Such was the youth, who Morton counselling clear,
      His plans to take the Isle arranged the trenches near.

XXII.

        And as they spoke the batteries raised their voice,
        From crowned La Mota raining shot and shell,
        Drove through the ranks, and made the Gaul rejoice
        With many a horrid gap that, ah, could well
        Its tale of dire disaster silent tell!
        For fragments strewn of gunner and his art
        Lay quivering round while fierce the foemen yell.
        Dismounted gun, and shattered carriage, chart,
      Line, linstock, bullet, corse, were tossed in every part.

XXIII.

        “Rey’s petulant to-day,” quoth Nial. Straight
        A huge artillery waggon by their side,
        That fed our batteries, six strong horses’ freight,
        Struck by a shell, up-bounding scattered wide
        War’s provender. The missile dumb doth bide--
        A minute’s pause of horrible suspense,
        That hushed each heart, and paled the cheek of Pride!
        Then with explosion terrible, immense,
      Its dire contents around were showered in ruin dense.

XXIV.

        The riders instant died--three gunners more
        Were gravely wounded. Mad with pain and fright,
        The horses started off at gallop o’er
        The plain, while blazed the waggon with that bright
        Combustion. One steed wounded fell outright;
        And frantic with the fiery mass each bound
        Whirled through the air--the wheels themselves alight--
        They dragged both horse and waggon o’er the ground,
      Till all was shattered ’mongst Ernani’s orchards found.

XXV.

        “Swift--to the Island!” both the friends exclaim;
        And as night fell their boats from cove concealed
        Beneath Antigua’s convent seaward came;
        Full soon with muffled oars that nought revealed,
        They lay ’neath Santa Clara’s rocky field;
        And Blanca in the crag disclosed a cleft,
        Where straight they land. But loud the sent’nel pealed
        The alarum gun, its post the picquet left,
      And flew like burghers bold to guard from midnight theft.

XXVI.

        But soon, o’erpowered by numbers, their array
        Was beaten back--resistance now was vain.
        Submissively their arms were lowered away,
        And o’er their sorrowing breasts a captive chain
        Is gently flung: “Our battery soon shall reign
        “Triumphant here,” quoth Morton, “thanks to thee,
        “Sweet maiden.” Blanca smiled, and cried,--“For Spain!”
        Then to her bark once more she bounded free,
      And with her Nereids young thus sang and smote the sea:

The Oar-Song.

1.

      Lean to your oars;
        Pull along cheerily;
      Ne’er let the shores
        Drag along drearily.
      Courts are but slavery,
        Grandeur is smoke;
      Our’s the true bravery;
        Bend to the stroke!

2.

      See where the tide
        Sparkles phosphorical;
      Learning is pride,
        Science an oracle!
      While through the water we
        Dash with our stems,
      Royally scatter we
        Myriads of gems.

3.

      Stoop with good will;
        Joyous our motion is.
      Breast with air fill;
        Sapphire-like Ocean is!
      Laugh at each lazy man,
        Keep the stroke--so;
      Poor lackadaisy man
        Never could row!

4.

      Where is the joy
        Like the oar feathering?
      Where’s the alloy
        Tempests in weathering?
      Lash the spray, scattering
        Many a beam;
      While our oars clattering
        Flash through the stream!

XXVII.

        Upon thy buckler, Gaul, terrific rang
        Vittoria’s powerful stroke, and reeling back
        Thy phantom-King to tall Pyrene sprang;
        Thy shattered Army, sorrowing deep for lack
        Of conquest or of guiding, fell to wrack,
        By the great arm of Arthur paralyzed,
        Till rapid Soult, when loured the sky most black,
        From Dresden rushed and chaos methodized:
      No Marshal-Chief, be sure, Napoléon higher prized.

XXVIII.

        Yet wise by experience, taught a cautious dread,
        And rocking still from England’s vigorous blows,
        A hissing serpent’s more than lion’s head
        That earth-struck host presented when it rose,
        And watched the hour to spring upon its foes.
        First San Sebastian to relieve its aim,
        Next to redeem lost glory and oppose
        Our strong advance, upon Pyrene tame
      The pride that dares its crags, and France preserve from shame.

XXIX.

        See where the couchant giant bristling lies,
        Pyrene with his mountain sides and hair
        Of forests dense. His crest doth pierce the skies,
        His limbs are precipices poised in air,
        His rugged spine full many a peak doth bear;
        His ribs, huge ridges, part on either hand,
        His mouths are deep ravines where torrents tear
        Through rocks a course to Man that seemeth banned.
      Yet there our heroes march, their brows by Victory fanned.

XXX.

        At Zabaldíca now with gathering ire
        The rival armies stand on fearful steeps,
        Where rocks on rocks are piled like bastions dire,
        And savage Solitude sublimely sleeps,
        And Cristovál’s and Lanz’s torrent leaps
        Adown the valley where Sauróren smiles.
        The pass to San Sebastian England keeps.
        There Morton brave and Nial lead their files;
      And hardy veterans climb those cloudy mountain piles.

XXXI.

        What clattering steed doth gallop fleet as air
        Through the Lanz valley, making earth to shake
        ’Neath his hoofs’ thunder? With that horseman dare
        None ride save one, the noblest, for his sake
        Light valuing life or limb. Thought-swift they make
        Sauróren. O’er the mountain crest they see
        Clausel’s brigades from Zabaldíca take
        The glen. Leaps from his horse that rider free
      To the bridge-parapet, and writes full rapidly.

XXXII.

        It is great Arthur, who the varying chance
        Of mountain-warfare spirit-like doth seize.
        Cole eagle-eyed and gallant Picton France
        Would fain cut off; but now our Chief with ease
        Averts the danger. Rapid as the breeze,
        Somerset’s charger gallops carrying far
        His fresh instructions. Dashes through the trees
        The French light horse--in vain his course they mar,
      And Arthur tranquil rides, the ascent to him no bar.

XXXIII.

        The Lusitan battalions first descried
        The advancing Chief, and raised a shout of joy.
        Uneasy they while distant he doth ride;
        Their treasure-trove, their gold without alloy!
        The British legions swift caught up the cry,
        Which swelled along the line till stern it rose
        To Battle’s shout appalling fierce the sky--
        The shout that tells the breast to Victory goes,
      The shout that ne’er was heard unmoved by Britain’s foes!

XXXIV.

        An instant stopt great Arthur on the brow
        Of that steep mountain. Both the Armies saw
        The Hero at that moment. Soult was now
        So near, each rival Chief could plainly draw
        The lineaments of each that strike with awe
        Their several hosts: “Now strong,” thought Arthur, “is he,
        “But cautious. Of that shout he will, some flaw
        “Suspecting, much inquire; and thus will free
      “My scattered host, till all combined resistless be.”

XXXV.

        And Soult, indeed, the battle’s shock withheld,
        Till rose next morning’s sun. But forth he pushed
        His skirmishers whose fire was keen repelled,
        Yet not till night was o’er the mountain hushed.
        For rode the Marshal where Lanz’ torrent gushed,
        Our whole position cautiously surveying:
        By deep defile to far Villalba rushed
        The infant Arga, all around displaying
      Our troops on every height, for battle fast arraying.

XXXVI.

        Upon a rugged mountain’s craggy crest,
        A shrine of spotless Mary clustered round
        The Lusitan battalion. Soult possest
        With thought of weakness there, where cannon frowned
        At Zabaldíca, raised Destruction’s sound;
        But vain its poise ’gainst that enormous height,
        His shot from lower crags doth back rebound.
        Powerless his ordnance for Titanian fight,
      ’Tis Nature’s storm-artillery ushers in the Night!

XXXVII.

        Dumb be your voices while the thunder-chime
        Peals from Pyrene’s turrets, echoing far.
        While roar the elements with rage sublime,
        Hushed be your strife, Pygmæan men of war!
        See, see, ye tremble at the lightning-scar.
        Your brands are sheath’d--ye feel as feathers, dust.
        Away! nor God’s designs profanely mar,
        Wreaking on brother-forms your gory lust.
      In vain! France tempts her doom, and England holds her trust!

XXXVIII.

        Next morn the absent corps our army join.
        Joy to our Chieftain for his guidance true!
        Sir Pack’s not yet hath come--but Marcaloin
        Shakes with its onward tramp--though from the view
        Of hawk-eyed Soult ’tis hid. To battle flew
        His host, assailing Cole in front and rear.
        Clausel from the Lanz valley poureth too
        His skirmishers--the mountain-side they clear;
      Cole’s left is rapid turned--defeat we now may fear.

XXXIX.

        But sudden rises o’er the mountain’s crest--
        What is’t? An army new of warriors dread--
        Pack’s corps, whose swift approach by Soult unguest
        Great Arthur’s eagle-eye to battle led,
        In place and time where best our ranks are fed.
        Instant their clattering fire is hostile blended.
        Cole smites the foeman’s right, whose left too bled
        From Lusia’s arms; their front, by Pack offended,
      With violent shock the vale in headlong flight descended.

XL.

        The Gaul who had strove to compass round our left
        Himself is now encompassed--in that dire
        Extremity of daring not bereft,
        But facing all around in conflict’s ire
        His fierce assailants--scattering with his fire
        Full many a corse, where Frenchmen thicker fell.
        But climbs Clausel’s reserve the mountain higher,
        Up craggy steep where doth the Virgin dwell.
      Stern was the fight, and Gaul had battled ne’er so well.

XLI.

        See from Sauróren in the vale beneath
        Where darts that column to the mountain-shrine,
        Nor fires a shot, but silent o’er the heath
        Strains to the rugged summit, while their line
        Is swept by fiery tempest. Bright doth shine
        French valour there. Though ranks be swept away,
        Unchecked their ardour. For the crest they pine,
        And win it. Lusia’s rifles swell the fray,
      And France upon this point an instant gains the day.

XLII.

        But Ross his bold brigade of Britain’s sons
        Hath close at hand; and Nial, Morton there
        With martial ardour each impetuous runs,
        Heading their veterans in the fray to share.
        With lusty shouts against the French they bear,
        And strongly charge and down the mountain dash.
        Yet undismayed again the foemen dare
        The dire ascent--again their firelocks flash.
      Again o’erturned they fall, and vain their valour rash.

XLIII.

        Through sulphurous shroud new skirmishers ascend,
        And mount the crest new columns of attack;
        Ev’n gallant Ross an instant forced to bend
        Before that fiery crowd recedeth back,
        But to return next instant with no lack
        Of desperate courage. Up the crest once more
        Our heroes charge, nor Gallic fire doth slack.
        Charge upon charge succeeding o’er and o’er,
      Each gains and yields by turns--the sod is dyed with gore.

XLIV.

        But Britain must the foemen hold at bay,
        Whom Creçy, Poictiers, Azincour beheld,
        Whom Blenheim, Ramilies, and Malplaquet,
        And Oudenarde saw by Britain’s yeomen felled--
        The foe on every field in Spain she quelled!
        Brief, potent words did Nial, Morton then,
        While proud effusion from their bosoms welled,
        Address with voice inspiring to their men,
      And lead with flashing swords the charge again, again!

XLV.

        Oh, solid Infantry! oh granite breasts!
        Like Rome’s Triarians there they stand or fall.
        Each flashing death-tube not an instant rests,
        Save where the bayonet-flash may more appal.
        By France outnumbered, yet till slaughtered all
        The ground they’d hold. Their wounded and their dead
        Are laid in one terrific line, a wall
        Of dauntless valour: by Leucadia’s head,
      So stood Leonides with Persia’s life-blood red!

XLVI.

        A rampart of the brave--of dead and dying!
        Thy column, Gaul, advances to the line,
        And halts where stern that gory bulwark’s lying,
        While Britain’s heroes all their fire combine.
        Nor ’mid tremendous showers of death repine
        Their wounded comrades smote, since death may bring
        The foeman under. Gaul, as drunk with wine,
        Reels from excess of slaughter. Forward spring
      Our bayonets to the charge. The foe is on the wing!

XLVII.

        Then rose the shout that told of England’s power
        Triumphant on that new Thermopylæ,
        And gallant hands were clasped in glory’s hour,
        And beamed Hesperia’s eye more bright to see
        That now in spite of Hell she will be free!
        And Nial, Morton folded heart to heart:
        “Joy! joy! This day shall long remembered be,
        “For France hath vainly tried her utmost art.”
      And tears of joy were seen from many an eye to start.

XLVIII.

        Oh glow of Victory! oh, thrilling pride
        Of triumph in the strife of mind or hand!
        More dear to mortal breasts than all beside,
        In mart or senate as in warlike band,
        In court or cell--where’er by conquest fanned
        The swelling temples wear thy plume, Success!
        How pure thy throb when Freedom lights a land,
        When pen, tongue, sword a cause sublime confess,
      Well worthy to aspire, befitting Heaven to bless!

XLIX.

        Lo, where the giant form of Liberty
        Arises grand yet shadowy dim o’er Spain.
        With smiles her champion, Arthur, she doth see,
        And frowns terrific with august disdain
        Upon the Invaders, trampling on the chain!
        A fiery sword that as a comet blazed
        On high she brandished, like the angel-train
        O’er Paradise. The tyrant-host amazed
      Saw their expulsion doomed, and trembled as they gazed.

HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES TO CANTO II.

For the incidents from ancient Spanish history with which this
Canto opens, the reader is referred to Livy (lib. xxi. et Epit.) or
to Ferguson’s _Roman Republic_, where a full account will be found
of the ever-memorable Sieges of Saguntum and Numantia. The ruins
of Saguntum (Liv. loc. cit.) or Sagunthus (Sil. Ital. lib. i.) are
still visible on the sea coast, a little to the north of Valencia.
The site of Numantia, having a much more central position, a few
miles north of Soria, capital of the small province of that name
in the eastern part of Old Castile, is more conjectural than
that of Sagunthus. The name of Numantia is erroneously spelled
“Numantium” in Mr. Lockhart’s _Ancient Spanish Ballads_, a work
of extraordinary merit, notwithstanding a few inaccuracies. The
particulars of the siege of Numantia are to be found in the 57th
_Epitome_ of Livy’s lost books. The Moorish invasion under Tarik,
the fall of Roderick, and the struggles of Pelayo, are described
or alluded to by Byron, Scott, and Southey. The scene in the
Vale of Covadonga is one of the finest passages in the latter’s
poem of _Roderick_, where huge masses of rock are hurled down on
the advancing Moorish host at the signal of the following words
pronounced by the heroine:

                        --“IN THE NAME
      OF GOD! FOR SPAIN AND VENGEANCE!”
                          Southey, _Roderick_. book xxiii.

