Could have sustain'd the mourners who were left.
With life-long yearnings, to remember him
Whose early death this monumental verse
Records? For never more auspicious hopes
Were nipt in flower, nor finer qualities
From goodliest fabric of mortality
Divorced, nor virtues worthier to adorn
The world transferr'd to heaven, than when, 'ere time
Had measured him the space of nineteen years,
Paul Burrard on Coruña's fatal field
Received his mortal hurt. Not unprepared
The heroic youth was found: for in the ways
Of piety had he been trained; and what
The dutiful child upon his mother's knees
Had learnt, the soldier faithfully observed.
In chamber or in tent, the Book of God
Was his beloved manual; and his life
Beseem'd the lessons which from thence he drew.
For, gallant as he was, and blithe of heart,
Expert of hand, and keen of eye, and prompt
In intellect, religion was the crown
Of all his noble properties. When Paul
Was by, the scoffer, self-abased, restrain'd
The license of his speech; and ribaldry
Before his virtuous presence sate rebuked.
And yet so frank and affable a form
His virtue wore, that wheresoe'er he moved
A sunshine of good-will and cheerfulness
Enliven'd all around. Oh! marvel not,
If, in the morning of his fair career,
Which promised all that honour could bestow
On high desert, the youth was summon'd hence!
His soul required no farther discipline,
Pure as it was, and capable of Heaven.
Upon the spot from whence he just had seen
His General borne away, the appointed ball
Reach'd him. But not on that Gallician ground
Was it his fate, like many a British heart,
To mingle with the soil; the sea received
His mortal relics,.. to a watery grave
Consign'd so near his native shore, so near
His father's house, that they who loved him best,
Unconscious of its import, heard the gun
Alas! if it were known,
When, in the strife of nations, dreadful Death
Mows down with indiscriminating sweep
His thousands ten times told, .. if it were known
What ties are sever'd then, what ripening hopes
Blasted, what virtues in their bloom cut off;
How far the desolating scourge extends;
How wide the misery spreads; what hearts beneath
Their grief are broken, or survive to feel
Always the irremediable loss;
Oh! who of woman born could bear the thought?
Who but would join with fervent piety
The prayer that asketh in our time for peace?
Nor in our time alone! Enable us,
Father which art in heaven! but to receive
And keep thy word: thy kingdom then should come, Thy will be done on earth; the victory
Accomplished over Sin as well as Death,
And the great scheme of Providence fulfill'd.
FOR THE BANKS OF THE DOURO.
CROSSING in unexampled enterprize
This great and perilous stream, the English host
Effected here their landing, on the day
When Soult from Porto with his troops was driven.
No sight so joyful ever had been seen
From Douro's banks, .. not when the mountains sent
Their generous produce down, or homeward fleets
Entered from distant seas their port desired;
Nor e'er were shouts of such glad mariners
So gladly heard, as then the cannon's peal,
And short sharp strokes of frequent musketry,
By the delivered habitants that hour.
For they who beaten then and routed fled
Before victorious England, in their day
Of triumph, had, like fiends let loose from hell,
Fill'd yon devoted city with all forms
Of horror, all unutterable crimes;
And vengeance now had reach'd the inhuman race
Accurst. Oh what a scene did Night behold
Within those rescued walls, when festal fires,
And torches, blazing through the bloody streets,
Stream'd their broadlight where horse and man in death
Unheeded lay outstretch'd! Eyes which had wept
In bitterness so long, shed tears of joy,
And from the broken heart thanksgiving mix'd
With anguish rose to Heaven. Sir Arthur then
Might feel how precious in a righteous cause,
Is victory, how divine the soldier's meed
When grateful nations bless the avenging sword!
YON wide-extended town, whose roofs and towers
And poplar avenues are seen far off,
In goodly prospect over scatter'd woods
Of dusky ilex, boasts among its sons
Of Mariana's name, .. he who hath made
The splendid story of his country's wars
Through all the European kingdoms known.
Yet in his ample annals thou canst find
No braver battle chronicled, than here
Was waged, when Joseph of the stolen crown,
Against the hosts of England and of Spain
His veteran armies brought. By veteran chiefs
Captain'd, a formidable force they came,
Full fifty thousand. Victor led them on,
A man grown grey in arms, nor e'er in aught
Dishonoured, till by this opprobrious cause.
He over rude Alverche's summer stream
Winning his way, made first upon
His hot attack, where Spain's raw levies, ranged
In double line, had taken their strong stand
In yonder broken ground, by olive groves
Cover'd and flank'd by Tagus. Soon from thence,
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