“The Vision of Don Roderick; a Poem, by Walter Scott, Esq.,” was printed at Edinburgh by James Ballantyne & Co. in 1811.  They are the present representatives of that firm by whom it is here reprinted.  It was originally inscribed “to John Whitmore, Esq., and to the Committee of Subscribers for relief of the Portuguese Sufferers, in which he presides,” as a “poem composed for the benefit of the Fund under their management.”

The Legend of Don Roderick will be given in the next volume of our “Companion Poets,” for Robert Southey founded upon it a Romantic Tale in Verse, which is one of the best tales of the kind in the English language.  Southey’s tale of Roderick himself was written at the same time when Walter Savage Landor was writing a play upon the subject, and Scott was, in the piece here reprinted, making it the starting-point of a vision of the war in the Peninsula.  The fatal palace of Don Roderick may have been a fable connected with the ruins of a Roman amphitheatre.  The fable, as translated by Scott from a Spanish History of King Roderick, was this:—

Scott’s poem on the Field of Waterloo was written to assist the Waterloo subscription.

H. M.

PREFACE.

Edinburgh, June 24, 1811.

I.

   Lives there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire
      May rise distinguished o’er the din of war;
   Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre
      Who sung beleaguered Ilion’s evil star?
   Such, Wellington, might reach thee from afar,
      Wafting its descant wide o’er Ocean’s range;
   Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood could mar,
      All, as it swelled ’twixt each loud trumpet-change,
That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!

II.

   Yes! such a strain, with all o’er-pouring measure,
      Might melodise with each tumultuous sound
   Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure,
      That rings Mondego’s ravaged shores around;
   The thundering cry of hosts with conquest crowned,
      The female shriek, the ruined peasant’s moan,
   The shout of captives from their chains unbound,
      The foiled oppressor’s deep and sullen groan,
A Nation’s choral hymn, for tyranny o’erthrown.

   But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day
      Skilled but to imitate an elder page,
   Timid and raptureless, can we repay
      The debt thou claim’st in this exhausted age?
   Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage
      Those that could send thy name o’er sea and land,
   While sea and land shall last; for Homer’s rage
      A theme; a theme for Milton’s mighty hand—
How much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band!

IV.

   Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast
      The friends of Scottish freedom found repose;
   Ye torrents! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest,
      Returning from the field of vanquished foes;
   Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close
      That erst the choir of Bards or Druids flung,
   What time their hymn of victory arose,
      And Cattraeth’s glens with voice of triumph rung,
And mystic Merlin harped, and grey-haired Llywarch sung?

V.

   Oh! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain,
      As sure your changeful gales seem oft to say,
   When sweeping wild and sinking soft again,
      Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp’s wild sway;
   If ye can echo such triumphant lay,
      Then lend the note to him has loved you long!
   Who pious gathered each tradition grey
      That floats your solitary wastes along,
And with affection vain gave them new voice in song.

   For not till now, how oft soe’er the task
      Of truant verse hath lightened graver care,
   From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask,
      In phrase poetic, inspiration fair;
   Careless he gave his numbers to the air,
      They came unsought for, if applauses came:
   Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer;
      Let but his verse befit a hero’s fame,
Immortal be the verse!—forgot the poet’s name!

VII.

   Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer tost:
      “Minstrel! the fame of whose romantic lyre,
   Capricious-swelling now, may soon be lost,
      Like the light flickering of a cottage fire;
   If to such task presumptuous thou aspire,
      Seek not from us the meed to warrior due:
   Age after age has gathered son to sire
      Since our grey cliffs the din of conflict knew,
Or, pealing through our vales, victorious bugles blew.

VIII.

   “Decayed our old traditionary lore,
      Save where the lingering fays renew their ring,
   By milkmaid seen beneath the hawthorn hoar,
      Or round the marge of Minchmore’s haunted spring;
   Save where their legends grey-haired shepherds sing,
      That now scarce win a listening ear but thine,
   Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging,
      And rugged deeds recount in rugged line,
Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, or Tyne.

   “No! search romantic lands, where the near Sun
      Gives with unstinted boon ethereal flame,
   Where the rude villager, his labour done,
      In verse spontaneous chants some favoured name,
   Whether Olalia’s charms his tribute claim,
      Her eye of diamond, and her locks of jet;
   Or whether, kindling at the deeds of Græme,
      He sing, to wild Morisco measure set,
Old Albin’s red claymore, green Erin’s bayonet!