The fight at Roncesvalles is the most memorable in the entire
range of Romantic History, and has been alluded to, amongst other
poets, by Pulci, Ariosto, Milton, Scott, and Lockhart. The siege of
Zaragoza will be found described in detail in a succeeding canto.
The ferocity displayed by the Moors in their invasion appears to
have been not at all exaggerated by the Spanish chroniclers, and it
is curious that this fierceness of aspect should have been noticed
many centuries before by Horace:

      Acer et Mauri peditis cruentum
                      Vultus in hostem.
                          _Carm._ i. 2.

The modern representations of Abd-el-Kader’s warriors by French
artists square with the ancient notions of the Moorish ferocity of
aspect. I myself have seen at Tangier and Gibraltar for the most
part fine-looking men, but certainly with a tinge of ferocity, and
here and therewith an expression worthy the “truculentus Maurorum
vultus.” The introduction of Mohammedanism seems to have altered
nothing in this respect, for in the days of Julius Cæsar, as Horace
here attests, the same physiognomy was apparent; and Suetonius,
speaking of the war between Cæsar and Juba, king of Mauritania,
represents even the Roman legions as affrighted: “Famâ hostilium
copiarum perterritos ... expectatio adventûs Jubæ terribilis.”
_cap. 66._

The part which I assign to the Basque boat-girls, and the
strain of sentiment which pervades their oar-song, although not
consonant with a peaceful state of cultivated society, is quite
characteristic of Spain during the Peninsular War. The creed of
Hippolytus was not very favourable to those literate pretensions
which Molière has so pleasantly satirized in his “_Précieuses
Ridicules_,” and the Basque barqueras would be quite to his taste.
The persecuted of Phædra, whose uncompromising chastity caused his
neck to be broken, said:--Σοφὴν δὲ μισῶ, “I hate a learned woman;”
and Blanca and her sisters of the oar appear to have extended that
hatred to both sexes.

Gen. Jones’s record of the seizure of the island of Santa Clara
in the mouth of the harbour is as follows:--“A party of 200 men
was landed this night on the high rocky island of Sta. Clara,
and made prisoners of the enemy’s guard on it, of an officer and
twenty-four men.” _Journals, &c., Supp. Chapt._ Napier makes the
military party to consist of only 100 men--such difficulties
does one meet in ascertaining the minute parts of even recent
history. But probably Gen. Jones may have estimated that the
seamen amounted to another hundred. “A heavy fire was opened on
them,” says Napier, “and the troops landed with some difficulty,
but the island was then easily taken, and a lodgment made with the
loss of only twenty-eight men and officers.” _Hist._ book xxii.
c. i. The historical fact of the supplies having been conveyed
to the besiegers at San Sebastian by boat-girls gives warrant to
the supposition that they may have assisted in the capture of the
Island.

This Canto describes the principal warlike operations between
the battle of Vittoria and the first battle of Sauroren, with a
description of the first part of which it terminates. The incidents
will be found in Napier’s _History_, book xxi. chap. 5.

The concluding incident is from the combat of Maya, which took
place in the same neighbourhood a few days previously, and is
thus described by Captain Norton, of the 34th regiment.--“The
ninety-second met the advancing French column first with its right
wing drawn up in line, and after a most destructive fire and heavy
loss on both sides, the remnant of the right wing retired, leaving
a line of killed and wounded that appeared to have no interval.
The French column advanced up to this line and then halted, the
killed and wounded of the ninety-second forming a sort of rampart;
the left wing then opened its fire on the column, and as I was
but a little to the right of the ninety-second, I could not help
reflecting painfully how many of the wounded of their right wing
must have unavoidably suffered from the fire of their comrades.”
This frightful butchery appears to excite the enthusiasm of some
of its military historians. “So dreadful was the slaughter,” says
Napier, “that it is said the advancing enemy was actually stopped
by the heaped mass of dead and dying; and then the left wing of
that noble regiment coming down from the higher ground smote
wounded friends and exulting foes alike, as mingled together they
stood or crawled before its fire. * * The stern valour of the
ninety-second, principally composed of Irishmen, would have graced
Thermopylæ.”--_Hist. War. Penins._ book xxi. chap. 5.

  III.      “When Roland’s horn with its tremendous sound.”

      La dove il corno sona tanto forte
      Dopo la dolorosa rotta.
                          Pulci.

  VIII.      “Fired with the generous vintage, which gave all
              The ruffian forth,” &c.

  Κράτιστον μὲν τῆς ἀκμῆς τῶν χαιρῶν τυγχάνειν· ἐπειδὴ δὲ δυσκαταμαθέτως
  ἔχουσιν. κ. τ. λ.
                      Isoc. _ad Nicocl._

“It is most excellent to enjoy moderately the height of felicity;
but this men find most difficult to learn.”

  X.      “Like Hebe for this flagrant Hercules.”

      Τέρπεται ἐν θαλίῃς, καὶ ἔχει καλλίσφυρον Ἥβην,
      Παῖδα Διὸς μεγάλοιο καὶ Ἥρης χρυσοπεδίλου.
                          Hom. _Od._ xi. 602.

      “Flagrans amor Herculis Heben.”--Propert I. 13. 23.

  XII.      “Which like Camilla’s battle-axe, I ween.”

      “Rapit indefessa bipennem.”--Virg. _Æn._ xi. 651.

  “When fiery swift her footsteps past the steed.”

          ----“Pernicibus ignea plantis,
      Transit equum cursu.”
                          --_Ib._ 718.

  XIII.      “Girt by her crescent-shielded Amazons.”

      “Fœminea exsultant lunatis agmina peltis.”
                          --Virg. _Æn._ xi. 663.

  XVII.      “Hast thou not seen a clear and sparkling rill, &c.”

      Qualis in aerii pellucens vertice montis
        Rivus, muscoso prosilit e lapide;
      Qui cùm de pronâ præceps est valle volutus,
        Per medium densi transit iter populi.
                          Catul. lxvi.

  XVIII.      “A soldier frank, pellucid was his mind.”

      Ἀλλ’ ἐνθάδ’, ἐν Τροίᾳ τ’, ἐλευθέραν φύσιν
      Παρέχων, Ἄρη, τὸ κατ’ ἐμὲ, κοσμήσω δορί.
                          Eurip. _Iphig. in Aul._ 930.

“_Achil._ Both here and in Troy, displaying a frank mind, as far as
in me lies, I will illustrate Mars in battle.”

  XX.            --“Nial led ’mid War’s alarms
           A file of Rifles.”

                                --Sævam
      Militiam puer, et Cantabrica bella tulisti
      Sub Duce.
                          Horat. _Epist._ i. 18.

  XXI.      “The Spaniards oft declared he was a girl.”

      Era Medoro un mozo de veinte años,
      Ensortijado el pelo, y rubio el bozo,
      De mediana estatura, y de ojos graves,
      Graves mirados, y en mirar suaves.
                          Lope de Vega, _Angelica_, iii.

  XXVII.      “Till rapid Soult,” &c.

Rapidity of conception and execution were marked features in
Marshal Soult’s military character. The decree by which Napoléon
appointed him his Lieutenant in Spain was issued at Dresden on
the 1st July, 1813, ten days after the battle of Vittoria. On the
eleventh day he was in the midst of the army in Spain! “The 12th,
Soult, travelling with surprising expedition, assumed the command
of the armies of the ‘north,’ the ‘centre,’ and the ‘south,’ now
reorganized in one body called ‘the Army of Spain.’ And he had
secret orders to put Joseph forcibly aside if necessary, but that
monarch voluntarily retired from the army.” Napier, _Hist. War in
the Penins._ book xxi. chap. 4. “Marshal Soult was one of the few
men whose indefatigable energy rendered them worthy lieutenants
of the emperor; and with singular zeal, vigour, and ability he
now served.”--_Ibid._ “Such was Soult’s activity that on the
16th all the combinations for a gigantic offensive movement were
digested.”--_Ibid._

  XXIX.      “His rugged spine full many a peak doth bear,
              His ribs, huge ridges, part on either hand.”

This is the actual formation of the Pyrenees. A great spinal
ridge runs diagonally across this entire mountain tract, trending
westward. From this spine sierras shoot forth on both sides, and
the communications between the valleys formed by these ridges pass
over breaks in the sierras, called _puertos_ by the Spaniards, and
_cols_ by the French.

  XXXI.      “What clattering steed doth gallop fleet as air.”

On the 27th July, Wellington, having been unable to learn any thing
of the movements of Picton and Cole, who had been left in the
valley of Zubiri and on the adjoining heights of Linzoain, on the
evening preceding, and dreading lest Soult’s combinations should
cut them off, quitted Sir Rowland Hill’s quarters in the Bastan at
a very early hour in the morning (these early matutinal movements
have been always characteristic of his Grace) and descending the
valley of Lanz, reached Ostiz, a few miles from Sauroren, where he
met General Long with his brigade of light cavalry, who informed
him that Picton and Cole had abandoned the heights of Linzoain, and
were moving on Huarte, “He left his quarter-master-general with
instructions to stop all the troops coming down the valley of Lanz
until the state of affairs at Huarte should be ascertained. Then
at racing speed he made for Sauroren. As he entered that village
he saw Clauzel’s divisions moving from Zabaldíca along the crest
of the mountain, and it was clear that the allied troops in the
valley of Lanz were intercepted, wherefore pulling up his horse, he
wrote on the parapet of the bridge of Sauroren fresh instructions
to turn every thing from that valley to the right, by a road which
led through Lizasso and Marcalain behind the hills to the village
of Oricain, that is to say in rear of the position now occupied
by Cole. Lord Fitzroy Somerset, the only staff officer who had
kept up with him, galloped with these orders out of Sauroren by
one road, the French light cavalry dashed in by another, and the
English general rode alone up the mountain to reach his troops,”
&c.--Napier, _Hist._ book xxi. c. 5.

           --“Thought-swift they make
  Sauróren.”

I trust this Teutonism will be pardoned, believing these forms of
expression to be more suited to the genius of our language than has
been hitherto supposed, and likely to be more generally introduced
into poetical diction.

  XXXII.      “Cole eagle-eyed and gallant Picton.”

The gallantry of Picton and the keen observation of Cole were
eminent characteristics of those two generals respectively. The
danger which they ran in this instance was very imminent. Picton
“directed Cole to occupy some heights between Oricain and Arletta.
But that general having with a surer eye, &c.”--Napier, _Hist._
book xxi. c. 5. Wellington’s rapid riding on this occasion defeated
a very able combination of Soult’s. The Duke was always an expert
and eager horseman, and it was not for nothing that he kept his
pack of fox-hounds in the Peninsula.

  XXXIII.      “The advancing Chief * *
                Their treasure-trove, their gold without alloy!”

      Longas, ô utinam, dux bone, ferias
      Præstes Hesperiæ!
                          Horat. _Carm._ iv. 5.

  “The shout that ne’er was heard unmoved by Britain’s foes.”

“That stern and appalling shout which the British soldier is wont
to give upon the edge of battle, and which no enemy ever heard
unmoved.” Napier, _Hist._ book xxi. c. 5.

  XXXIV.      “Soult was now so near, &c.”

“Lord Wellington suddenly stopped in a conspicuous place, he
desired that both armies should know he was there, and a double spy
who was present pointed out Soult, then so near that his features
could be plainly distinguished. The English general, it is said,
fixed his eyes attentively upon this formidable man, and, speaking
as if to himself, said: ‘Yonder is a great commander, but he is a
cautious one and will delay his attack to ascertain the cause of
these cheers; that will give time for the sixth division to arrive
and I shall beat him.’ And certain it is that the French general
made no serious attack that day.” Napier, _ibid._

  XXXVI.      “But vain its poise ’gainst that enormous height.”

“Some guns were pushed in front of Zabaldíca, but the elevation
required to send the shot upward rendered their fire ineffectual.”
Napier, _ibid._

  “’Tis Nature’s storm-artillery ushers in the night.”

“A terrible storm, the usual precursor of English battles in
the Peninsula, brought on premature darkness and terminated the
dispute.” Napier, _ibid._

  XXXVII.      “Dumb be your voices, while the thunder-chime, &c.”

      Bedecke deinen himmel, Zeus,
      Mit wolkendunst, und übe!
                          Goethe (_Prometheus_).

“Curtain thy heavens, Zeus, with clouds and mist, and exercise thy
arm!”

  “While roar the elements with rage sublime,” &c.

      Nè quivi ancor dell’ orride procelle
      Ponno appieno schivar la forza e l’ira;
      Ma sono estinte or queste faci or quelle,
      E per tutto entra l’acque, e’l vento spira * *
      La pioggia ai gridi, ai venti, al tuon s’accorda
      D’orribile armonía, che’l mondo assorda.
                          Tasso. _Gerus. Lib._ vii. 122.

  --“Ye feel as feathers, dust.”

              ----La materia humana--
      Viento, humo, polvo, y esperanza vana!
                          Lope de Vega, _Sonetos_.

  XXXIX.      “Pack’s corps, whose swift approach by Soult unguest.”

General Pack was in command of the sixth division till this battle,
when he was wounded, and the command passed to general Pakenham.

  XL.      “Stern was the fight, and Gaul had battled ne’er so well.”

Throughout the entire Peninsular campaigns, the French never fought
with such desperate valour as on this and the few preceding and
following days. In Soult they had the utmost confidence; they saw
that a crisis had arrived, and trembled for France. “The fight
raged close and desperate on the crest of the position, charge
succeeded charge, and each side yielded and recovered by turns;
yet this astounding effort of French valour was of little avail.”
Napier, _ibid._

  XLI.      ----“Lusia’s rifles swell the fray.”

General Ross’s brigade of the fourth division was posted on this
strongly contested height, having a Portuguese battalion (the
seventh caçadores, tenth regiment) in his front, with its flank
resting on the chapel. “The seventh caçadores shrunk abashed, and
that part of the position was won.” Napier, _ibid._ The inequality
with which the Portuguese fought was remarkable throughout the
Peninsular War. They fought well, or gave way, in great measure
according to the impulse of the movement. Here they gave way, then
inspired by the example of Ross’s brigade renewed the combat, but
again gave way. “Soon, however, they rallied upon General Ross’s
brigade * * and the tenth Portuguese regiment fighting on the right
of Ross’s brigade yielded to their fury.” Napier, _ibid._ Sometimes
they fought extremely well.

