LV.

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,

Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,

Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,

Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,

Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.

LVI.

Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain-she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee-she checks their base career;
The foe retires-she heads the sallying host:
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?

What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost?

Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,

Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall?

LVII.

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons,
But form'd for all the witching arts of love :
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,

'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,

Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate:

In softness as in firmness far above

Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;

Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.

LVIII.

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:

Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,

Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:

Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! Who round the North for paler dames would seek ? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak!

LIX.

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;

Match me, ye harems of the land! where now

I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud

Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow;

Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow

To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters-deign to know,
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find,

His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.

Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,

Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye,

Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,

But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,

H

XXXVIII.

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?

Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote,
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?-the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high-from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

XXXIX.

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;

Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon

Flashing afar,-and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;

For on this morn three potent nations meet,

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

XL.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see

(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)

Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery,

Their various arms that glitter in the air!

What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share; The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!