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Till rage grew languid, and tired slaughter found
No arm to combat, and no breast to wound.
Now from the field Castile's proud monarch flies,
In wild dismay he rolls his maddening eyes,
And leads the pale-lipt flight, swift wing'd with fear,
As drifted smoke; at distance disappear,
The dusty squadrons of the scatter'd rear;
Blaspheming heaven, they fly, and him who first
Forged murdering arms, and led to horrid wars accurst.
The festive days by heroes old ordain'd
The glorious victor on the field remain'd.
The