  XLIII.      “Ev’n gallant Ross.”

This epithet was well deserved by general Ross, and is assigned
to him by Napier. “That gallant officer.” Book xxi. c. 5. I am
proud to record the exploits of my countryman, whose name and
achievements are endeared to me by early recollections. A lofty
column is erected in his honour at the beautiful village of
Rosstrevor, within seven miles of which, at Newry, my early years
from infancy to the period of my going to College were passed.
All my summers were spent in and near Rosstrevor, one of the most
charming sea-bathing spots in the British dominions. The noble Bay
of Carlingford stretches before it, girt by an amphitheatre of
lofty hills, and Killowen Point, the Wood-house, Greencastle, the
light-house, and Grenore, with the ancient and picturesque town
of Carlingford, the stupendous mountain overhanging it, and the
bleak tract extending along to Omeath, contrasted with the sunny
and wooded slopes beyond, have left impressions indelible even
during much travel in foreign lands. I rejoice to perceive that a
railway is about to open up this magnificent region, and trust that
this new means of intercourse will be eminently beneficial to the
warm-hearted inhabitants of all the surrounding district.

  “But to return next instant with no lack
  Of desperate courage.”

      Φεύγειν μὲν οὐκ ἀνεκτὸν, οὐδ’ εἴωθαμεν.
                          Eurip. _Iphig. in Taur._ 104.

“For to fly is not tolerable, neither has it been our custom!”

  “Each gains and yields by turns--the sod is dyed with gore.”

This action between Ross’s brigade and Clauzel’s second division
was one of the most terrific during the war. “The fight,” says
Napier “raged close and desperate on the crest of the position,
charge succeeded charge, and each side yielded and recovered by
turns.”

  XLV.      “So stood Leonides, with Persia’s life-blood red.”

                    ἐν Σπάρτᾳ δ’ ἐρέω
      πρὸ Κιθαιρῶνος μάχαν:
      ταῖσι Μήδειοι κάμον ἀγκυλότοξοι:
                          Pind. _Pyth._ i.

“In Sparta I will sing the fight before Cithæron, where the Median
bowmen fell.” For the details of the battle, and of the Trachinian
treason, see Herodotus, _lib._ 7. Pindar does not name Thermopylæ,
but Cithæron being in its immediate neighbourhood would make the
allusion at once intelligible. Pindar with instinctive good taste
prefers the name “Cithæron” to that of “Thermopylæ,” the latter
name, though to us so magnificent, sounding somewhat vulgar to
Greek ears, as indicating the θερμὰ λουτρὰ, or hot-baths from which
it was derived.

  XLVII.      “That now in spite of Hell she will be free.”

      Siasi l’inferno e siasi il mondo armato.
                          Tasso, _Gerus. Lib._ xiii. 73.

IBERIA WON.

Canto III.

I.

        But France though vanquished oft doth oft renew
        The assault which British arms alone can quell.
        Her columns fresh the wrested prize pursue,
        And at the Siérra’s foot their numbers swell.
        Exhausted War’s munitions now, so well
        Have England’s sons with fire the foeman plied,
        And anxious eyes upon their leaders dwell:--
        “See, see, brave hearts,” young Morton stoutly cried,
      “While rocks like these abound, we’ll guard the mountain’s side!”

II.

        And at the word he loosed with might and main
        Such stone immense as feigned Æolides
        In Orcus tortured flung. Down to the plain
        It rolleth bounding with gigantic ease,
        The mountain shaking, crashing through the trees,
        Dislodging many a smaller granite mass.
        Appalled its dire approach the foeman sees.
        On, on it rolls, still thundering o’er the grass,
      Till in the vale it rests, nor dares the Gaul to pass.

III.

        And on the foremost crest our men have now
        Full many a rock’s Aiantine volume rolled;
        Prepared to hurl them from the mountain-brow,
        Their powerful hands this rude artillery hold,
        Should thirst of vengeance make the assailants hold.
        But men who Death had braved in every form
        Of War’s destruction known to them of old,
        Before this unfamiliar mountain-storm
      Have quailed, and our’s the height all strewn with corses warm.

IV.

        O’er Zabaldíca and the torrent Lanz
        Frowned a steep hill, where Spain her sons had placed
        Beneath Murillo. There the host of France
        Its efforts now concentring urged with haste,
        And tirailleur and voltigeur embraced
        The peak around, while marched Clausel and Reille
        Their columns dense along the mountain-waste.
        They charged--Pravía stood the shock awhile,
      But numbers soon o’erpower Hesperia’s broken file.

V.

        In silence stern a British column waits,
        Till on the summit France a footing get;
        Then rose the charging cry whose peal elates
        The Island-warrior’s breast. With bayonets set,
        They rushed upon the advancing crowd, and wet
        Was every sod with blood. The broken mass
        Was down the mountain hurled, as from the net
        The fisher casts his prey. Impetuous pass
      Tempestuous bullets showered, and shiver them like glass.

VI.

        But France not yet retires, for on this day
        Pyrené’s fate and her’s will be decided.
        Though, man ’gainst man, their courage melts away,
        The charge by Gaulish chiefs again is guided--
        Again the powers of Fate and Death derided!
        Thrice the assault’s renewed, and thrice each chief
        His wearied men doth onward drag to bide it.
        In vain! The British shock makes contest brief.
      Faint, spiritless, abashed, the foemen seek relief.

VII.

        And Gaul, her infantry thus forced to yield,
        Now tries the onset of her dashing horse;
        And charging through the valley shakes the field
        With thunderous gallop, trampling fallen horse
        And writhing wounded men without remorse.
        Our bold hussars beside the river’s edge
        With flaming carbines they would backward force;
        Their chargers’ strength they wield like potent wedge,
      And strive to urge our men adown the rocky ledge.

VIII.

        Our fiery squadrons standing in reserve
        Now join the mêlée, flashing fast around
        Pistol and carbine--then with powerful nerve
        They bathe their swords in blood at every bound,
        While ’neath the shock terrific quakes the ground.
        See, where yon huge heart-piercéd rider falls;
        His horse affrighted at the clattering sound
        Drags him by th’ foot which still the stirrup thralls,
      Till Death arrests them both ’mid storm of flying balls.

IX.

        Oh, generous, strong, and fleet are England’s steeds,
        And mettled high their riders even as they!
        Though with the cavalier the horse too bleeds,
        Yet horse and cavalier have won the day.
        Two Gaulish chiefs have perished in the fray.
        To the streamlet edge the foe is backward driven;
        With spur deep-plunged he leaps the stream--away!
        But many a jaded horse his life hath given
      Headlong adown the bank, where rider too is riven.

X.

        On every side now Britain’s foes repelled
        Feel that to stand before her might is vain;
        Our strong position is securely held--
        Lords of the mountain, masters of the plain
        From Vascongada’s frontier to the main.
        Our batteries planted on the bloody hill
        Before the Virgin’s shrine their death-shot rain
        From far Illurdos to Elcano’s rill,
      From towering Cristovál to Oricain at will.

XI.

        But D’Erlon hath concentred all his force,
        And seeks, by steep Buenza, Hill to crush.
        O’erpowering numbers urge their onward course,
        And Hill retires--but not till he doth hush
        The fire of D’Armagnac with torrent rush.
        By Lecumberri Soult essays a path
        To San Sebastian through our line to push.
        But eye more keenly sure great Arthur hath,
      And breaks the foe’s design with counter-stroke of wrath.

XII.

        With rapid steps Zubiri Picton gains;
        His skirmishers molest Foy’s shattered flank.
        From Zabaldíca’s crest Foy sees the plains
        Strewn with the flower of many a fallen rank.
        But powerless he for aid--the bayonet drank
        Upon the hill the life-blood of his corps,
        Where before Cole’s assault his veterans sank,
        While gallant Inglis down the mountain o’er
      Clausel and Conroux falls with shock that frights them sore.

XIII.

        And headlong from the Sierra Byng, too, comes
        To where Maucune the smiling village keeps.
        Our cannon from the height the ear benumbs;
        The bullets crash where that Arcadia sleeps,
        And many a peasant for his Lares weeps.
        Along the valley booms the thunderous sound;
        And quivering child and pallid virgin creeps
        For shelter to the mountain-caves around,
      While swells the demon-strife, and death-shot ploughs the ground.

XIV.

        Sauróren bridge where late great Arthur wrote
        His rapid mandate o’er the torrent’s fall,
        The deep Lanz valley by the thunder smote,
        The hills above, the blooming village--all
        Are covered o’er with dense, sulphureous pall;
        And musketry its sharp and rattling peal
        Incessant echoes ’gainst the mountain-wall.
        While fills the glen tumultuous shot and steel,
      The volumed smoke can scarce the form of death reveal.

XV.

        Sauróren’s won! The Gallic host is broken,
        And thousand prisoners own our conquering hand;
        Disarmed and guarded well in Victory’s token,
        But nobly used as fits a generous land.
        Gaul’s columns fly in many a scattered band
        To Urtiága’s pass and Ostiz’ steep,
        By Lusia’s sons pursued with flaming brand.
        But, ah, Sauróren’s maids and matrons weep,
      For from the Virgin’s shrine did many a death-bolt leap!

XVI.

        As mariners who on a stormy sea
        The magnet lose that guides them o’er the wave;
        As warriors marshalled oft to victory,
        Who lose the sacred banner of the brave:
        So with their tears these mountain-children lave
        Lanz’ trodden glen; for, ah, the diadem
        That girds the Virgin’s brow no more shall save.
        Death rained on Lanz beneath each sparkling gem.
      A Madre de Dolór is Mary now to them!

XVII.

        Night falls around--in dark and dense defile
        Nial and Morton with their gallant host,
        Where even by daylight rarest sunbeams smile,
        In Leron’s frightful wilderness are lost.
        By frowning precipice, through crags high-tost
        By earthquakes old--through forests grimly black,
        Like ghosts they wandered, crost and then re-crost,
        Nor pathway saw to forward move or back,
      Nor means of exit found, nor even a desert-track.

XVIII.

        “Cheer up, my friends,” said Nial; “whom the foe
        “Hath ne’er made flinch the forest shall not quell.
        “Full many a pine-branch waves at hand to show
        “The way--no torch so fitly or so well.”
        Then many a pine-branch torn, with resinous smell
        Told of its fiery aliment--the flash
        Of muskets gave them kindling.--Through the dell,
        Waving on high these flaming brands they dash,
      And to their comrades shout who tempt the forest rash.

XIX.

        Thus on they moved through thicket, glen, and brake,
        By precipice, and crag, and torrent brink,
        And yawning chasm that made the boldest quake,
        Till without end the dark ravine they think;
        And wildered many a foot by flaming link,
        That guided few save them the links who bore:
        Benighted thus till with fatigue they sink,
        Steep crag and glen profound they wandered o’er,
      Their beacon fires alight--but none can find a shore.

XX.

        And pealed their shouts incessant through the gloom,
        With clamour wounding the dull ear of Night,
        Till as in churchyards peopled grows each tomb
        To midnight wanderers, rose their souls to fright
        Infernal Phantoms! On each towering height
        Seemed demons sprung with torches from their den,
        Their footsteps to mislead with Hellish light;
        Till Morning rose, and showed the mount and glen
      All strewn with faces wan and worn and wearied men.

XXI.

        But daylight woke their hearts to hope and joy;
        Refreshment needful cheered their bivouac.
        The column they rejoined without annoy:
        And there of gladness was, I ween, no lack,
        Where soldiers hailed their former comrades back.
        Now Soult by perils prest hath outlet none,
        Save by Maria’s pass with omens black;
        And swiftly, near Lizasso, Hill hath won
      Upon his rear, unchecked by Leo’s burning sun.

XXII.

        His cannon opened loud with bellowing sound,
        And ’neath its deadly roar the French ascend;
        Till near the summit of the pass they found
        A wood that stretched its branches to befriend.
        Yet see, they turn, and skirmishers defend
        The steep, but Stewart leads the stern assault.
        Soon broke their files, their menace soon doth end.
        Headlong they fly, and dareth none to halt--
      But thickest mist doth fall--and leave our men at fault.

XXIII.

        Thus Menelaüs, while his brazen spear
        Thirsting for Paris’ blood is brandished high,
        No longer sees the slender youth appear,
        But riseth cloud to thwart his vengeance nigh,
        Which Aphrodite gliding from the sky
        (So sings Mæonia’s bard) doth interpose;
        And even while glares Atrides’ conquering eye,
        And to his men the adulterer’s helm he throws,
      The mist o’erspreads his form and shields from deathful blows.

XXIV.

        But o’er the heights that gird the fearful pass
        Our troops are gathered soon, and France doth quake,
        For now the terrible defile in mass
        Her legions enter. Many a brow doth ache.
        Our warriors’ death-shots direful havoc make.
        They quail--they fly--confused disorder reigns.
        Rank upon rank doth every instant break,
        Nor Soult’s commanding voice the rout restrains.
      They pass, but many a captive leave to mourn his chains.

XXV.

        To Yanzi now! where narrower still the cleft
        Which France must pass. By Zubiéta came
        Our Light Division, ne’er of hope bereft
        To reach the ground ere Gaul can thwart the aim
        That there full terrible her pride shall tame.
        Our warriors through Elgoriága glide,
        Fatigue exhausting many a wearied frame,
        And toil they faintly up the mountain-side;
      But Morton urged their zeal, and Nial touched their pride.

XXVI.

        Light-hearted chieftain-boys! No knapsacks they,
        No firelock’s weight, no full cartouches bore.
        The promptings of their valour they obey;
        And Leo’s sun in vain o’er them doth pour
        His maddening rays--for courage warms them more!
        But clambering Santa Cruz’s torrid steep,
        Full many a soldier fell convulsed, while gore
        And froth commixed their parchéd mouths o’erleap,
      And respite found from toil in Death’s eternal sleep!

XXVII.

        And leaned their comrades on their firelocks then,
        Whose spirits stern had ne’er before been quelled;
        And muttered, “What could more be asked of men?”
        And for an instant’s time almost rebelled.
        But rose a tear to Morton’s eye, and held
        His forehead Nial aching at the sight
        Of warriors whom fatigue like death-shot felled.
        When saw the men their leaders felt aright,
      A hearty cheer they gave, and scaled the fearful height.

XXVIII.

        A precipice beneath o’erhung the bridge
        Of Yanzi. Hurrying past the French were seen
        Along the dread defile. Upon the ridge
        His men by Morton ranged their firelocks keen
        Discharged. ’Mongst clustering shrubs his rifles green
        Did Nial gather lower down the steep.
        Oh, dire the calls of duty oft had been,
        But direst this! The chieftains almost weep;
      The men avert their heads, Death’s harvest while they reap.

XXIX.

