XXXVI.

FOR THE AFFAIR AT ARROYO MOLINOS.

HE who may chronicle Spain's arduous strife
Against the Intruder, hath to speak of fields
Profuselier fed with blood, and victories
Borne wider on the wings of glad report;

Yet shall this town, which from the mill-stream takes
Its humble name, be storied as the spot

Where the vain Frenchman, insolent too long
Of power and of success, first saw the strength
Of England in prompt enterprize essayed,
And felt his fortunes ebb, from that day forth
Swept back upon the refluent tide of war.
Girard lay here, who late from Caceres,
Far as his active cavalry could scour,

Had pillaged and opprest the country round;
The Spaniard and the Portugueze he scorn'd,
And deem'd the British soldiers all too slow,
To seize occasion, unalert in war,

And therefore brave in vain. In such belief
Secure at night he laid him down to sleep,
Nor dreamt that these disparaged enemies
With drum and trumpet should in martial charge
Sound his reveille. All day their march severe
They held through wind and drenching rain; all night
The autumnal tempest unabating raged,

While in their comfortless and open camp

They cheer'd themselves with patient hope: the storm
Was their ally, and moving in the mist,

When morning open'd, on the astonish'd foe
They burst. Soon routed horse and foot, the French
On all sides scattering, fled, on every side

Beset, and every where pursued, with loss
Of half their numbers captured, their whole stores,
And all their gathered plunder. 'Twas a day
Of surest omen, such as fill'd with joy

True English hearts... No happier peals have e’er
Been roll'd abroad from town and village tower
Than gladden'd then with their exultant sound
Salopian vales; and flowing cups were brimm'd
All round the Wrekin to Sir Rowland's name.

XXXVII.

WRITTEN IN AN UNPUBLISHED VOLUME OF LETTERS

AND MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS, BY BARRÉ CHARLES

ROBERTS.

NoT often hath the cold insensate earth
Closed over such fair hopes, as when the grave
Received young Barre's perishable part;
Nor death destroyed so sweet a dream of life.
Nature, who sometimes lavisheth her gifts
With fatal bounty, had conferred on him
Even such endowments as parental love
Might in its wisest prayer have ask'd of Heaven;
An intellect that, choosing for itself

The better part, went forth into the fields

Of knowledge, and with never-sated thirst

Drank of the living springs; a judgement calm
And clear; a heart affectionate; a soul
Within whose quiet sphere, no vanities
Or low desires had place. Nor were the seeds
Of excellence thus largely given, and left
To struggle with impediment of clime
Austere, or niggard soil; all circumstance
Of happy fortune was to him vouchsafed;
His way of life was as through garden-walks

Wherein no thorns are seen, save such as grow, Types of our human state, with fruits and flowers. In all things favoured thus auspiciously,

But in his father most. An intercourse

So beautiful no former record shows
In such relationship displayed, where through
Familiar friendship's perfect confidence,
The father's ever-watchful tenderness
Meets ever in the son's entire respect
Its due return devout, and playful love
Mingles with every thing, and sheds o'er all
A sunshine of its own. Should we then say
The parents purchased at too dear a cost
This deep delight, the deepest, purest joy
Which Heaven hath here assign'd us, when they saw
Their child of hope, just in the May of life,
Beneath a slow and cankering malady,
With irremediable decay consumed,

Sink to the untimely grave? Oh, think not thus !
Nor deem that such long anguish, and the grief
Which in the inmost soul doth strike its roots
There to abide through time, can overweigh
The blessings which have been, and yet shall be !
Think not that He in Whom we live, doth mock
Our dearest aspirations! Think not love,
Genius, and virtue should inhere alone

In mere mortality, and Earth put out

The sparks which are of Heaven! We are not left
In darkness, nor devoid of hope. The Light
Of Faith hath risen to us: the vanquish'd Grave
To us the great consolatory truth

Proclaim'd that He who wounds will heal; and Death

Opening the gates of Immortality,

The spirits whom it hath dissevered here,

In everlasting union re-unite.

Keswick, 1814.