X.

   “Explore those regions, where the flinty crest
      Of wild Nevada ever gleams with snows,
   Where in the proud Alhambra’s ruined breast
      Barbaric monuments of pomp repose;
   Or where the banners of more ruthless foes
      Than the fierce Moor, float o’er Toledo’s fane,
   From whose tall towers even now the patriot throws
      An anxious glance, to spy upon the plain
The blended ranks of England, Portugal, and Spain.

XI.

   “There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark
      Still lightens in the sunburnt native’s eye;
   The stately port, slow step, and visage dark,
      Still mark enduring pride and constancy.
   And, if the glow of feudal chivalry
      Beam not, as once, thy nobles’ dearest pride,
   Iberia! oft thy crestless peasantry
      Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit their side,
Have seen, yet dauntless stood—’gainst fortune fought and died.

   “And cherished still by that unchanging race,
      Are themes for minstrelsy more high than thine;
   Of strange tradition many a mystic trace,
      Legend and vision, prophecy and sign;
   Where wonders wild of Arabesque combine
      With Gothic imagery of darker shade,
   Forming a model meet for minstrel line.
      Go, seek such theme!”—the Mountain Spirit said.
With filial awe I heard—I heard, and I obeyed.

I.

   Rearing their crests amid the cloudless skies,
      And darkly clustering in the pale moonlight,
   Toledo’s holy towers and spires arise,
      As from a trembling lake of silver white.
   Their mingled shadows intercept the sight
      Of the broad burial-ground outstretched below,
   And nought disturbs the silence of the night;
      All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver glow,
All save the heavy swell of Teio’s ceaseless flow.

II.

   All save the rushing swell of Teio’s tide,
      Or, distant heard, a courser’s neigh or tramp;
   Their changing rounds as watchful horsemen ride,
      To guard the limits of King Roderick’s camp.
   For through the river’s night-fog rolling damp
      Was many a proud pavilion dimly seen,
   Which glimmered back, against the moon’s fair lamp,
      Tissues of silk and silver twisted sheen,
And standards proudly pitched, and warders armed between.

III.

IV.

   In the light language of an idle court,
      They murmured at their master’s long delay,
   And held his lengthened orisons in sport:—
      “What! will Don Roderick here till morning stay,
   To wear in shrift and prayer the night away?
      And are his hours in such dull penance past,
   For fair Florinda’s plundered charms to pay?”
      Then to the east their weary eyes they cast,
And wished the lingering dawn would glimmer forth at last.

V.

   But, far within, Toledo’s Prelate lent
      An ear of fearful wonder to the King;
   The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent,
      So long that sad confession witnessing:
   For Roderick told of many a hidden thing,
      Such as are lothly uttered to the air,
   When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the bosom wring,
      And Guilt his secret burden cannot bear,
And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair.

VI.

VII.

   The old man’s faded cheek waxed yet more pale,
      As many a secret sad the King bewrayed;
   As sign and glance eked out the unfinished tale,
      When in the midst his faltering whisper stayed.
   “Thus royal Witiza was slain,”—he said;
      “Yet, holy Father, deem not it was I.”
   Thus still Ambition strives her crimes to shade.—
      “Oh, rather deem ’twas stern necessity!
Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or die.

VIII.

   “And if Florinda’s shrieks alarmed the air,
      If she invoked her absent sire in vain,
   And on her knees implored that I would spare,
      Yet, reverend Priest, thy sentence rash refrain!
   All is not as it seems—the female train
      Know by their bearing to disguise their mood:”
   But Conscience here, as if in high disdain,
      Sent to the Monarch’s cheek the burning blood—
He stayed his speech abrupt—and up the Prelate stood.

IX.

X.

   Then kindled the dark tyrant in his mood,
      And to his brow returned its dauntless gloom;
   “And welcome then,” he cried, “be blood for blood,
      For treason treachery, for dishonour doom!
   Yet will I know whence come they, or by whom.
      Show, for thou canst—give forth the fated key,
   And guide me, Priest, to that mysterious room,
      Where, if aught true in old tradition be,
His nation’s future fates a Spanish King shall see.”