        For pistol-shot might reach the hastening throng,
        Who through the horrid chasm defenceless crowd.
        The wounded men on branches borne along
        Were flung to earth--in vain their voices loud
        Implored for aid, all trampled in the shroud
        That wrapt them blood-besmeared. Confusion dire
        Possest the ranks. The bravest horsemen cowed
        Charged up the pass to escape the avenger’s ire;
      The footman ’gainst the hussar was forced to turn his fire.

XXX.

        And many a stalwart cavalier and horse
        Was headlong flung in Echallara’s stream,
        And many an ailing man was soon a corse;
        From many a musket fires defensive teem,
        Held skyward--but in vain their flashes gleam,
        For terrible our vantage. Some too rushed
        In veteran might o’er Yanzi’s bridge, and deem
        Our flank to gall, but soon their fire was hushed.
      The wounded quarter sued--’twas given by conquerors flushed.

XXXI.

        And prisoners fell by thousands in our hands,
        And all the convoy, treasure, spoil was our’s.
        At Echallar and Ivantelly stands
        The foe once more, and tempts the leaguering powers;
        But daring Barnes upon the mountain towers
        With lion-heart, and smites the clustering foe.
        Though five to one their number ’gainst us lours,
        In vain the arméd throng withstands the blow.
      The fortress-crag is won--the French are hurled below.

XXXII.

        On Ivantelly’s giant peak they fling
        Their last defiance--soon their hope doth melt,
        Like hoar upon a sunny morn in Spring,
        For there our light brigades their way have felt
        Through mist thick gathering, as erewhile it dwelt
        Upon Lizasso’s brow, but not to arrest
        Again our footsteps. Many a blow they dealt,
        Though viewless fatal. Through the clouds they guest
      The foeman’s shadowy form, and scaled the mountain’s breast.

XXXIII.

        Through misty veil that crowns the topmost crags
        Doth Nial with his rifles plunge amain;
        Nor Morton with his light battalion lags.
        Gaul’s chosen grenadiers Clausel with pain
        Sees from the mist emerging to the plain.
        Sharp rings the rifle;--with sonorous roll
        The musketry less keen replies--in vain!
        Disordered France retires, and rends the pole
      Our shout victorious raised--the peak is Glory’s goal!

XXXIV.

        Pyrene’s won! Upon the tallest crest
        Did Nial, Morton mark with fond embrace
        The crowning victory. Why together rest
        Their eyes, the mist now melted, on that place
        Beneath? Ye Powers! It is great Arthur’s face.
        The flying French have eyed him too where o’er
        His mountain charts, and plans of war the base,
        With escort small intently he doth pore,
      And none suspects the prize the foemen swift explore.

XXXV.

        Rushed Nial, Morton madly down the steep
        In generous rivalry who first should reach
        To avert the peril. Roelike was each leap
        From crag to crag--they are come--the danger teach,
        Which Arthur learns with gracious smile to each.
        Swift to his charger strong the Chieftain springs:
        The Frenchmen’s bullets whistle vain as Speech
        Where Action’s wanting. See, his steed hath wings;
      And safe is he whose fate had sealed the doom of Kings!

XXXVI.

        Strove Arthur long to learn which youth he owed
        For safety and deliverance gratitude;
        But Nial said ’twas Morton forward strode
        The first, and Morton urged that Nial viewed
        The peril soonest--Friendship’s generous feud!
        Where each desired that each the prize should hoard;
        And eyes that witnessed it were tear-bedewed.
        Great Arthur gave each noble youth a sword,
      That bore his mighty name--magnificent reward!

XXXVII.

        But thirsteth Pride for San Sebastian’s towers,
        For foiled one effort to surmount her wall;
        And Death that sweeps each host had swept down our’s
        A moon before in numbers to appal.
        ’Tis Honour’s voice, then, bids each bastion fall;
        Such man’s decree! The galleries swift advance.
        A triple mine upheaves the firm sea-wall
        With fierce sulphureous shock. Rocks heavenward dance
      To ope our troops a path against the sons of France.

XXXVIII.

        And pant for glory ’midst their brave compeers
        Nial and Morton--keen as curbéd steed.
        Though soft their souls in love to melt in tears,
        In war they could unmoved see hundreds bleed.
        Of passionate fervour was their patriot creed,
        And next to Heaven they loved their native land.
        With Blanca there to fly, when Spain was freed,
        Before the frowning wall young Morton planned,
      And murmur thus his lips while waits his eager band:--

The Glory of Islands.

1.

      Forbid the linnet from its nest,
        And crush its homeward aspirations--
      As vain to chide the heaving breast,
        And woo repose in foreign nations!
      No, England, no! beyond the foam,
        Around thy beauteous shore that circles,
      I would not fix my lasting home
        For every gem that brightest sparkles!

2.

      More cloudless bend Italian skies;
        Burgundian fruits more richly cluster;
      Iberia’s slopes more gently rise,
        And shine her stars with purer lustre.
      O’er Adria’s coast, o’er fair Stamboul,
        O’er soft Mæonia show’rs more splendour.
      Out, sunk ’neath Slavery’s abject rule!
        ’Tis _thou_ art Freedom’s grand defender!

3.

      Far sunnier Isles the South make glad,
        From Palma’s gulf to the Ægean;
      Idalia rose and myrtle clad,
        Sicilian shores, and bowers Dictæan;
      The Cyclades that shine to snare,
        From Lemnos old to Rhodes romantic;
      And far Funchál, whose balmy air
        Swells earth’s best vine ’mid the Atlantic.

4.

      But, oh loved land! what magic lifts
        Thee high above all rival glory,
      Fills up the void of Nature’s gifts,
        And makes thy deeds the pride of story?
      What charm endues thy talisman,
        Thou chrysolite amid the waters,
      And deifies the power of man?
        The genius of thy sons and daughters!

5.

      The vigorous thought, the spirit firm,
        The pride of truth, the deep devotion,
      The labouring head and stalwart arm,
        That crown thee Queen of Earth and Ocean!
      That clothe with grain thy rugged steeps,
        Thy factory piles make teem prolific,
      And man the fleet each sea that sweeps
        To make its trembling shores pacific.

6.

      Illustrious land! Yet more than this,
        Thou harbourest all life’s solid graces--
      No fiends that murder with a kiss--
        No treacherous breasts ’neath smiling faces!
      Oh! still be thine the bold, the true,
        The honest, manly, independent;
      In mind, in heart, in sinew, too,
        O’er every other land transcendent!

XXXIX.

        Nor slow was Rey the city to defend,
        Exhausting all the arts that War supplies.
        A yawning chasm within the breach doth end;
        Loopholed with fire a counterwall defies
        Approach;--where’er the rampart broken lies,
        A traverse cuts it off--the streets are trenched;
        Mines trebly charged prepare to blot the skies
        With shattered limb, and head from shoulder wrenched,
      Of him who dares the assault, yet not a cheek is blenched!

XL.

        And strongest whetstone of fierce Valour’s edge
        Thy name, Napoléon! For thee would dare
        Thy Guard to leap adown Destruction’s ledge,
        For thee would scoff in mockery of Despair!
        Genius and energy thou well couldst share
        With all thy Chiefs, and courage give thy men,
        That scorned to yield with life their lion-lair.
        A barbarous strife thou didst require--what then?
      The last Barbarian thou that rushed from Scythian den!

XLI.

        Meteor of Conquest! terribly endowed
        With every faculty to bless or mar,
        With voice to speak to Man like trumpet loud,
        And eagle-eye with ken for peace or war
        Omnipotent, save when Heaven dealt the scar!
        Thy course for bale that might have been for bliss,
        Thy darling Victory streamed a crimson star.
        Around thy laurelled forehead serpents hiss;
      And closed thy glory’s dawn, Destroyer, choice like this!

XLII.

        Trampler on Human Liberty! Thy plan
        Embraced no welfare save thine own; thy aim
        A pyramid--each stone a sword-hewn man,--
        Rivers of blood o’er Earth to write thy name.
        Gigantic was thy crime--as great thy shame!
        Even now with gory talon to the North
        Thou fliest, the elements but canst not tame;
        And there, to teach the peaceful victor’s worth,
      Men rigid as their frosts have sent thee howling forth!

XLIII.

        Scourge of the Nations! thy appointed time
        Is near its close--exhausted is thy quiver.
        Vain is thy complex thought, thy grasp sublime;
        Nor whirlwind, plague, nor tyrant lasts for ever!
        Couldst thou not from the ground one blade dissever
        Of joyous herbage, save with butchering steel,
        Nor give one glory to the Eternal Giver?
        Couldst thou but wound that mightst so nobly heal?
      I see thy end begin--for Man thou didst not feel!

XLIV.

        And yet France loved thee--loved thy daring flight,
        Thy mighty genius--thy creative power;
        The soldier’s idol and the hind’s delight--
        For ’twas the people made thee like a tower
        That topt all Nations! In thy happier hour
        A glorious code thou gav’st. Thy sway was just
        To France--thy monuments a deathless dower.
        No luxury turned thy energies to rust.
      A Conqueror why become? why serve Ambition’s lust?

XLV.

        What are thy mightiest triumphs? Pages torn
        From bloodiest records. What thy phalanx armed?
        Assassins. Thy parade of Conquest? Shorn
        Of glare deceptive, plunder. Earth alarmed
        Saw the career, that dazzled it and charmed,
        Sunk in fell Tyranny. Thy potent rays,
        Melting all fetters, might have millions warmed
        With Freedom. Thou didst forge, to fiends’ amaze,
      New shackles for thy kind. Let Hell eclipse thy blaze!

HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES TO CANTO III.

This Canto describes the battles of Sauroren on the Pyrenees, with
the leading incidents in the minor combats of Buenza, Doña Maria,
Echallar and Ivantelly which followed. The first battle of Sauroren
took place on the 28th July, 1813, the fourth anniversary of the
battle of Talavera, and was remarkable for the extraordinary valour
displayed by the French under Soult, which, having obtained a
slight success at Buenza, they repeated with almost frantic efforts
at Echallar and Ivantelly on the 2nd August, their principal object
being to relieve San Sebastian. But in vain. Lord Wellington
described the first of these actions as “bludgeon work.” The loss
on both sides was very considerable; but it was here demonstrated
by our soldiers, in the words of Napier “that their opponents
however strongly posted could not stand before them.” The actions
will be found detailed in his History, book xxi. chap. 5.

The incident of the defence of the mountain top by flinging down
rocks, is taken from the previous combat, where it occurred as
described by Napier in the following words: “The British, shrunk in
numbers, also wanted ammunition, and a part of the eighty-second
under Major Fitzgerald was forced to roll down stones to defend the
rocks on which they were posted.” (_Hist. ibid._) The allusions to
Sisyphus and to Ajax will I trust be excused. It is difficult to
exaggerate such incidents. There was surely something Titanic in
the character of this Pyrenean warfare.

The Spanish regiment which gave way towards the end of the battle
(the poor soldiers were starved by their miserable commissariat)
was that of El Pravia, which was stationed on the left of the
fortieth, and the latter regiment justly styled by Napier the
“invincible” victoriously concluded the combat. “Four times this
assault was renewed, and the French officers were seen to pull up
their tired men by the belts, so fierce and resolute they were to
win. It was, however the labour of Sisyphus.” (Napier, _ibid._)
The cavalry engagement was maintained by our tenth and eighteenth
hussars. I occasionally detach my heroes, Nial and Morton, to other
infantry corps for poetic effect.

The terrible scene at the bridge of Yanzi is described by Captain
Cooke in his _Memoirs_ as follows:--“We overlooked the enemy at
stone’s throw, and from the summit of a tremendous precipice. The
river separated us, but the French were wedged in a narrow road
with inaccessible rocks on one side and the river on the other.
Confusion impossible to describe followed, the wounded were thrown
down in the rush and trampled upon, the cavalry drew their swords
and endeavoured to charge up the pass of Echallar, but the infantry
beat them back; and several, horses and all, were precipitated into
the river; some fired vertically at us, the wounded called out for
quarter, while others pointed to them supported as they were on
branches of trees, on which were suspended great coats clotted with
gore, and blood-stained sheets taken from different habitations to
aid the sufferers.”

The incident of extricating Wellington by the agency of Nial
and Morton from his imminent peril of falling into the hands of
the French is taken from the following passage at the end of
Napier’s description of the combat of Ivantelly: “Lord Wellington
narrowly escaped the enemy’s hands. He had carried with him
towards Echallar half a company of the forty-third as an escort,
and placed a sergeant named Blood with a party to watch in front
while he examined his maps. The French who were close at hand
sent a detachment to cut the party off; and such was the nature
of the ground that their troops, rushing on at speed, would
infallibly have fallen unawares upon Lord Wellington, if Blood, a
young intelligent man, seeing the danger, had not with surprising
activity, leaping rather than running down the precipitous rocks he
was posted on, given the general notice, and as it was the French
arrived in time to send a volley of shot after him as he galloped
away.” (_Hist._ book xxi. c. 5.)

The prodigies accomplished by our Peninsular veterans, of which
this and the preceding Canto fall short in the narration, need
little attestation. But here is the testimony of one of Napoléon’s
Generals:--“Bien que leurs corps soient robustes, leurs ames
énergiques, et leurs esprits industrieux,” &c. (Foy, _Hist.
Guerre. Pénins._ liv. ii.) “Le Prince-Noir et Talbot étaient nés
dans Albion. Marlborough et ses douze mille soldats n’avaient pas
été les moins redoutables ennemis de Louis XIV. * * Nos soldats
revenus d’Egypte disaient à leurs camarades la valeur indomptée
des Anglais. Il n’etait pas besoin d’une réflexion profonde pour
déviner que l’ambition, la capacité, et le courage sont bons à
autre chose qu’à être embarqués sur des vaisseaux.” (_Ibid._) “Leur
humeur inquiète et voyageuse les rend propres á la vie errante
des guerriers, et ils possèdent une qualité, la plus précieuse
de toutes sur les champs de bataille, le calme dans la colère.
* * Telle est la puissance Anglaise. C’est Bonaparte en action,
mais Bonaparte toujours jeune et toujours vigoureux, Bonaparte
persévérant dans sa passion, Bonaparte immortel.” (_Ibid._) “Le
soldat Anglais ... son corps est robuste. Son ame est vigoureuse,
parceque son père lui a dit et ses chefs lui répétent sans cesse
que les enfants de la vieille Angleterre, abreuvés de _porter_ et
rassasiés de bœuf roti, valent chacun pour le moins trois individus
de ces races pygmées qui végètent sur le continent d’Europe. * *
Il marche en avant. Dans l’action, il ne regarde pas à droite ni à
gauche.” (_Ibid._)

The brilliancy of our cavalry service is equally acknowledged,
though French military writers strive sometimes to mock it, very
ineffectually, as in the following example; “Dans la retraite
de la Corogne, les corps de cavalerie faisaient halte; le chef
commandait: _Pied à terre; prenez vos pistolets_; et à un troisième
commandement, chaque cavalier brûlait la cervelle à son cheval en
un temps et deux mouvements.” (Foy, _Hist. Guerre. Pénins._ liv.
ii.)

