For here we are on sacred ground. The vegetation is rank with the
blood of gallant invaders, and of no less gallant patriots. In the
words of Campbell's 'Hohenlinden' -
'Every turf beneath our feet
May be a hero's sepulchre.'
That little tarn below has 'bubbled with crimson foam' when the kings
of Europe arose to bring home the Bourbons, as did the Lake Regillus
of old, in the day when 'the Thirty Cities swore to bring the
Tarquins home.'
Turn to the left, above the tarn, and into the great Spanish road
from Bayonne to the frontier at what was lately 'La Negresse,' but is
now a gay railway station. Where that station is, was another tarn,
now drained. The road ran between the two. And that narrow space of
two hundred yards, on which we stand, was for three fearful days the
gate of France.
For on the 10th of December, 1813, Soult, driven into Bayonne by
Wellington's advance, rushed out again in the early morn, and poured
a torrent of living men down this road, and upwards again towards the
British army which crested that long ridge in front.
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