There is a bulwark in the soul.
Iberian burghers when the sword they drew
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales
Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt
By Palafox, and many a brave compeer,
Like him, of noble birth and noble mind;
By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear;
And wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt
The bread which, without industry, they find.
O'ER the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
Dwells in the affections and the soul of man
A godhead, like the universal Pan,
But more exalted, with a brighter train.
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain,
Showered equally on city and on field,
And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield
In these usurping times of fear and pain?
Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it, Heaven!
We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws
To which the triumph of all good is given,
High sacrifice, and labour without pause,
Even to the death: else wherefore should the eye
Of man converse with immortality? ·
ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE.
Ir was a moral end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought?
Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought;
For in their magnanimity and fame
Powers have they left-an impulse-and a claim
Which neither can be overturned nor bought.
Sleep, warriors, sleep! among your hills
We know that ye, beneath the stern control
Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul;
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes,
Europe breaks forth, then, shepherds, shall ye rise
For perfect triumph o'er your enemies.
HAIL, Zaragoza ! if with unwet eye
We can approach, thy sorrow to behold,
Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold;
Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh.
These desolate remains are trophies high
Of more than martial courage in the breast
Of peaceful civic virtue: they attest
Thy matchless worth to all posterity.
Blood flowed before thy sight without remorse;
Disease consumed thy vitals; war upheaved
The ground beneath thee with volcanic force;
Dread trials! yet encountered and sustained,
Till not a wreck of help or hope remained,
And law was from necessity received.
SAY, what is Honour? 'Tis the finest sense
Of justice which the human mind can frame,
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,
And guard the way of life from all offence
Suffered or done. When lawless violence
A kingdom doth assault, and in the scale
Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail,
Honour is hopeful elevation-whence
Glory-and Triumph. Yet with politic skill
Endangered states may yield to terms unjust,
Stoop their proud heads-but not unto the dust,
A foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil!
Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust
Are ferfeited; but infamy doth kill.
THE martial courage of a day is vain-
An empty noise of death the battle's roar-
If vital hope be wanting to restore,
Or fortitude be wanting to sustain,
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain
Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore
A weight of hostile corses: drenched with gore
Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain
Yet see, the mighty tumult overpast,
Austria a daughter of her throne hath sold!
And her Tyrolean champion we behold
Murdered like one ashore by shipwreck cast,
Murdered without relief. Oh ! blind as bold,
To think that such assurance can stand fast!
BRAVE Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight
From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest
With heroes 'mid the Islands of the Blest,
Or in the fields of empyrean light.
A meteor wert thou in a darksome night;
Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime,
Stand in the spacious firmament of time,
Fixed as a star: such glory is thy right.
Alas! it may not be for earthly fame
Is fortune's frail dependant; yet there lives
A judge, who, as man, claims by merit, gives;
To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim,
Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed;
In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.
CALL not the royal Swede unfortunate,
Who never did to fortune bend the knee;
Who slighted fear,-rejected steadfastly
Temptation; and whose kingly name and state
Have "perished by his choice, and not his fate!"
Hence lives he, to his inner self endeared;
And hence, wherever virtue is revered,
He sits a more exalted potentate,
Throned in the hearts of men.
Should Heaven ordain
That this great servant of a righteous cause
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts t' endure,
Yet many a sympathizing spirit pause,
Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain
In thankful joy and gratulation pure.
Look now on that Adventurer* who hath paid
His vows to fortune; who, in cruel slight
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right,
Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made
By the blind goddess-ruthless, undismayed;
And so hath gained at length a prosperous height,
Round which the elements of worldly might
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid.
O joyless power that stands by lawless force!
Curses are his dire portion, scorn and hate,
Internal darkness and unquiet breath;
And, if old judgments keep their sacred course,
The fall of Buonaparte predicted.
Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate By violent and ignominious death.
Is there a power that can sustain and cheer
The captive Chieftain-by a tyrant's doom
Forced to descend alive into his tomb,
A dungeon dark !-where he must waste the year,
And lie cut off from all his heart holds dear;
What time his injured country is a stage
Whereon deliberate valour and the rage
Of righteous vengeance side by side appear,-
Filling from morn to night the heroic scene
With deeds of hope and everlasting praise :
Say can he think of this with mind serene
And silent fetters? Yes, if visions bright
Shine on his soul, reflected from the days
When he himself was tried in open light.
AH! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen
Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave!
Does yet the unheard-of vessel ride the wave?
Or is she swallowed up-remote from ken
Of pitying human nature? Once again
Methinks that we shall hail thee, champion brave,
Redeemed to baffle that imperial slave,
And through all Europe cheer desponding men
With new-born hope. Unbounded is the might
Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right.
Hark, how thy country triumphs! Smilingly
Th' Eternal looks upon her sword that gleams,
Like His own lightning, over mountains high.
On rampart, and the banks of all her streams.
IN due observance of an ancient rite,
The rude Biscayans, when their children lie
Dead in the sinless time of infancy,
Attire the peaceful corse in vestments white;
And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright,
They bind the unoffending creature's brows
With happy garlands of the pure white rose:
This done, a festal company unite
In choral song; and, while the uplifted cross
Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne
Uncovered to his grave. Her piteous loss
The lonesome mother cannot choose but mourn;
Yet soon by Christian faith is grief subdued,
And joy attends upon her fortitude.
FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCAYAN AT ONE OF THESE FUNERALS. 1810,
YET, yet Biscayans, we must meet our foes
With firmer soul,-yet labour to regain
Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse than vain
To gather round the bier these festal shows!
A garland fashioned of the pure white rose
Becomes not one whose father is a slave !
Oh! bear the infant covered to his grave!
These venerable mountains now inclose
A people sunk in apathy and fear.
If this endure, farewell, for us, all good!
The awful light of heavenly innocence
Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier;
And guilt and shame, from which is no defence,
Descend on all that issues from our blood.
The ancient Oak of Guernica, says Laborde in his Account of Biscay, is a most venerable natural monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, in the year 1476, after hearing mass in the Church of Santa Marie de la Antigua, repaired to this tree, under which they swore to the Biscayans to maintain their fueros (privileges). What other interest belongs to it in the minds of this people will appear from the following.
SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO THE SAME. 1810.
OAK of Guernica! tree of holier power
Than that which in Dodona did enshrine
(So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine,
Heard from the depths of its aërial bower,
How canst thou flourish at this blighting hour?
What hope, what joy can sunshine bring to thee,
Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea,
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