In illustration of the character of Napoléon, of which I have
attempted some analysis in this Canto, I have drawn together a few
striking passages from the most eminent military writers of England
and France, Napier and Foy:--

“That greatest of all masters of the art of war.” (Napier, _Hist.
War in the Penins._ book xxiv. chap. 6.) “In following up a victory
the English general fell short of the French emperor. The battle of
Wellington was the stroke of a battering ram, down went the wall in
ruins. The battle of Napoléon was the swell and dash of a mighty
wave, before which the barrier yielded and the roaring flood poured
onwards covering all.” (_Ibid._) “That successful improvisation in
which Napoléon seems to have surpassed all mankind.” (_Ibid._)

“Vaincre et trouver des instruments de victoire était le travail
de sa vie.” (Foy, _Hist. Guerre. Pénins._ liv. i. _Caractère de
Napoléon._)

“Jamais esprit plus profondément meditatif ne fut plus fécond en
illuminations rapides et soudaines.” (_Ibid._)

“Toujours prêt à combattre, habituellement il choisissait
l’occasion et le terrain. Il a donné quarante batailles pour huit
ou dix qu’il a reçues.” (_Ibid._)

“Napoléon’s system of war was admirably adapted to draw forth and
augment the military excellence and to strengthen the weakness of
the national character. His discipline, severe but appealing to the
feelings of hope and honour, wrought the quick temperament of the
French soldiers to patience under hardship, and strong endurance
under fire. * * He thus made his troops, not invincible indeed,
nature had put a bar to that in the character of the British
soldier, but so terrible and sure in war that the number and
greatness of their exploits surpassed those of all other nations.”
(Napier, _Hist. War in the Penins._ book xxiv. chap. 6.)

“Ce n’est pas avec les règles de Montécuculli et de Turenne
manœuvrant sur la Renchen qu’il faut juger de telles entreprises.
Les uns guerroyaient pour avoir tel ou tel quartier d’hiver;
l’autre, pour conquérir le monde. Il lui fallait souvent non pas
seulement gagner une bataille, mats la gagner de telle façon
qu’elle épouvantât l’Europe et amenât des résultats gigantesques.
Ainsi les vues politiques intervenaient sans cesse dans le génie
stratégique. * * Quelque habile qu’on soit, il y a presque toujours
dans ce jeu terrible des risques proportionnés à la grandeur des
profits. Le succès est devenu plus chanceux. Les armées étaient
plus nombreuses. Ses ennemis, à son exemple, ont eu aussi des
masses. * * La machine n’était plus maniable; il a été écrasé.”
(Foy, liv. i.)

Napoléon’s was a game of double or quits played with the hardihood
of a determined gambler. The value of the stakes became multiplied
with alarming rapidity, as in the arithmetical problem of the
horse-shoe-nails. All the military population and resources of the
empire became involved in the chances of the die, and he lost the
last throw.

General Foy narrates the following anecdote. He was probably
himself the interlocutor: “Dans la campagne de France, aux premiers
mois de 1814, Napoléon parlait à Troyes en Champagne, avec un de
ses généraux, de l’état des choses. ‘Les ennemis, disait celui-ci,
sont trop nombreux; il faut que la France se lève’--‘Eh! comment
voulez-vous que la France se lève, interrompit avec vivacité
Napoléon; il n’y a pas de noblesse, _et j’ai tué la liberté!_’”

Of the love which the French people bore to Napoléon, let his
march to Cannes be a witness, where the inhabitants, as he passed,
surrounded him in hundreds of thousands with unmistakeable
demonstrations of blind enthusiasm and delight. Not even the
terrible conscription could rase his impression from their hearts.
The general equity of his internal administration, the exact system
of his public accounts, the effectual discharge of duty which he
required of the state servants, the abolition of idle privileged
classes, and the cessation of fraud in the management of the
revenue or its punishment when detected, caused the people to
love him as they everywhere love justice. Napoléon, with all his
other splendid faculties, was a skilful financier; he was opposed
to public loans, and left no debt. He had no private views, and
his active energies were unimpaired in his vassals’ service. The
utility of his public works was commensurate with their grandeur,
providing at once employment for the poor and embellishment for the
country. His Code was a monument of legislative wisdom, and his
Cadastre an invaluable equalizer and register of taxation and the
liabilities of property. But withal he was a detestable tyrant.

  II.      “Such stone immense as feigned Æolides
            In Orcus tortured flung.”

The epithet “feigned” is imitated from Milton’s treatment of
similar subjects. But Milton was not at all uniform in his
treatment; and therefore having paid this tribute to the truth of
Christianity and entered by this word my protest against the fables
of Polytheism, I do not think it necessary, any more than Milton
did, to be perpetually marring poetical effects by intimating
that comparisons are derived from fictitious subjects. Thus in
the finest book of _Paradise Lost_, the second, all the Greek and
Roman fables are introduced with excellent effect, and without any
intimation that they are apocryphal. Thus

      Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate, &c.
                          _P.L._ ii. 577.

      Medusa with Gorgonian terror guards
      The ford.
                          _Ib._ ii. 611.

                    ----The water flies
      All taste of living wight, as once it fled
      The lip of Tantalus.
                          _Ib._ ii. 612.

      A cry of Hell-hounds never-ceasing barked
      With wide Cerberean mouths.
                          _Ib._ ii. 654.

  “It rolleth bounding with gigantic ease.”

      Καὶ μὴν Σίσυφον εἰσεῖδον, κρατέρ’ ἄλγε’ ἔχοντα,
      Λᾶαν βαστάζοντα πελώριον ἀμφοτέρῃσιν·
      Ἦτοι ὁ μὲν, σκηριπτόμενος χερσὶν τε ποσὶν τε. κ. τ. λ.
                          Hom. _Od._ xi. 592.

The fine dactylic verse which follows, and which Dionysius of
Halicarnassus so highly commends, is wonderfully descriptive of the
bounding of a huge stone down a mountain:--

      Αὖτις ἔπειτα πέδονδε κυλίνδετο λᾶας ἀναιδὴς.
                          Hom. _Od._ xi. 598.

Notwithstanding the numerous and highly celebrated attempts of Pope
and Dryden at onomatopœiac effects in English iambic lines, I think
Thomson has surpassed them both in the following line from what
Byron justly pronounces one of the very finest poems in the English
language:--

      “Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep!”
                          _Castle of Indolence_, cant. i.

  III.      “Full many a rock’s Aiantine volume rolled.”

      Δεῦτερος αὖτ’ Αἴας πολύ μείζονα λᾶαν ἀείρας.
                          Hom. _Il._ vii. 268.

  “Their powerful hands this rude artillery hold.”

      Others with vast Typhœan rage more fell
      Rend up both rocks and hills.
                          --Milt. _Par. Lost._ ii. 539.

Typhœus was one of the Titans who warred against Heaven.

  VII.      “And charging through the valley shakes the field
               With thunderous gallop.”

      Debaixo dos pés duros dos ardentes
      Cavallos treme a terra, as valles soam.
                          Camóens, _Lus._ iv. 31.

  VIII.       “Our fiery squadrons. * *
        They bathe their swords in blood at every bound.”

      Wolauf, ihr kecken streiter!
      Wolauf, ihr deutschen reiter!
        Wird euch das herz nicht warm?
        Nehmt’s liebchen in den arm--
                              Hurrah!
                          Körner, _Schwertlied_.

      Well up, ye fearless fighters!
      Well-up, ye Saxon riders!
        Oh, grows not each heart warm,
        The loved one on his arm?
                               Hurrah!

  IX.      “Oh, generous, strong, and fleet are England’s steeds.”

      ὕμνον ὀρθώσας, ἀκαμαντοπόδων
      ἵππων ἄωτον.
                          Pind. _Olymp._ iii.

“I will hymn the praise of the flower of foot-weariless horses.”

  XX.      --“On each towering height
         Seemed demons sprung with torches from their den.”

                      --Auf den mondschein folgen trüber,
      Dämm’rung schatten; wüstenthiere jagen aufgeschreckt vorüber.
      Schnaubend bäumen sich die pferde; unser führer greift zur fahne;
      Sie entsinkt ihm, und er murmelt: “Herr, die Geisterkaravane!”
                          _Freiligrath._

“After the moonshine follow the dark twilight-shades; the wild
animals fly past affrighted, the horses rear up snorting; our
leader clutches at the standard--it sinks from him, and he murmurs:
‘Lord, the ghostly-caravan!’”

  XXI.      “Refreshment needful cheered their bivouac.”

      Poichè de’ cibi il natural amore
      Fú in lor ripresso e l’importuna sete.
                          Tasso, _Gerus. Lib._ xi. 17.

  XXII.      “But thickest mist doth fall, and leave our men at fault.”

(Combat of Dona Maria.) “A thick fog prevented further pursuit, and
the loss of the French in the action is unknown.”
                          Napier, _Hist._ book xxi. c. 5.

  XXIII. “Thus Menelaüs, while his brazen spear, &c.”

      Αὐτὰρ ὁ ἂψ ἐπόρουσε κατακτάμεναι μενεαίνων
      Ἔγχεϊ χαλκείῳ· τὸν δ’ ἐξήρπαξ’ Ἀφροδίτη
      Ῥεῖα μὰλ’, ὥστε θεός· ἐκάλυψε δ’ ἄρ’ ἠέρι πολλῇ·
                          Hom. _Il._ iii. 379.

I trust it will not be deemed irreverent to observe, by way of
anticipative answer to any critic who in his wisdom may condemn
this Homeric allusion, that, as the _Deus ex machinâ_ is not
mine, I do not stand sponsor for Venus, and that the notion of a
Frenchman in a fog quite naturally suggested _Paris_.

  XXVI.      “Clambering Santa Cruz’s torrid steep.”

      --Gravis exustos æstus hiulcat agros.
                          Catul. lxvi.

  XXXVI.               ----“Friendship’s generous feud!
              Where each desired that each the prize should hoard.”

      Ὦ λῆμ’ ἄριστον, ὡς ἀπ’ εὐγενοῦς τινος
      Ῥίζης πέφυκας, τοῖς φίλοις τ’ ὀρθῶς φίλος.
                          Eurip. _Iph. in Taur._ 609.

“Oh, excellent mind, from some noble root thou art sprung, for thou
art truly a friend to thy friend!”

  “Great Arthur gave each noble youth a sword.”

The Duke of Wellington presented his sword to Sir Henry (now Lord)
Hardinge after the Battle of Waterloo.

  XXXVIII.      “And next to Heaven he loved his native land.
                 With Blanca there to fly when Spain was free,” &c.

Mas el amor de la mujer y de la patria, pues como dicen: _de dó
eres, hombre?_ tiraron por mi.--Mendoza, _Lazarillo de Tormes_.

  XLI.      “Thy course for bale that might have been for bliss.”

      Then were I brought from bale to blisse,
        No lenger wold I lye.
                          Romance of “Sir Cauline.”

      For now this day thou art my bale.
                          Romance of “Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne.”

      Jhesue Christ our balys bete
      And to the blys us brynge!
                          The original “Chevy Chase.”

The origin of the words “bliss” and “bless” is identical.

  XLIII.      “Scourge of the nations! thy appointed time
               Is near its close--exhausted is thy quiver.”

The certainty of the doom that awaits unjust violence is finely
expressed by Pindar:--

      Βία δὲ καὶ μεγάλαυχον ἔσφα-
      λεν ἐν χρόνῳ. Τυφὼς Κίλιξ ἑκατόγκρα-
      νος οὔ μιν ἄλυξεν,
      ὀυδὲ μὰν βασιλεὺς Γιγάντων.
      Δμᾶθεν δὲ κεραυνῷ,
      τόξοισί τ’ ἀπόλλωνος.
                          _Pyth._ viii.

“But Violence mineth the proud in time. Cilician Typhos with his
hundred heads escaped not its effects, nor the King of the Giants
himself. They were slain by the thunder (of Jove) and the shafts of
Apollo!” The “King of the Giants” is Porphyrion, who carried off the
herd of Hercules, and appears to have originated the plan to scale
Olympus. Typhos is better known by the names Typhon and Typhœus.
Pindar is perpetually alluding to the combats of the Titans, and
they impart a matchless sublimity to his poetry, which in this
quality surpasses Homer.

IBERIA WON.

Canto IV.

I.

        There is one earthly Love, and one alone,
        Which free from penalty all, all may share;
        A passion pure, sublime, of loftiest tone,
        In whose proud service Man may blameless dare
        All that the heart inspires which scorns to wear
        A chain--’tis Love of Country! This the power
        That levels all distinctions--’midst despair
        Upraising prostrate nations to a tower,--
      The flame that kindles men to Gods in peril’s hour!

II.

        Who’s noble? He that bears a scutcheon? He
        Whose lineage can be traced to mailéd Knights,
        That with the Bastard came from Normandy?
        He that in lacqueys and in hounds delights?
        Whose fathers jousted in Plantagenet fights?--
        Have not all battled with the roaring Flood?
        Noble is he who honours, Man, thy rights,
        Sustains thy dignity, is truthful, good;
      Kings have I known more base than bondsman e’er hath stood!

III.

        Hath not the humblest hands, eyes, feeling, thought
        Like your’s, strength, weakness, tears and laughter’s dower?
        The bruted serf hath Poland’s serfdom wrought;
        For when to strike for Freedom comes the hour,
        He strikes his lords! At home let Tyrants cower
        In field, or factory, mountain, mine, or glen.
        Where’er the weak are crushed by ruffian power,
        Where’er the poor are slighted, where the pen
      Can reach Oppression, there shall pierce the rights of Men!

IV.

        And Labour shall have Justice. Peasant arms,
        The implements of peace or war that wield,
        Shall not, of Fame defrauded and its charms,
        Of Right be too defrauded and the shield
        Of Liberty! In ploughed or battle field,
        His hire shall be the guerdon, not the mite
        Flung by proud scorn! His wrongs shall yet be healed.
        Who Badajoz, Ciudád, Sebastian’s height
      Could scale shall have his share of glory and of right!

V.

