"Yes; ev'ry mould'ring tow'r and haunted

flood,

And the wild murmurs of the waving wood;

Each sandy waste, and orange-scented dell,

And red Buraba's field, and Lugo, tell,

How their brave fathers fought, how thick the invaders fell.

"Oh! virtue long forgot, or vainly tried, To glut a bigot's zeal, or tyrant's pride; Condemn'd in distant climes to bleed and die 'Mid the dank poisons of Tlascala's sky;

Or when stern Austria stretch'd her lawless reign, And spent in northern fights the flower of Spain; Or war's hoarse furies yell'd on Ysell's shore, And Alva's ruffian sword was drunk with gore. Yet dar'd not then Tlascala's chiefs withstand The lofty daring of Castilia's band;

And weeping France her captive king deplor'd, And curs'd the deathful point of Ebro's sword. Now, nerv'd with hope, their night of slavery past, Each heart beats high in freedom's buxom blast; Lo! Conquest calls, and beck'ning from afar, Uplifts his laurel wreath, and waves them on to

war.

-Wo to th' usurper then, who dares defy
The sturdy wrath of rustic loyalty!

Wo to the hireling bands, foredoom'd to feel
How strong in labour's horny hand the steel!
Behold e'en now, beneath yon Bætic skies
Another Pavia bids her trophies rise ;-
E'en now in base disguise and friendly night
Their robber-monarch speeds his secret flight;
And with new zeal the fiery Lusians rear,
(Rous'd by their neighbour's worth,) the long-
neglected spear.

"So when stern winter chills the April showers,
And iron frost forbids the timely flowers;
Oh! deem not thou the vigorous herb below
Is crush'd and dead beneath the incumbent snow;
Such tardy suns shall wealthier harvests bring
Than all the early smiles of flattering spring."
Sweet as the martial trumpet's silver swell,
On my charm'd sense th' unearthly accents fell;
Me wonder held, and joy chastis'd by fear,
As one who wish'd, yet hardly hop'd to hear.

66

Spirit," I cried, "dread teacher, yet declare,

In that good fight, shall Albion's arm be there?

Can Albion, brave, and wise, and proud, refrain To hail a kindred soul, and link her fate with

Spain?

Too long her sons, estrang'd from war and toil,
Have loath'd the safety of the sea-girt isle;

And chid the waves which pent their fire within,
As the stall'd war-horse woos the battle's din.
Oh, by this throbbing heart, this patriot glow,
Which, well I feel, each English breast shall know;
Say, shall my country, rous'd from deadly sleep,
Crowd with her hardy sons yon western steep;
And shall once more the star of France grow pale,
And dim its beams in Roncesvalles' vale?

Or shall foul sloth and timid doubt conspire
To mar our zeal, and waste our manly fire ?"
Still as I gaz'd, his low'ring features spread,
High rose his form, and darkness veil'd his head;
Fast from his eyes the ruddy lightning broke,
To heaven he rear'd his arm, and thus he spoke :
"Wo, trebly. wo to their slow zeal who bore
Delusive comfort to Iberia's shore !

Who in mid conquest, vaunting, yet dismay'd,
Now gave and now withdrew their laggard aid;

Who, when each bosom glow'd, each heart beat

high,

Chill'd the pure stream of England's energy,
And lost in courtly forms and blind delay
The loiter'd hours of glory's short-liv'd day.

"O peerless island, generous, bold, and free, Lost, ruin'd Albion, Europe mourns for thee! Hadst thou but known the hour in mercy given To stay thy doom, and ward the ire of Heaven; Bar'd in the cause of man thy warrior breast, And crush'd on yonder hills th' approaching pest, Then had not murder sack'd thy smiling plain, And wealth, and worth, and wisdom all been vain. "Yet, yet awake! while fear and wonder wait, On the pois'd balance, trembling still with fate! If aught their worth can plead, in battle tried, Who ting'd with slaughter Tajo's curdling tide; (What time base truce the wheels of war could stay,

And the weak victor flung his wreath away ;)— Or theirs, who, dol'd in scanty bands afar, Wag'd without hope the disproportion'd war, And cheerly still, and patient of distress,

Led their forwasted files on numbers numberless!

"Yes, through the march of many a weary day,

As
yon
dark column toils its seaward way ;
As bare, and shrinking from th' inclement sky,

The languid soldier bends him down to die ;
As o'er those helpless limbs, by murder gor'd,
The base pursuer waves his weaker sword,
And, trod to earth, by trampling thousands press'd,
The horse-hoof glances from that mangled breast;
E'en in that hour his hope to England flies,
And fame and vengeance fire his closing eyes.

"Oh! if such hope can plead, or his, whose bier
Drew from his conquering host their latest tear;
Whose skill, whose matchless valour, gilded flight;
Entomb'd in foreign dust, a hasty soldier's rite ;-
Oh! rouse thee yet to conquer and to save,
And Wisdom guide the sword which Justice gave!
"And yet the end is not! from yonder tow'rs
While one Saguntum mocks the victor's pow'rs;
While one brave heart defies a servile chain,
And one true soldier wields a lance for Spain;
Trust not, vain tyrant, though thy spoiler band
In tenfold myriads darken half the land;
(Vast as that power, against whose impious lord
Bethulia's matron shook the nightly sword ;)