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The wall is rent, the ruins yawn,
And, with to-morrow`s earliest dawn,
O`er the disjointed mass shall vault
The foremost of the fierce assault.
The bands are rank`d; the chosen van
Of Tartar and of Mussulman,
The full of hope, misnamed "forlorn,"
Who hold the thought of death in scorn,
And win their way with falchion`s force,
Or pave the path with many a corse,
O`er which the following brave may rise,
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies!
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