        What were thy mural crowns, bellipotent Rome,
        Thy gold-beat turrets for the daring head,
        Thy vallar circlets given for mounted dome
        And rampart, wreaths obsidional that shed
        Their grass-green light than gold more coveted?
        What thy triumphal bays for glory’s brow,
        Thy oval myrtle where no Roman bled,
        Thy civic garland of the oaken bough?
      Their sound one City filled--the World beholds us now!

VI.

        Not Spain, not Spain doth tamely bear the yoke,
        Her sturdy peasants the Guerrillas swell,
        And, see, where gather ’neath Guerníca’s oak
        Her passionate sons to list the tuneful shell
        Which ’neath its shade a maiden strikes so well.
        One hand alone the loud guitarra wakes
        So potently: ’tis Blanca gives the spell!
        Through every pause the Basque pandéro breaks,
      And Blanca thus i’ th’ crowd each nerve and fibre shakes:--

VII.

        “Biscayan bondsmen!--for ’tis bonds ye wear,
        While stalks the proud invader o’er your soil;
        Methinks, ’tis said Cantabrian blood ye share,
        Methinks, ’tis said that vain was Roman toil
        To bend your stubborn hearts within its coil!
        But this, forsooth, was thousand years ago.
        Were your’s Cantabrian blood, ’twould surely boil,
        To see Cantabria’s glory laid so low.
      Why yes, the Frenchman, sure, excels the Roman foe!

VIII.

        “Biscayan bondsmen! patience is your cure
        For all their slights and scoffs--by Heaven’s behest.
        Lives there a bustard on your hills to endure
        A foreign vulture in its cuckoo nest?
        Perchance your nests are warmer--ye know best!
        Not bustards dwell upon each mountain peak,
        But royal eagles none may dare molest,
        For piercing are their talons, sharp their beak--
      ’Tis Biscay’s men alone are pliable and meek!

IX.

        “’Tis said and sung--but History doubtless lies--
        That great Fernando here and Isabel,
        Beneath this aged oak, these mountain skies,
        Swore to maintain Biscaya’s rights full well.
        ’Tis said that those who lived where now ye dwell--
        I did not say your fathers--with their swords
        Won and preserved their fuéros from the fell
        Assaults of native tyrants--idle words!
      Ye know the fuéros melt i’ th’ breath of foreign lords.

X.

        “’Tis said Biscaya’s lawgivers of old
        Beneath this venerable Druid shade,
        Ancestral lord, and priest, and peasant bold,
        Met in due time and firmest fuéros made.
        ’Tis said--but chronicling’s a lying trade--
        That hearts of oak beneath this oak did meet
        To guard the old Basque freedom. Undecayed
        The oak is still, and hark what voices sweet,
      As from Dodona’s, bid the Basque his deeds repeat!

XI.

        “’Tis said this Spanish soil once men did rear,
        Whom Rome and Carthage trembled to oppose.
        Sagunthus, and Numance, and Bilbil here
        Terrific bulwarks in their pathway rose,
        Ere yielding crushed by self-destroying blows!
        ’Tis said Viriatus the Guerrilla storm
        Poured from the mountains first ’gainst Roman foes,
        And Sylla and Pompey smote Sertorius warm,
      Till treachery triumphed. Gaul’s complacent slaves _ye_ form!

XII.

        “’Tis said Bernardo with resistless lance
        At Roncesvalles Roland’s prowess crushed,
        When Carlomain for this same haughty France
        Claimed Leon’s crown, and down Pyrene rushed.
        There Roland’s blood with many a Peer’s, too, gushed!
        ’Tis said that more than this e’en Spaniards did,
        When bold Ruy Diaz on Bavieca, flushed
        With victory, led the Oca hills amid
      Five Moorish Kings who long paid tribute to the Cid!

XIII.

        “I see the warrior-boy on gallant steed
        Spur to the battle proudly o’er the plain,
        His eye resolved to make the Moslem bleed,--
        His bounding bosom scorns to wear a chain!
        His lance in rest, his armour without stain,
        He panteth for the mêlée hand to hand;
        Enough his guerdon that he strikes for Spain.
        Wo to the hostile ranks that dare to stand
      Before that fiery Chief’s dread lance and lightning brand!

XIV.

        “Such Spaniards were--in days long past away--
        Who drove the Invader forth, nor asked for aid.
        I need not speak what Spaniards are to-day.
        Oh, let not Britons thus the Basque o’ershade.
        At least be drawn Bilbáo’s trusty blade!”--
        Flushed many a cheek, “_Las armas!_” was the cry.
        With hasty-buckled swords the high-souled maid,
        And firelocks true, soon saw them gathering nigh,
      And ’neath the sacred oak flashed many a warlike eye:

The Gathering.

          “These be my countrymen (she said);
          Spain, thy spirit is not dead!
          When the kite shall grasp the thunder,
          France shall bring thy spirit under;
          When upheaved is Roncesvalles,
          France shall hold Alphonso’s palace.
          When forgotten is Pavía,
            When unwrit her annals all,
          Then shall Spain consent to be a
                Province for the Gaul!
                  Hoist the standard
                    Of Hesperia;
                  Ne’er hath pandered
                    Celtiberia!
                  Greatly dare,
                  Till free as air;
                  Firm as rock,
                  Withstand the shock!
        Now when babes untimely perish,
          Like old Basques strew pure white roses;
        Freedom’s flame now, now ye cherish--
          ’Tis no infant slave reposes!
                The pride of arms,
                And Freedom’s charms,
                Have spurred each soul
                For Glory’s goal;
      My countrymen, to-day ye make your sister proud.
                  The Invader may come;
                  Hark, hark to his drum,
        And the hoofs of his chargers clattering loud!
                  See, see where the dust,
                  Like a storm-gathered gust,
                  Rolls over the plain,
                  As he gallops amain;
      Now stand, brothers brave, and be true to your trust!
          When upheaved is Roncesvalles,
            When the kite shall grasp the thunder,
          France shall hold Alphonso’s palace,
            France shall bring thy spirit under!
              When dishonours Vascongada
              Fernan’s triumph at Granada,
              When forgotten is Pavía,
                When unwrit her annals all,
              Then shall Spain consent to be a
                Province for the Gaul!

XV.

        On came the French light horse--a forage troop--
        And dashed impetuous to the ancient square,
        Deeming to spoil the town with vulture swoop,
        But Blanca’s voice had been before them there!
        Beneath the oak the patriot phalanx fair
        With volley close receives the deadly shock.
        Though trodden down, none yields him to despair,
        But light-armed footmen horse and rider mock.
      France oft the charge renews; Biscaya stands--a rock!

XVI.

        Fiercest amongst the hussars rode Jules, whose friend
        Blanca erewhile had with his carbine smote;
        He spied her ’neath the oak, and burnt to end
        The maid who foiled him in her lightsome boat.
        But by her side there stands a youth of note--
        Don Carlos named--her father too is nigh.
        Stout they received him Carlos--at his throat
        Sprang with good sword; and fiery sparkles fly
      From blades with master-hand they both wield manfully.

XVII.

        But Blanca’s sire with dexterous weapon cut
        The Frenchman’s rein, and pricked his foaming steed.
        Unchecked, the charger instant wheeled about,
        And from the battle fled at utmost speed,
        The bridle Jules deserting in his need.
        Shouted the enraged hussar, and spurred, and cursed,
        But faster flew the horse from guidance freed.
        The troop soon followed--of the fray the worst
      Was theirs--and from the Basques the cheer of victory burst.

XVIII.

        No tongue may tell the transport of delight,
        That hailed this triumph of their patriot arms.
        A troop from fair Guerníca marched ere night
        For San Sebastian, amid War’s alarms
        To prove the spirit which the Vascon warms.
        And Blanca and her blithe barqueras rowed
        Once more to aid the siege with Hebe charms,
        While Carlos to whose arm she safety owed
      Her shallop bore to San Sebastian, his abode:--

XIX.

        “Now thus,” she said, “to Isidora speak,--
        Though noblest maid, my foster-sister dear--
        Tell her my tongue to express my love is weak,
        And this memorial wet with many a tear.
        For dire to think how oft I am so near,
        But she within and I without the wall
        Beleaguered;--you, Don Carlos, need not fear
        To enter seaward, but the haughty Gaul
      ’Gainst Basque barquera soon would hurl the vengeful ball.”

XX.

        Then from her beauteous breast the maid drew forth
        A silken banneret of pigmy size,
        Yet truly figuring--thence was all its worth--
        The standard proud of Spain, whose castles rise
        With lions rampant to the gazer’s eyes.
        And in the centre, broidered all blood-red
        Showed the French eagle--arrow-pierced he lies,
        Gasping in death, the plumes rent from his head:
      “Give this to Isidor,” at parting, “this,” she said.

XXI.

        Dark was the night--the horizon pitchy black,
        As Carlos with the pass-word reached the town,
        And joyous strolled, while War’s dread fire was slack,
        With lovely Isidor the rampart down.
        More deep ’neath starry pall ne’er fell Night’s frown,
        Nor sank repose on Nature and on man.
        But hark the rattling musketry, see crown
        Each sharp discharge its flash--ere death brief span.
      Homeward, poor maiden lorn, sweet Isidora ran!

XXII.

        ’Twas gallant Rey, who made a night-sortie--
        Last effort tried ere come the dire assault.
        Our piquets on the Isthmus slaughtered see,
        Ta’en by surprise or ere they can cry Halt!
        Loud rose the Frenchmen’s _En avant!_ At fault,
        Our sentries for a time unaided bleed,
        The deadly death-tubes rending the black vault;
        But soon a furious contest raged indeed--
      Our startled piquets rush, their firelocks flash with speed.

XXIII.

        Yet onward the French column densely moved,
        Our careful hewn intrenchments filling fast.
        Down went banquette and parapet; and proved
        Fascine and gabion feeble in the blast.
        Soon, as o’er level ground, the trench they passed
        While fierce artillery from the rampart roared.
        Incessant flashes momentary cast
        Made tenfold darkness when their stream was poured,
      And shells in beauteous curves of light through æther soared.

XXIV.

        But saw great Arthur from the Chofre hills,
        And while Graham hurled against the rampart’s height
        A fierce reply which all the welkin fills,
        Sent our bold columns rapid to the fight.
        Morton with joy, and Nial with delight,
        The summons heard, and dashing with their men
        Plunged through the fitful blazing gloom of night.
        Hot was the fire of skirmishers, which then
      Maintained on either side bewildered Lyncean ken.

XXV.

        For soon so mixed amid the pitchy gloom
        Were friend and foe, save when the cannon flashed
        To send grim death rimbombing from its womb,
        That friend smote friend, and indiscriminate dashed
        They on, by that dread peril unabashed.
        Hundreds were in the trenches headlong flung,
        And bayonets high o’er head and under clashed.
        So desperate to their ground the assailants clung,
      It seemed as Victory long i’ th’ balance doubtful hung.

XXVI.

        And, lo, where ’mid the carnage dire and wide,
        Rise rapid fireballs from the citadel,
        Whose lurid glare is, sure, to Hell allied,
        With strong blue light the darkness to dispel;
        And some on the fascines around them fell,
        Which fiercely burnt, diffusing terror new
        For but an instant. Each his foe can tell,
        And musketry now blazes full in view,
      Till heaps of corses soon both mound and trenches strew.

XXVII.

        By that dread blaze upon the topmost height
        A young French chieftain coped with Morton’s sword;
        Their clashing blades upon the brow of night
        Threw clustering sparkles swift as Brontes poured
        ’Gainst Steropes whilst Ætna’s forges roared;
        And round and round they leapt to every stroke,
        And with good will each point of fence explored.
        But Morton’s firmer hand his guard soon broke;
      The Gaulish chief disarmed the word “Surrender” spoke.

XXVIII.

        And Nial coped with yet a hardier chief,
        Whose practised valour and whose sinewy arm
        Gave little hope, I ween, of victory brief,
        Yet joy inspired to Nial, not alarm.
        Terrific was their sword play, like the charm
        Of deadly basilisk to lure the eye;
        And many a pass was parried without harm,
        And many a sweep and many a thrust put by,
      Till Nial’s foe at last i’ th’ trench doth silent lie.

XXIX.

        The Gaulish column while the deed dismayed,
        New daring to the British line it gave.
        Their rattling musketry more vigorous played,
        And clouds of smoke arose with curling wave
        O’erarching all the arena of the brave.
        Nor yet the fireballs ceased to light the war,
        Nor yet the grape to fall where none could save
        Or life or limb, nor yet to roar from far
      The cannon dire and bombs that burst through every bar.

XXX.

        And ’mid this jar confused of noises dire,
        And shouts of living soldiers fierce and fell,
        The piercing shrieks of wounded men rose higher
        Through groans of dying strewn by shot and shell;
        And of the fire balls from the citadel
        Some lit amongst the helpless wounded, bringing
        New pangs where agony too much doth dwell.
        See crawling through the blaze, or nervous springing,
      The maimed from where blue fire its lurid glare is flinging!

XXXI.

        But faint before the valour of our men
        Grew Gaulish daring, though they bravely fought;
        And when they showed irresolute, ’twas then
        Our Britons to the charge the bayonet brought.
        With shout appalling in their souls they wrought
        Such fear as aided well our glancing steel
        And firm advance. In flight they safety sought,
        Yet less in terror’s coil, than vain to feel
      The assault that hath prepared with Britain’s sons to deal.

XXXII.

        Now free once more our deep intrenchments stood,
        Save of the heaps of slain and battle’s track,
        And many a broken blade and pool of blood,
        Which by to-morrow’s dawn shall find no lack
        Of zeal to clear, and bring to smoothness back.
        The dead shall find a soldier’s simple grave,
        The wounded healing care though pain should rack,
        With Fame’s requital; and where past the wave
      Of War, each trench renewed again shall shield the brave.

XXXIII.

        Within the town the lovely Isidor
        Shuddered with fear at every cannon’s boom.
        As fell upon her ear the horrid roar,
        She deemed it sounded like the crack of doom,
        And on her knees within her furthest room
        Before an image of the Virgin prayed
        That Heaven might turn their hearts, and Pity’s womb
        Bring forth Pacification--sore afraid
      To see man slaughter man in God’s own image made.

XXXIV.

        But Blanca in the sound and sight rejoiced,
        Which ever told of liberty to Spain,
        And soon she hoped to see the standard hoist
        Sublime on San Sebastian’s towers again--
        The rampant lions spurning Gallic chain!
        And as the shells arose, the fireballs flew,
        She rowed along the bosom of the main
        Beneath the wall, as danger she would woo,
      Yet shuddered too at times--for Morton there she knew.

XXXV.