XI.

   “Ill-fated Prince! recall the desperate word,
      Or pause ere yet the omen thou obey!
   Bethink, yon spell-bound portal would afford
      Never to former Monarch entrance-way;
   Nor shall it ever ope, old records say,
      Save to a King, the last of all his line,
   What time his empire totters to decay,
      And treason digs, beneath, her fatal mine,
And, high above, impends avenging wrath divine.”—

XII.

XIII.

   Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted hall;
      Roof, walls, and floor were all of marble stone,
   Of polished marble, black as funeral pall,
      Carved o’er with signs and characters unknown.
   A paly light, as of the dawning, shone
      Through the sad bounds, but whence they could not spy;
   For window to the upper air was none;
      Yet, by that light, Don Roderick could descry
Wonders that ne’er till then were seen by mortal eye.

XIV.

   Grim sentinels, against the upper wall,
      Of molten bronze, two Statues held their place;
   Massive their naked limbs, their stature tall,
      Their frowning foreheads golden circles grace.
   Moulded they seemed for kings of giant race,
      That lived and sinned before the avenging flood;
   This grasped a scythe, that rested on a mace;
      This spread his wings for flight, that pondering stood,
Each stubborn seemed and stern, immutable of mood.

XV.

XVI.

   Even while they read, the sand-glass wastes away;
      And, as the last and lagging grains did creep,
   That right-hand Giant ’gan his club upsway,
      As one that startles from a heavy sleep.
   Full on the upper wall the mace’s sweep
      At once descended with the force of thunder,
   And hurtling down at once, in crumbled heap,
      The marble boundary was rent asunder,
And gave to Roderick’s view new sights of fear and wonder.

XVII.

   For they might spy, beyond that mighty breach,
      Realms as of Spain in visioned prospect laid,
   Castles and towers, in due proportion each,
      As by some skilful artist’s hand portrayed:
   Here, crossed by many a wild Sierra’s shade,
      And boundless plains that tire the traveller’s eye;
   There, rich with vineyard and with olive glade,
      Or deep-embrowned by forests huge and high,
Or washed by mighty streams, that slowly murmured by.

XVIII.

XIX.

   First shrilled an unrepeated female shriek!—
      It seemed as if Don Roderick knew the call,
   For the bold blood was blanching in his cheek.—
      Then answered kettle-drum and attabal,
   Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear appal,
      The Tecbir war-cry, and the Lelie’s yell,
   Ring wildly dissonant along the hall.
      Needs not to Roderick their dread import tell—
“The Moor!” he cried, “the Moor!—ring out the Tocsin bell!

XX.

   “They come! they come!  I see the groaning lands
      White with the turbans of each Arab horde;
   Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving bands,
      Alla and Mahomet their battle-word,
   The choice they yield, the Koran or the Sword—
      See how the Christians rush to arms amain!—
   In yonder shout the voice of conflict roared,
      The shadowy hosts are closing on the plain—
Now, God and Saint Iago strike, for the good cause of Spain!

XXI.

XXII.

   Just then, a torrent crossed the flier’s course;
      The dangerous ford the Kingly Likeness tried;
   But the deep eddies whelmed both man and horse,
      Swept like benighted peasant down the tide;
   And the proud Moslemah spread far and wide,
      As numerous as their native locust band;
   Berber and Ismael’s sons the spoils divide,
      With naked scimitars mete out the land,
And for the bondsmen base the free-born natives brand.

XXIII.

   Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose
      The loveliest maidens of the Christian line;
   Then, menials, to their misbelieving foes,
      Castile’s young nobles held forbidden wine;
   Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation’s sign,
      By impious hands was from the altar thrown,
   And the deep aisles of the polluted shrine
      Echoed, for holy hymn and organ-tone,
The Santon’s frantic dance, the Fakir’s gibbering moan.

XXIV.

XXV.

   That scythe-armed Giant turned his fatal glass
      And twilight on the landscape closed her wings;
   Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds pass,
      And in their stead rebeck or timbrel rings;
   And to the sound the bell-decked dancer springs,
      Bazars resound as when their marts are met,
   In tourney light the Moor his jerrid flings,
      And on the land as evening seemed to set,
The Imaum’s chant was heard from mosque or minaret.

