With less than thousand men and thirteen guns
Had Santa Anna hardly crossed the river
In eager hurry to prevent your flight,
When oped the heavens the sluices of their lakes
And sent upon the earth an avalanche
Of water-floods which made the plain a sea
And filled the rivers to their utmost brink.
The bridges by the torrents swept away,
The forces under Cos and Filisola
Are yet detained at Harrisburg and Brazos.
Now, now or never is your time and chance,
Triumphantly by one stroke of the sword
To consummate your highest aspirations.
Oh! profit of the moment ere it flees,
Observe how Fortune—God!—has cleared for you
An unobstructed path, upon whose goal
The laurel-wreath of Victory hangs suspended.
Oh! list to him, for he is sent by God.
Where lies a nation's fate upon the scale,
It surely needs a stronger argument
Than a deserter's to decide upon.
So let my lips corroborate his word.