townward there rolls a dusty cloud;
The matrons catch the sight
Prom their high station, shriek aloud,
And on their bosoms smite.
Who gain the open portals first
Are whelmed beneath a following burst
Of foemen in their rear:
No scaping from their piteous fate:
E'en at the entry of the gate,
'Mid those dear homes they left so late,
They feel the fatal spear.
The wildered townsmen close the gates:
Nor yield admittance to their mates,
For all they beg and pray:
E'en foemen might that carnage weep,
Where these in arms the pass would keep
And those would force the way.
Sad fathers from the strong redoubt
Look forth, and see their sons shut out:
Some down the moat's steep sides amain
In helpless ruin crash:
Some with blind haste and loosened rein
'Gainst door and doorpost dash.
Nay, even the dames on rampart high,
Camilla's glories in their eye,
With might and main the artillery ply,
So true their patriot flame:
Make truncheons seared and knotty wood
For lack of steel do service good,
And 'mid the first would shed their blood,
To save their walls from shame.