XXVI.

   So passed that pageant.  Ere another came,
      The visionary scene was wrapped in smoke
   Whose sulph’rous wreaths were crossed by sheets of flame;
      With every flash a bolt explosive broke,
   Till Roderick deemed the fiends had burst their yoke,
      And waved ’gainst heaven the infernal gonfalone!
   For War a new and dreadful language spoke,
      Never by ancient warrior heard or known;
Lightning and smoke her breath, and thunder was her tone.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

   Valour was harnessed like a chief of old,
      Armed at all points, and prompt for knightly gest;
   His sword was tempered in the Ebro cold,
      Morena’s eagle plume adorned his crest,
   The spoils of Afric’s lion bound his breast.
      Fierce he stepped forward and flung down his gage;
   As if of mortal kind to brave the best.
      Him followed his Companion, dark and sage,
As he, my Master, sung the dangerous Archimage.

XXIX.

   Haughty of heart and brow the Warrior came,
      In look and language proud as proud might be,
   Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights, and fame:
      Yet was that barefoot Monk more proud than he:
   And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree,
      So round the loftiest soul his toils he wound,
   And with his spells subdued the fierce and free,
      Till ermined Age and Youth in arms renowned,
Honouring his scourge and haircloth, meekly kissed the ground.

XXX.

XXXI.

   Oft his proud galleys sought some new-found world,
      That latest sees the sun, or first the morn;
   Still at that Wizard’s feet their spoils he hurled,—
      Ingots of ore from rich Potosi borne,
   Crowns by Caciques, aigrettes by Omrahs worn,
      Wrought of rare gems, but broken, rent, and foul;
   Idols of gold from heathen temples torn,
      Bedabbled all with blood.—With grisly scowl
The Hermit marked the stains, and smiled beneath his cowl.

XXXII.

   Then did he bless the offering, and bade make
      Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and praise;
   And at his word the choral hymns awake,
      And many a hand the silver censer sways,
   But with the incense-breath these censers raise,
      Mix steams from corpses smouldering in the fire;
   The groans of prisoned victims mar the lays,
      And shrieks of agony confound the quire;
While, ’mid the mingled sounds, the darkened scenes expire.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

   And well such strains the opening scene became;
      For Valour had relaxed his ardent look,
   And at a lady’s feet, like lion tame,
      Lay stretched, full loath the weight of arms to brook;
   And softened Bigotry, upon his book,
      Pattered a task of little good or ill:
   But the blithe peasant plied his pruning-hook,
      Whistled the muleteer o’er vale and hill,
And rung from village-green the merry seguidille.

XXXV.

   Grey Royalty, grown impotent of toil,
      Let the grave sceptre slip his lazy hold;
   And, careless, saw his rule become the spoil
      Of a loose Female and her minion bold.
   But peace was on the cottage and the fold,
      From Court intrigue, from bickering faction far;
   Beneath the chestnut-tree Love’s tale was told,
      And to the tinkling of the light guitar,
Sweet stooped the western sun, sweet rose the evening star.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

   Even so, upon that peaceful scene was poured,
      Like gathering clouds, full many a foreign band,
   And He, their Leader, wore in sheath his sword,
      And offered peaceful front and open hand,
   Veiling the perjured treachery he planned,
      By friendship’s zeal and honour’s specious guise,
   Until he won the passes of the land;
      Then burst were honour’s oath and friendship’s ties!
He clutched his vulture grasp, and called fair Spain his prize.

XXXVIII.

   An iron crown his anxious forehead bore;
      And well such diadem his heart became,
   Who ne’er his purpose for remorse gave o’er,
      Or checked his course for piety or shame;
   Who, trained a soldier, deemed a soldier’s fame
      Might flourish in the wreath of battles won,
   Though neither truth nor honour decked his name;
      Who, placed by fortune on a Monarch’s throne,
Recked not of Monarch’s faith, or Mercy’s kingly tone.

XXXIX.

XL.

   Before that Leader strode a shadowy Form;
      Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor showed,
   With which she beckoned him through fight and storm,
      And all he crushed that crossed his desperate road,
   Nor thought, nor feared, nor looked on what he trode.
      Realms could not glut his pride, blood could not slake,
   So oft as e’er she shook her torch abroad—
      It was Ambition bade her terrors wake,
Nor deigned she, as of yore, a milder form to take.