        Oh, marvellous variety of minds!
        Oh, Nature’s handiwork of subtile shades!
        From the same breast the stream to life that binds
        In foster-sisterhood drew both these maids.
        Yet one with gentlest bosom shrinks and fades
        Before the peril which doth rouse the other;
        One sickens, one rejoys at clashing blades.
        Ah, Blanca, Blanca, learn that joy to smother,
      For steel doth smite e’en now who loves thee like a mother!

XXXVI.

        Still darkness palled the earth, when round the home
        Of Blanca’s father, near Zumaya’s green,
        The French hussars who fled Guerníca from,
        Arrayed in treacherous descent were seen;
        For Jules thus thought to wreak his vengeful spleen
        At once upon the maiden and her sire.
        His comrades called him Jules _L’Enfer_--I ween,
        Befitting name. More daring or more dire
      In the French host was none, or rife with demon fire.

XXXVII.

        The vine-clad porch, where Jules erewhile had seized
        Fair Blanca while his comrade Ana prest,
        Was entered soon--the stubborn door, well pleased,
        They battered with their carbines piecemeal--blest
        Effects of War, that turns the human breast
        To tiger fierceness! Pablo leapt from bed,
        Where soon disturbed his lonely widowed rest.
        The hussars rushed in by pale light faintly shed
      From dim night-taper, when thus Jules ferocious said:--

XXXVIII.

        “Where be thy daughters--yield them to our arms,
        “This instant yield them--buxom maids be they;
        “Buxom and fierce--the soldier’s spiciest charms
        “In woman. _L’Espingarda_ fires, I say,
        “With aim that like a tirailleur’s can slay.
        “’Twas with my carbine she my comrade smote.
        “Now will I rifle her--she’ll now obey
        “My wishes, while I grasp her soft, white throat.
      “_Dame!_ a French bastard soon her tapering waist shall bloat!”

XXXIX.

        Terrific Pablo’s triumph as he cried:--
        “No, ruffians, no; thank Heaven, they are not your’s,
        “My daughters! ’Tis God’s hand, to crush your pride,
        “To San Sebastian hath removed the lures
        “That brought ye hither, worse than Godless Moors!”
        “Ha, say you so?” quoth Jules, “_pardieu_, ’tis he,
        “The same who ’neath the oak, ’mongst Vascon boors,
        “My bridle cut and made my steed to flee.
      “Dog! with those eyes to do the like no more thou’lt see!”

XL.

        Then on the bed he prest the old man down;
        With sinewy knee upon his breast he lies,
        His struggles stifling with terrific frown,
        And with his sword-point blinded both his eyes!
        Dire were the wounds he made, and crimson flies
        The warm blood forth, yet save some groans of pain,
        Which spoke poor Pablo’s natural agonies,
        Nor shriek nor cry drew forth this deed of Cain,
      For Blanca’s sire no weak faintheartedness could stain!

XLI.

        Then bound the villain both his hands and feet,
        And while its master helpless nought did say,
        Ransacked the house for all of wine or meat,
        Or forage that within its precincts lay,
        And thus caroused till near the break of day,
        When all with wine o’ercome the troopers flung
        Their lengths upon the floor at dawning grey,
        As weary Bacchants with whose orgies rung
      Ismenian heights at morn reposed with lolling tongue.

XLII.

        Long Pablo heard their movements with disgust,
        Till silence broke but by repletion’s snore
        Convinced the sightless man that Heaven is just,
        And with excitement fierce his bonds he tore.
        Trembling with rage, he stood upon the floor
        An instant, then drew forth a dagger keen,
        And groped his blind way through the chamber-door.
        From sleeping form to form he passed, I ween
      With preternatural touch as true as each were seen!

XLIII.

        Jules he hath found! A scar upon his face
        The trooper gives to his revenge at last.
        With gentlest finger he the seam doth trace
        Along his cheek, till doubt to surety past.
        A ghastly smile then Pablo’s features cast,
        All grim and gory ’neath his butchered eyes!
        His finger’s point to where the heart beat fast
        Unerring moved--supine the monster lies--
      Beneath blind Pablo’s blade heart-pierced he instant dies!

HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES TO CANTO IV.

The gathering under the oak of Guernica, the onset of the French
light horse, and the resistance of the peasantry, described in this
Canto, are incidents which, although imagined, are characteristic
of this heroic struggle at various periods. The part here played
by Blanca was not uncommon during the Peninsular War, enthusiast
emissaries having made their appearance in various quarters,
preaching the crusade against the French. They literally preached,
or harangued the people in public places. I met an Englishman
in the Peninsula who had figured in that capacity. Women, too,
undertook the same service, which amongst an excitable Southern
people was found to be most potential. The appearance of the fair
sex in this character was chiefly after the siege of Zaragoza,
when the renown won by Manuela Sanchez caused heroines to spring
up in several places, who wore for the most part a half-military
attire. Blanca’s use of the guitar is strictly in character, for
the talent of the _improvvisatore_ is pretty general in Spain,
the language readily adapting itself to extemporaneous recitation
in verse, and the ardent temperament of the nation favouring a
rapid exercise of the imagination. The Basque drum or _pandero_,
and the _gaita_ or bagpipe, belong to this district. The Oak of
Guernica, beneath which I make Blanca rhapsodize, was one of the
most venerable natural monuments in Spain. Here the Biscayan
legislators, hidalgos and peasants, periodically assembled, and
here Ferdinand and Isabella in 1476 swore to maintain the _fueros_,
or ancient rights and privileges of the people. Wordsworth has a
sonnet on the subject; but unhappily his “tree of holier power” was
cut down by the French. An oak sapling was, however, planted under
the protection of the English army to replace it.

The idea of the night-sortie in this canto is taken from the
following passage in Napier:--“In the night of the 27th, about 3
o’clock, the French sallied against the new battery on the isthmus;
but as Col. Cameron of the ninth regiment met them on the very
edge of the trenches with the bayonet, the attempt failed, yet it
delayed the arming of the battery.” (_Hist. War in the Penins._
xxii. 1.) I have made honourable mention of Cameron’s achievement
in my first canto, but without specifying that the sortie took
place by night. The attack in the real incident was so speedily
repelled that it afforded no room for poetical description. I have
therefore worked up separately here the idea of a sortie with the
numerous picturesque additions incident to its occurrence by night,
and have taken some of these incidents from the sortie which took
place from Bayonne, then invested by Sir John Hope, on the night of
the 13th April 1814--three days after the Battle of Toulouse--being
therefore the last event of the Peninsular War, in which Sir John
Hope was made prisoner, and great loss of life occurred owing
to the French governor’s incredulity as to the abdication of
Napoléon. It is described in Napier’s last chapter but one, and
still more minutely in Capt. Batty’s _Campaign of the Left Wing
of the Allied Army_, &c. Though Sir Thomas Graham was intrusted
with the conduct of the siege of San Sebastian, and though at the
period of the assault Wellington was engaged with the allies, as
described in a succeeding canto, at some distance from the town, I
am warranted in making him superintend the defence of this sortie,
he having visited the works frequently during their progress, and
having actually visited them on the day (the 28th August) on which
this sortie took place. The present is almost the only instance
throughout the poem, where there is exaggeration of the actual
amount of fighting and its consequences.

The French in desolating the fields of Spain, and sweeping off
their sheep and cattle by thousands, professed that they did it
for the people’s good, treating them, doubtless, as Sir Thomas
More makes the Utopians treat their useless members in his Happy
Republic: “Wrought on by these persuasions, they do either starve
themselves of their own accord, or they take opium, and so they
die without pain.” (_Utopia_, book ii.) According to Hobbes’s
philosophy, this could be doing them no injury, “for he who
consents to any thing, cannot consider himself injured.” (_De
Cive._ 1. i. c. iii.) This voluntarily inflicted suicide Bishop
Burnet in his preface more justly characterises as “a rough
and fierce philosophy.” Still fiercer was the “philosophy” of
Republican France.

  V.      “What were thy mural crowns, bellipotent Rome?”

The _corona muralis_ was a crown of gold, bearing some resemblance
to an ancient wall with turrets, given to him who first scaled
the walls of a city in an assault. The _corona castrensis_ sive
_vallaris_ was a crown given to the soldier who first mounted a
rampart, or invaded the enemy’s camp. The _corona obsidionalis_
(Livy) was a crown composed of the grass which grew in a besieged
place, and presented to the general who raised a siege. This was
deemed one of the highest military honours. Thomasius says that it
was likewise given “to a captain that razed a fort.” The _corona
triumphalis_, originally of laurel and in after ages of gold, was
worn by those generals who had received the honour of a triumph.
On its being sent to the general, it insured him the triumph on
his return, and he immediately obtained the title _imperator_,
which he retained till his triumphal entry. The _corona ovalis_
sive _myrtea_ (Aulus Gellius) was given to a general for a victory
without slaughter of men. The _corona civica_, the highest of all
these rewards, was composed of oaken boughs, and given to him who
had saved the life of a Roman citizen.

  VI.      “Not Spain, not Spain doth tamely bear the yoke.”

      Levanta, España! tu famosa diestra
      Desde el Frances Pirene al Moro Atlante,
      Y al ronco son de trompas belicosas,
      Haz embuelta en durisimo diamante
      De tus valientes hijos feroz muestra,
      Debaxo de tus señas vitoriosas.
                          Luis de Gongora.

  XI.      “Sagunthus and Numance and Bilbil here.”

The cities of Saguntum and Numantia have been heretofore
specified. Bilbilis is the modern Bilbao, capital of the province
of Biscay. For a sketch of the ancient heroism of Cantabria,
corresponding with the modern Vascongadas or Basque Provinces, see
the Introduction. For an account of the exploits of Viriatus and
Sertorius see Livy and Ferguson’s _Roman Republic_.

  “Now when babes untimely perish
   Like old Basques strew pure white roses.”

This ancient custom has been made by Wordsworth the subject of two
sonnets, in the second of which occur the following fine lines:--

      A garland fashioned of the pure white rose
      Becomes not one whose father is a slave!

  XVIII.      “A troop from fair Guernica marched ere night.”

      Tambem movem da guerra as negras furias
      A gente Biscainha, que carece
      De polidas razoens, e que as injurias
      Muito mal dos estranhos compadece.
      A terra de Guipuscoa, e das Asturias, &c.
                          Camóens, _Lus._ iv. 11.

  XXIV.      “Sent our bold columns rapid to the fight.
              Morton with joy, and Nial with delight
              The summons heard.”

      Ἐν γὰρ χερσὶ τέλος πολέμου, ἐπέων δ’ ἐνὶ βουλῇ·
      Τῷ, οὔτι χρὴ μῦθον ὀφέλλειν, ἀλλὰ μάχεσθαι.
                          Hom. _Il._ xvi. 630.

“For the end of war is in hands, but of words in council;
wherefore, let us not multiply words, but fight!” The dog who barks
loudest is least inclined to bite, or, as the German proverb has
it: “Die grossen marterhausen sind nicht die besten kriegsleut.” I
may add here Suidas’s excellent derivation of Arês Ἄρης, the Greek
name of Mars--from α, _non_, and ῥέειν, _dicere_, because in war
not words but blows are needed.

  XXV.      “--Save when the cannon flashed
             To send grim death rimbombing from its womb.”

The word _rimbombar_, signifying “to resound terrifically,”
especially as applied to thunder and discharges of artillery, is
a very forcible specimen of onomatopœia, and is common to the
Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese; I have therefore ventured to
adopt it into the English language. Tasso uses the word with fine
effect in one of his most celebrated passages:--

      Treman le spaziose atre caverne,
      E l’aer cieco a quel romor rimbomba.
                          _Ger. Lib._ iv. 3.

  XXVII.      “Threw clustering sparkles swift as Brontes poured
               ’Gainst Steropes whilst Ætna’s forges roared.”

      Antra Ætnæa tonant, validique incudibus ictus....
      Ferrum exercebant vasto Cyclopes in antro,
      Brontesque, Steropesque, et nudus membra Pyracmon.
                          Virg. _Æn._ viii. 419.

Virgil’s treatment of his subject, the forging of the armour of
Æneas, presents a curious contrast to Homer’s treatment of the
forging of the armour of Achilles. Vulcan is the agent in both
cases, but in the simple patriarchal era of Homer he is made to
do it all himself, with the assistance only of “twenty pairs of
bellows:”--

      Φῦσαι δ’ ἐν χοάνοισιν ἐείκοσι πᾶσαι ἐφύσων.

The more refined contemporary of Augustus makes the Cyclops perform
the porters’ work, and Vulcan merely look on.

  XXXIV.      “The rampant lions spurning Gallic chain!”

      “Publica” respondit, “cura est pro mœnibus istis”
      Juppiter: et pœnas Gallia victa dabit.
                          Ovid. _Fast._ vi. 377.

IBERIA WON.

Canto V.

I.

        Oh human hearts, that nurture fond designs,
        While shattering Fate his iron moulds doth fill!
        Oh, loving breasts unwarned by direst signs,
        The present joy-burst blindly hugging still!
        Impregnable redoubt of Human Will!
        Less strong than thine is San Sebastian’s wall.
        The ruin-clinging ivy Time can kill,
        But not avert thy worship from its thrall,
      Till comes the destined hour, and instant bids thee fall!

II.

        In summer skies I saw serenely bright
        Creation smile o’er pastoral cottage fair.
        Effulgent glory dwelt in loveliest light
        On copse and garden, hedge and homestead there.
        It seemed as exiled from that spot was Care!
        Sudden a cloud o’ergathering, fringed with red,
        Burst in black thunder bellowing through the air.
        A hissing bolt its flame terrific sped;
      The cottage ruined lay--its peaceful inmates dead!

III.

        Not fairer Hella on the Ægean flood
        With her young brother sate the golden fleece,
        Than Blanca steered her bark when Morton stood
        Within its round, ’mid war discovering peace,
        And from his eyes drank love-light without cease;
        Nor with more grief was Athamantis torn,
        When sank her lovely form ’twixt sunny Greece
        And blue Propontis, than made Blanca mourn,
      When Morton owned his gage to join the Hope Forlorn.

IV.

        “Ah, do not go! _Mi Dios_, thou wilt not go!
        “Guillermo, thou wouldst kill thy Blanca. Death
        “Is there nigh certain.” William smiled: “Why no,
        “Not certain quite. Sweet Blanca, I’ll have breath
        “To kiss thee on my return. Why sorroweth
        “My love so soon, that was so brave erewhile?”--
        “I care not for myself but thee, for saith
        “The general voice, tis fatal.”--“See, I smile”--
      “Oh God, if aught befal thee, Death may light his pile.”

