Mine, sap, and bomb, thy shattered ruins knew, Twice from thy half-sacked streets the foe withdrew, And when at length stern Fate decreed thy doom, They won not Zaragoza, but her children's bloody tomb. LII. Yet raise thy head, sad City! Though in chains, Enthralled thou canst not be! Arise and claim Reverence from every heart where Freedom reigns, For what thou worshippest !-thy sainted Dame, She of the column, honoured be her name, By all, whate'er their creed, who honour love! And like the sacred relics of the flame, That gave some martyr to the blessed above, To every loyal heart may thy sad embers prove! LIII. Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona fair! Faithful to death thy heroes should be sung, Manning the towers while o'er their heads the air Swart as the smoke from raging furnace hung; Now thicker darkening where the mine was sprung, Now briefly lightened by the cannon's flare, Now arched with fire-sparks as the bomb was flung, And reddening now with conflagration's glare, While by the fatal light the foes for storm prepare. LIV. While all around was danger, strife, and fear, In which old Albion's heart and tongue unite, LV. Don Roderick turned him as the shout grew loud- For where the Ocean mingled with the cloud, And flashed the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear, And the wild beach returned the seaman's jovial cheer. LVI. It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight! The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars, Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite, Legions on legions brightening all the shores. Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars, Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum, Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours, And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb, For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of Ocean come! LVII. A various host they came-whose ranks display And meditates his aim the marksman light; Nor the fleet ordnance whirled by rapid steed, That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in speed. LVIII. A various host-from kindred realms they came, And with their deeds of valour deck her crown. And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause, And freeborn thoughts, which league the Soldier with the Laws. LIX. And oh! loved warriors of the Minstrel's land! And level for the charge your arms are laid, LX. Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, And HE, yon Chieftain-strike the proudest tone Of thy bold harp, green Isle !—the HERO is thine own. LXI. Now on the scene Vimeira should be shown, On Talavera's fight should Roderick gaze, And hear Corunna wail her battle won, And see Busaco's crest with lightning blaze :- But shall fond fable mix with heroes' praise? Hath Fiction's stage for Truth's long triumphs room? And dare her wild-flowers mingle with the bays, That claim a long eternity to bloom Around the warrior's crest, and o'er the warrior's tomb ! LXII. Or may I give adventurous Fancy scope, Of Spain's invaders from her confines hurled, And Fame, with clarion blast and wings unfurled, To Freedom and revenge awakes an injured World. LXIII. O vain, though anxious, is the glance I cast, Yet grant for faith, for valour, and for Spain, CONCLUSION. "Who shall command Estrella's mountain-tide And Biscay's whirlwinds list his lullaby, Let him stand forth and bar mine eagles' way, And they shall heed his voice, and at his bidding stay. II. "Else, ne'er to stoop, till high on Lisbon's towers, To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul's leader spoke. And smiled like Eden in her summer dress;- III. And shall the boastful Chief maintain his word, Though Heaven hath heard the wailings of the land, Though Lusitania whet her vengeful sword, Though Britons arm, and WELLINGTON Command ! No! grim Busaco's iron ridge shall stand An adamantine barrier to his force! And from its base shall wheel his shattered band, As from the unshaken rock the torrent hoarse Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a devious course. IV. Yet not because Alcoba's mountain-hawk Hath on his best and bravest made her food, His Lord's imperial thirst for spoil and blood: And Lisbon's matrons, from their walls, might sum The myriads that had half the world subdued, And hear the distant thunders of the drum, That bids the band of France to storm and havoc come. V. Four moons have heard these thunders idly rolled, At length they move-but not to battle-fray, Nor blaze yon fires where meets the manly fight; Beacons of infamy, they light the way, Where cowardice and cruelty unite, To dam with double shame their ignominious flight. VI. O triumph for the fiends of Lust and Wrath! What wanton horrors marked their wrackful path! The hoary priest even at the altar shot, Childhood and age given o'er to sword and flame, Woman to infamy;-no crime forgot, By which inventive demons might proclaim Immortal hate to Man, and scorn of God's great name! VII. The rudest sentinel, in Britain born, With horror paused to view the havoc done, Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun, Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor the gay, Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's more worthless lay. VIII. But thou-unfoughten wilt thou yield to Fate, Behold, where, named by some Prophetic Seer, Flows Honour's Fountain, as fore-doomed the stain From thy dishonoured name and arms to clearFallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her favour here! IX. Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each distant aid: Marshall each band thou hast, and summon more; And weary out his arm-thou canst not quell his soul. X. O vainly gleams with steel Agueda's shore, Wild from his plaided ranks the yell was given-Vengeance and grief gave mountain rage the rein, And, at the bloody spear-point headlong driven, The Despot's giant guards fled like the rack of heaven. XI. Go, baffled Boaster! teach thy haughty mood To plead at thine imperious master's throne! Say, thou hast left his legions in their blood, Deceived his hopes, and frustrated thine own; Say, that thine utmost skill and valour shown By British skill and valour were outvied; Last say, thy conqueror was WELLINGTON! And if he chafe, be his own fortune tried-God and our cause to friend, the venture we'll abide. XII. But ye, the heroes of that well-fought day, His meed to each victorious leader pay, Or bind on every brow the laurels won? Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest tone, 'Mid yon far western isles, that hear the Atlantic rave. |