XLI.

   No longer now she spurned at mean revenge,
      Or stayed her hand for conquered foeman’s moan;
   As when, the fates of aged Rome to change,
      By Cæsar’s side she crossed the Rubicon.
   Nor joyed she to bestow the spoils she won,
      As when the banded powers of Greece were tasked
   To war beneath the Youth of Macedon:
      No seemly veil her modern minion asked,
He saw her hideous face, and loved the fiend unmasked.

   That Prelate marked his march—On banners blazed
      With battles won in many a distant land,
   On eagle-standards and on arms he gazed;
      “And hopest thou, then,” he said, “thy power shall stand?
   Oh! thou hast builded on the shifting sand,
      And thou hast tempered it with slaughter’s flood;
   And know, fell scourge in the Almighty’s hand,
      Gore-moistened trees shall perish in the bud,
And by a bloody death shall die the Man of Blood!”

XLIII.

   The ruthless Leader beckoned from his train
      A wan fraternal Shade, and bade him kneel,
   And paled his temples with the crown of Spain,
      While trumpets rang, and heralds cried “Castile!”
   Not that he loved him—No!—In no man’s weal,
      Scarce in his own, e’er joyed that sullen heart;
   Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel,
      That the poor puppet might perform his part,
And be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck to start.

XLIV.

   But on the Natives of that Land misused,
      Not long the silence of amazement hung,
   Nor brooked they long their friendly faith abused;
      For, with a common shriek, the general tongue
   Exclaimed, “To arms!”—and fast to arms they sprung.
      And Valour woke, that Genius of the Land!
   Pleasure, and ease, and sloth aside he flung,
      As burst the awakening Nazarite his band,
When ’gainst his treacherous foes he clenched his dreadful hand.

   That Mimic Monarch now cast anxious eye
      Upon the Satraps that begirt him round,
   Now doffed his royal robe in act to fly,
      And from his brow the diadem unbound.
   So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound,
      From Tarik’s walls to Bilboa’s mountains blown,
   These martial satellites hard labour found
      To guard awhile his substituted throne—
Light recking of his cause, but battling for their own.

XLVI.

   From Alpuhara’s peak that bugle rung,
      And it was echoed from Corunna’s wall;
   Stately Seville responsive war-shot flung,
      Grenada caught it in her Moorish hall;
   Galicia bade her children fight or fall,
      Wild Biscay shook his mountain-coronet,
   Valencia roused her at the battle-call,
      And, foremost still where Valour’s sons are met,
First started to his gun each fiery Miquelet.

XLVII.

   But unappalled, and burning for the fight,
      The Invaders march, of victory secure;
   Skilful their force to sever or unite,
      And trained alike to vanquish or endure.
   Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to ensure,
      Discord to breathe, and jealousy to sow,
   To quell by boasting, and by bribes to lure;
      While nought against them bring the unpractised foe,
Save hearts for Freedom’s cause, and hands for Freedom’s blow.

   Proudly they march—but, oh! they march not forth
      By one hot field to crown a brief campaign,
   As when their Eagles, sweeping through the North,
      Destroyed at every stoop an ancient reign!
   Far other fate had Heaven decreed for Spain;
      In vain the steel, in vain the torch was plied,
   New Patriot armies started from the slain,
      High blazed the war, and long, and far, and wide,
And oft the God of Battles blest the righteous side.

XLIX.

   Nor unatoned, where Freedom’s foes prevail,
      Remained their savage waste.  With blade and brand
   By day the Invaders ravaged hill and dale,
      But, with the darkness, the Guerilla band
   Came like night’s tempest, and avenged the land,
      And claimed for blood the retribution due,
   Probed the hard heart, and lopped the murd’rous hand;
      And Dawn, when o’er the scene her beams she threw
’Midst ruins they had made, the spoilers’ corpses knew.

L.

   What minstrel verse may sing, or tongue may tell,
      Amid the visioned strife from sea to sea,
   How oft the Patriot banners rose or fell,
      Still honoured in defeat as victory!
   For that sad pageant of events to be
      Showed every form of fight by field and flood;
   Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their glee,
      Beheld, while riding on the tempest scud,
The waters choked with slain, the earth bedrenched with blood!

