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(1) As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterised superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated them. That they are since improved, at least in courago, is before his predecessors.--1812. evident. The late exploits of Lord Wellington have etraced (2) Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius the follies of Cintra. He has indeed done wonders ; he has preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asperhaps changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival turias.



When granite moulders and when records fail, The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine Are met-as if at home they could not die-

To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile preserve thee great ?

Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong ?

There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools !

Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their XXXVII.

clay ! Awake, ye song of Spain ! awake! advance !

Vain sophistry ! in these behold the tools, Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess eries,

The broken tools, that tyrants cast away But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, By myriads, when they dare to pave their way Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : With human hearts-to what ?-a dream alone. Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? And speaks in thunder through yon engine's Or call with truth one span of earth their own, roar!

Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by In every peal she calls—"Awake! arise !"

bone ?
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's
slore ?

O Albuera, glorious field of grief!
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed,

Who could foresee thee in a space so brief,
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful

A scene where mingling foes should boast and note!

bleed. Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath! Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;

Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's meed

And tears of triumph their reward belong ! Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath

Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ?-the fires of death,

Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, The bale-fires flash on high :—from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe: And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transcient

Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play

Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame :
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, Fame tbat will scarce reanimate their clay,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,

Though thousands fall to deck some single name. With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble ain And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ;

Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's Restless it rolls, now fix’d, and now anon

good, Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet

And die, that living inight have proved her Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are

shame; done ;

Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, For on this morn three potent nations meet, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path purTo shed before his shrine the blood he deems most

sued. sweet.



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Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds;

At every turn Morena's dusky height Here Folly still his votaries enthralls,

Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; And young-eyed Lewdness walks ber midnight And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, rounds :

The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, Girt with the silent crimes of capitals,

The bristling palisade, the fosse o’erflowed, Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, walls.

The magazine in rocky durance stow'd,

The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch,

The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate He lurks, nor cast his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,

Portend the deeds to come :--but he whose nod Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.

Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; Fandango twirls his jocund castanet :

A little moment deigneth to delay : Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,

Soon will his legions sweep through these their Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;

way; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be The West must own the Scourger of the world. happy yet.

Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day,
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings un-

furld, How carolsnow the lusty muleteer ?

And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,

hurl'd. As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? No! as he speeds, he chants Viva el Rey!'' And must they fall-the young, the proud, the And checks his song to execrate Godoy,

braveThe royal wittol arles, and curse the day To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign? When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed No step between submission and a grave ? boy,

The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? And gore-faced Treason sprang from her adulterate And doth the power that man adores ordain joy.

Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ?
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain ?

And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,
On yon long level plain, at distance crown'd The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,

heart of steel? Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded

ground; And scathed by fire, the greensward's darken’d Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, vest

Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest :

And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? host,

And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Here the brave peasant storm'd the dragon's Appallid, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread,

Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar, Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake lost.

to tread.





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And whomsoe'er along the path you meet

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 2 Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black greet:

veil, Woe to the man that walks in public view Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower, Without of loyalty this token true:

Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; Her fairy form, with more than female grace, And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue,

Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's

tower If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful smoke.


(1) “Viva el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdinand ! on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They of the Spanish guards ; till his person attracted the queen's are chiefly in dispraise of the old King Charles, the Queen, cycs, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, etc., etc. lt and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of them : some is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of the airs are beautiful. Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de of their country. la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, was born at Badajoz, (2) The red cockade, with "Fernando VII." in the centre.

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Her lover sinks—she sheds no ill-timed tear; Ost have I dream'd of thee! whose glorious
Her chief is slain—she fills bis fatal post;
Her fellows flee—she checks their base career; Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore :
The foe retires—she heads the sallying host : And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ?

That I in feeblest accents must adore.
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ?

When I recount thy worshippers of yore What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; lost ?

Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,

But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall P1 In silent joy to think at last I look on thee !

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

Of thee hereafter.-Even amidst my strain
touch : 2

I turn'd aside to pay my bomage here; Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Bid man be valiant ere he njerit such:

Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear; Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much

And bail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. Hath Phæbus woo'd in vain to spoil ber cheek,

Now to my theme—but from thy holy haunt Which glows yet smoother from his amorous Let me some reinnant, some memorial bear; clutch!

Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Who round the North for paler dames would Nor let thy votary's hope be deem’d an idle vaunt.

seek? How poor their forms appear! low languid, wan, and weak !

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount, when Greece

was young, Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud; See round thy giant base a brigliter choir ; Match me, ye harems of the land! where now Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung I strike my strain, far distant, to appland

The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Beauties that even a cynic must avow !

Behold a train more fitting to inspire Match me those bouris, whom ye scarce allow The


of love than Andalusia's maids, To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : With Spain's dark-glancing daughters---deign to Ah! that to these were given such peaceful know,

shades There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.






Oh thou, Parnassus, whom I now survey,
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty !
What marvel if I thus essay to sing

The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by

Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one muse will

wave her wing

Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast
Her strength, her wealth, ber site of ancient

But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.
Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways !
While boyish blood is niantling, who can ’scape
The fascination of thy magic gaze ?

A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.

(1) Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of the her valour elevated herself to the highest rank of heroines. Junta. When the author was at Seville, she walked daily on the (2) "Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo

Vestigio deinonstrant mollitudinem." -- AUL. GUL.






Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free When Paphos fell by time—accursed Time ! (Well do I ween the only virgin there) The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee- From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be. The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: And Venus, constant to her native sea,

Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion To nought else constant, hither deign’d to flee,

And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white;
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she
Her worship, but devoted to her rite,

The lists are ope’d, the spacious area clear'd, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.

Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,

Ne vacant space for lated wight is found :
From morn till night, from night till startled

Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,

Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew,

Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; The song is heard, the rosy garland worn;

None through their cold disdain are doom'd to Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,

die, Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu

As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad He bids to sober joy that here sojourns :

archery. Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu

Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by Hush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant steeds, turns.

With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light

poised lance, LXVIII.

Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest;

And lowly bending to the lists advance;

Rich are their scarfs, their chargers seatly prance: What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast :

If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,

The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely glance, Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar ? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore

Best prize of better acts, they bear away, Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn :

And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more;

repay. Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,

Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects to

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd,
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade

The lord of lowing herds ; but not before
The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man.

The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er London! right well thou know'st the day of

Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart bis prayer :

speed Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan,

His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air :

Can man achieve without the friendly steed-
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, Alas! too oft condemn’d for him to bear and bleed.
And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs

To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair ;
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo! the signal falls, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.

The den expands, and Expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.

Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,

And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon’d fair, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : Others along the safer turnpike fly;

Here, there, he points his threatening front, to Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware,

suit And many to the steep of Highgate hie.

His first attack, wide waving to and fro Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why? His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow. 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery,

LXXVI. In whose dread naine both men and maids are Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd: away, sworn,

Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear ; And consecrate the oath with draught and dance Now is thy time to perish, or display till morn.

The skill that yet may check his mad career.

With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; LXXI.

On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; All have their fooleries ; not alike are thine, Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea !

He fies, he wheels, distracted with his throes : Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellowings Thy saint adorers count the rosary :

speak his woes.



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