V.

        A trumpet sounded. “’Tis the summons--hark,”
        Quoth William. Blanca straight grew lily-pale.
        He kist her thrice, then leapt from out the bark.
        “Fear not,” he said. “To-morrow without fail
        “We meet,” then flew with heart unused to quail.
        But Blanca motionless remained behind,
        Like calmed Feluca which the dying gale
        Hath quite forsook. Oh, Love had tamed her mind,
      And pride and patriot thoughts _for him_ were idle wind!

VI.

        Now battle’s roar which she had learnt to love,
        Or strove to love for liberty to Spain,
        Fell on her ear with horror, as the dove
        By cry of falcon is transfixed with pain;
        And still she numbered William ’mongst the slain,
        And every cannon with terrific boom
        That maid so bold before made shake amain,
        As were his breast the target. Rolled the drum;
      “We meet to-morrow.” Ah, that morrow ne’er may come!

VII.

        Dire was the chill that fell on Blanca’s soul,
        And oft she sighed for Isidora’s ear,
        To pour her woes and hear those lips console--
        Her foster-sister more than sister dear!
        But Isidora’s lot was e’en more drear,
        For none might dare from San Sebastian pass;
        And shivering from each cannon’s shock with fear,
        She longed by Blanca’s side--’twas vain, alas!
      To pluck the summer-flowers, and brush the dewy grass,

VIII.

        Dark fell the night like thickest, deadliest pall
        On Blanca’s bosom fluttering nigh to swoon;
        But while she drained her bitterest cup of gall,
        O’er fair Biscaya’s bay arose the Moon
        In wondrous beauty, and dispelled full soon
        Her gloom by enchantment. So serenely bright,
        It seemed as ’twere from Heaven a special boon,
        And Blanche with tears invoked the Virgin’s might,
      And deemed she saw her form within that orb of light!

IX.

        A cherry-coloured riband from her head,
        Which used to bind and float beneath her hair,
        With trembling hand she loosed, and o’er it spread
        A golden curl of William’s, tied it there
        In fashion of a cross, and with this prayer
        Consigned it to her bosom: “Empress-Queen
        “Of Heaven, Immaculate Virgin! Spare, oh, spare
        “His life. _Mi Madre_, on Isaro’s green
      “Thy shrine shall have a crown as fair as e’er was seen.”

X.

        At length the foeman’s guns are nearly mute,
        The hour doth come for the terrific shock.
        Where thou hast sown, Britannia, pluck the fruit;
        Sebastian hoary, tremble on thy rock!
        With false assault the gallant Rey to mock,
        And haply make the veteran spring his mines
        (Oh, perilous emprize, where Death will lock
        With icy arms the form that fairest shines)
      Leap forth a dauntless score of warriors from the lines.

XI.

        Oh England! great thy glory, great the love
        Thy children bear thee, when to certain death,
        Or death nigh certain, dauntlessly they move,
        Condensed in shouts for thee their parting breath!
        ’Tis not one Curce or Ion gloryeth
        Thy history to record, one Mutius fierce,
        One Regulus self-devoted. Hundreds hath
        Each fleet and army, prompt for thee to pierce
      Their panting breasts, and choose for bridal bed a hearse!

XII.

        Young Nial forward flies with impulse dire--
        Of these heroic warriors he the head;
        They gain the breach--they mount--they shout--they fire,
        Their shouts are drowned in showers of answering lead;
        But still unsprung the mines, nor terror fed
        A valour calm as sleeps the Ocean near.
        Vain is the assault, and stretched full soon lie dead
        All who so late upraised that gallant cheer--
      All save their leader bold who stalks the trenches near.

XIII.

        The hour is come! Breaks heavily the morn
        From densest misty shroud. Great Arthur calls
        For nigh a thousand hearts that danger scorn
        To rush like Ocean-surge against the walls,
        And swarm where thickest fly the deadly balls:
        “Men who can show what ’tis to mount a breach.”
        That voice inspires with valour where it falls;
        A thousand men leap forward--heroes each--
      With arms to pluck the prize where Romans dare not reach!

XIV.

        And winnowed must be Valour’s chosen grain,
        Where headlong to a shroud or victory borne,
        All brave alike the peril proud disdain,
        Yet culled the chosen for a Hope Forlorn!
        Mark the doomed band whose plumes seem loftier worn,
        Whose cheeks more red for courted wounds and death.
        Oh, many a mother’s breast shall soon be torn,
        And widowed spouse and sister gasp for breath,
      Nigh perishing for them whose requiem Glory saith!

XV.

        Hark to the muffled tread, where stealing slow
        Adown the trenches musters their array,
        While rank on rank in many a bristling row
        Is gathering stern as dimly grows the day,
        Nor from yon level sun a beam can stray!
        The army’s hum, the awakening city’s din,
        The dusky masses gilded by no ray,
        But dim with curling vapours, ere begin
      The cannon’s roar, make each more doubtful who shall win.

XVI.

        A moment now the bravest pause in awe,
        ’Twixt life and death. Next moment--direful clash!
        Opens in thunder every dragon-maw
        Of fierce artillery with its lightning-flash.
        As cleaves Heaven’s thunderbolt the mountain ash,
        So hurled in ruins is the battlement.
        While Furies with that scourge its granite lash,
        Not adamant, I ween, were long unbent,
      And wider grows the breach and easier of ascent.

XVII.

        Within the trenches many an eager eye
        With fevered gaze doth watch the sinking tide,
        Whose ebb will give to conquer or to die--
        Oh, cruel use of Man’s unerring guide,
        Which Nature’s hand hath stretched so fair and wide,
        The throbbing pulse of Ocean! Father Time
        Seems heavily on leaden wing to ride,
        And hours seem days, and hour-like minutes climb
      I’ the anxious nervous pause of that suspense sublime.

XVIII.

        And words are few and brief. It seemeth waste
        Of breath in idle converse to dilate,
        When hundreds momently to Judgment haste;--
        And sight usurps all functions! Mouths of Fate
        Prophetic line the wall, where batteries wait
        The onset, slowly turned the breach to flank,
        And bayonets bristle ’neath the parapet,
        _For them_ prepared! The heart’s of interest blank,
      That hath not waited thus in Battle’s foremost rank.

XIX.

        The hour is come! The signal, “On, men, on!”
        Sends from the trenches hundreds tow’rds the town.
        Like greyhounds straining on the slips, they are gone,
        While grape and shell in showers come pouring down,
        To where the grisly bastion-breach doth frown.
        Away, away, o’er slippery tidal shore,
        O’er seaweed dank and shell-incrusted stone.
        None stoops to pick, though strewn the seabeach o’er,
      Save those whom other shells make stoop to rise no more!

XX.

        Loud, louder still the batteries poured their fire,
        And softer rippled wavelets o’er the strand.
        ’Twixt Man and Nature, oh, what contrast dire!
        The clattering death-tubes scarce a zephyr fanned.
        Is Ocean awed to silence by the land,
        Or is’t amazed at human hate and rage?
        The eye ferocious, and the red right hand
        That writes its name renowned in History’s page?
      Nature, I ween, is shocked, and beasts themselves more sage!

XXI.

        Ah better far on Albion’s soil to tread
        The verdurous meadow or the breezy hill,
        For peaceful toil or sportful wandering spread,
        In pastoral loveliness unrivalled still;
        Where blend sweet lane and slope with murmuring rill,
        Hedgerow, and vocal grove, and village green,
        And gardens fair and homesteads bright which fill
        True household gods and beauty,--there, I ween,
      Alone ’neath tempering clouds in full perfection seen.

XXII.

        Ah, better ’twere beneath this radiant sky,
        This sparkling sunlight shimmering o’er the plain,
        To give to tender thoughts the melting eye,
        And yield the heart to Love’s delicious pain.
        The genius bland, the balmy air of Spain,
        More fit the lute than dire artillery’s roar.
        Ah, better far to sing such sweet refrain
        Some dark-eyed Andaluzan’s bower before,
      As thus might ease the shaft that quivers in the core:--

La Sebillana

1.

      My Enriqueta’s eyelids
        Are as soft as dews that fall
      From the moonlit jasper fountain
        In Alhambra’s silent hall.
      No star that, through its casement,
        At the midnight hour you spy,
                  Hath the light,
                  Streaming bright,
        Of my Enriqueta’s eye!

2.

      It hath the Southern darkness,
        And the Southern depth as well;
      Touches, too, of Moorish wildness
        In its rapid glances dwell.
      ’Tis broad-cut like an almond,
        With a long and silken lash;
                  When her mind
                  Is to be kind,
        How she veils its lightning flash!

3.

      Her step is light and buoyant,
        As if borne upon the air;
      Short and danceful are her movements,
        Like a pheasant’s young and fair.
      Stately-paced _piafadora_,[C]
        Waving gently to and fro,
                  Do I hear
                  No music near,
        While so gracefully you go?

4.

      Her head she carries finely,
        And her bearing’s wondrous proud,
      And her voice, like silver lute strings,
        Thrills the heart--but never loud!
      ’Tis a voice the brain to wilder;
        Oh, I glory to be near,
                  As she strolls,
                  Witching souls,
        By the blue Guadalquivír!

XXIII.

        The hour is come! The stream of valour doomed
        Pours through the openings of the huge seawall.
        Death reaps even now his harvest. Deep entombed
        I’ the earth full twoscore men like raindrops fall,
        By premature mine that else had swallowed all!
        Unchecked the rush of that tremendous crowd,
        And far beyond the Hope Forlorn appal
        The bristling ramparts, as with daring proud
      They fly to the horrid breach,--tho’ Hell should yawn, uncowed!

XXIV.

        Who leads the van? Green Erin’s son, Mac Iar,
        Fleet as the roebuck on his native hills;
        Dauntless as Brian’s sword, through showering fire,
        He boundeth o’er the seabeach rocks and rills,
        Impetuous. How his manly figure fills
        The eyes of thousands! How his dancing plume
        Of streaming snow enchains his followers’ wills,
        Doubling their speed, while copes i’ the front with doom
      That gallant form that seems defiant of the tomb!

XXV.

        Alcides’ arm--the eye that Python slew,
        The limbs and shoulder of the Delian God!
        Now ’neath the breach that form triumphant view,
        Now see it stretched supine upon the sod!
        Ay, instant struck, as strikes Heaven’s fire the rod
        That points from loftiest pinnacle. No dirge
        Shall wail that fall, no cypress o’er it nod.
        ’Tis War’s repast! Their course the stormers urge,
      And o’er the Hero’s corse go sweeping like a surge!

XXVI.

        And Morton now, and Nial by his side,
        In peril’s front the impetuous stormers lead;
        Nor less their beauty nor their valour’s pride
        Than his whose doom was first that day to bleed.
        In generous rivalry, like mettled steed,
        They strain to win the breach, their grisly goal.
        Their flashing swords, athirst for Glory’s meed,
        Their tossing plumes, the advancing crowd controul,--
      And daring like to their’s inspires each warrior soul.

XXVII.

        On, on they rush, their line with dead bestrewing,
        While Mont ’Orgullo and Santelmo pour
        Both shot and shell, the living brave renewing
        The venturous rank where heroes fall before.
        Up, up the breach they climb, swift mounting o’er
        Bastion and parapet in fragments hurled--
        Titanic ruins strewn along the shore--
        While nearer now the culverin smoke is curled,
      And deadly grapeshot paves the path to a new world.

XXVIII.

        From every quarter sweeps an iron shower--
        Cannon and musketry in front and rear--
        From nearest horn and distant fort and tower,
        From rampart, bastion, curtain, cavalier.
        Up, up the breach they climb and laugh at fear!
        The summit’s gained--it seems the verge of Hell--
        A gulf impassable! Live thunder near
        Leaps forth from guns whose momentary knell
      Rings for the brave who fall where late they stood so well.

XXIX.

        Still swarms the fiery brink. Who now will dare
        Leap the dire chasm--who like Empedocles
        Will plunge into the Ætna flaming there,
        And be esteemed a God? Who to appease
        Hesperia’s manes, like the youth who sees
        The barathrum profound i’ the Forum yawn,
        Spurs his strong courser, is engulfed, and frees
        Great Rome--who now, by patriot impulse drawn,
      Will sound that fell abyss, and haste fair Freedom’s dawn?

XXX.

        Oh frightful precipice! Full many an eye
        Glares on its horrid depth and back recoils.
        Madly to plunge were hopelessly to die,
        Or torn and shattered fall into the toils.
        Even lingering here is death! As rankest soils
        Are strown with richest growths, the valiant strew
        That gory Scylla’s crest. Charybdis boils
        With vortex under. What may heroes do?
      Advance? In vain. Recede? No, Britons’ hearts be true!

XXXI.

        Up climbs a multitude of strenuous men,
        Who thick as forest-leaves autumnal fall,
        So keen for entrance to the lion’s den,
        Not death at every footstep can appal!
        Sore doth that storm of fire their valour gall,
        And slowly with reluctant pride they sink,
        Till stubborn planted on the lower wall
        They stand beneath the fiery torrent’s brink,
      While ever and anon their chain doth lose a link.

XXXII.

        Thrice to the deadly summit of the breach
        Did Morton rush, and thrice was backward borne,
        Like mariner that, dashed on stormy beach,
        Swayed by the surge against the cliffs is torn.
        But nought could drown unconquerable scorn
        Of death in that young hero. Up once more
        He rushed to the crest, and fell. Young Blanca, mourn!
        Thy lover’s heart is pierced, he totters o’er,
      And falls ’mid heaps of slain--his dirge the artillery’s roar:--

The Rally.

1.

      As a torrent that bounds
        From its mountainous dwelling
      Obstruction but chafes
        Into foamier swelling;
      As snorts the wild bull
        Whom the banderils pierce,
      So the death-scattered breach
        Makes the phalanx more fierce!

2.

      Each shower that is cast
        From the foemen’s fell cannon
      But makes the assault
        To lift prouder its pennon.
      Each shaft from the walls
        Gives to Valour new wings;
      O’er each hero that falls
        See, a new hero springs!

3.

      There is that to be done
        At which nations shall wonder;
      The scarp shall be our’s,
        Although tenfold its thunder;
      In spite of wide Earth,
        And in spite of deep Hell.
      Where a Briton resolved,
        Could a Gaul ever quell?

4.

      Come, cannon and musquet,
        Rain grapeshot and mortar!
      We laugh at the rattling,
        We ask for no quarter.
      By the breach shall we climb
        To yon turret-clad town,
      And the tricolor tear
        From the cavalier down!

5.

      On the death-dealing fort
        Shall we plant our proud standard.