   Then Zaragoza—blighted be the tongue
      That names thy name without the honour due!
   For never hath the harp of Minstrel rung,
      Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true!
   Mine, sap, and bomb thy shattered ruins knew,
      Each art of war’s extremity had room,
   Twice from thy half-sacked streets the foe withdrew,
      And when at length stern fate decreed thy doom,
They won not Zaragoza, but her children’s bloody tomb.

LII.

   Yet raise thy head, sad city!  Though in chains,
      Enthralled thou canst not be!  Arise, and claim
   Reverence from every heart where Freedom reigns,
      For what thou worshippest!—thy sainted dame,
   She of the Column, honoured be her name
      By all, whate’er their creed, who honour love!
   And like the sacred relics of the flame,
      That gave some martyr to the blessed above,
To every loyal heart may thy sad embers prove!

LIII.

   Nor thine alone such wreck.  Gerona fair!
      Faithful to death thy heroes shall be sung,
   Manning the towers, while o’er their heads the air
      Swart as the smoke from raging furnace hung;
   Now thicker darkening where the mine was sprung,
      Now briefly lightened by the cannon’s flare,
   Now arched with fire-sparks as the bomb was flung,
      And reddening now with conflagration’s glare,
While by the fatal light the foes for storm prepare.

   While all around was danger, strife, and fear,
      While the earth shook, and darkened was the sky,
   And wide Destruction stunned the listening ear,
      Appalled the heart, and stupefied the eye,—
   Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry,
      In which old Albion’s heart and tongue unite,
   Whene’er her soul is up, and pulse beats high,
      Whether it hail the wine-cup or the fight,
And bid each arm be strong, or bid each heart be light.

LV.

   Don Roderick turned him as the shout grew loud—
      A varied scene the changeful vision showed,
   For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud,
      A gallant navy stemmed the billows broad.
   From mast and stern St. George’s symbol flowed,
      Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear;
   Mottling the sea their landward barges rowed,
      And flashed the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear,
And the wild beach returned the seamen’s jovial cheer.

LVI.

   It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!
      The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars,
   Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite,
      Legions on legions bright’ning all the shores.
   Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars,
      Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum,
   Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours,
      And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb,
For, bold in Freedom’s cause, the bands of Ocean come!

   A various host they came—whose ranks display
      Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight,
   The deep battalion locks its firm array,
      And meditates his aim the marksman light;
   Far glance the light of sabres flashing bright
      Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead,
   Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night,
      Nor the fleet ordnance whirled by rapid steed,
That rivals lightning’s flash in ruin and in speed.

LVIII.

   A various host—from kindred realms they came,
      Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown—
   For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,
      And with their deeds of valour deck her crown.
   Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown,
      And hers their scorn of death in freedom’s cause,
   Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown,
      And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause,
And free-born thoughts which league the Soldier with the Laws.

LIX.

   And, oh! loved warriors of the Minstrel’s land!
      Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave!
   The rugged form may mark the mountain band,
      And harsher features, and a mien more grave;
   But ne’er in battlefield throbbed heart so brave
      As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid;
   And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,
      And level for the charge your arms are laid,
Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset stayed!

   Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings,
      Mingling wild mirth with war’s stern minstrelsy,
   His jest while each blithe comrade round him flings,
      And moves to death with military glee:
   Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free,
      In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known,
   Rough Nature’s children, humorous as she:
      And He, yon Chieftain—strike the proudest tone
Of thy bold harp, green Isle!—the Hero is thine own.

LXI.

   Now on the scene Vimeira should be shown,
      On Talavera’s fight should Roderick gaze,
   And hear Corunna wail her battle won,
      And see Busaco’s crest with lightning blaze:—
   But shall fond fable mix with heroes’ praise?
      Hath Fiction’s stage for Truth’s long triumphs room?
   And dare her wild flowers mingle with the bays
      That claim a long eternity to bloom
Around the warrior’s crest, and o’er the warrior’s tomb!

LXII.

   Or may I give adventurous Fancy scope,
      And stretch a bold hand to the awful veil
   That hides futurity from anxious hope,
      Bidding beyond it scenes of glory hail,
   And painting Europe rousing at the tale
      Of Spain’s invaders from her confines hurled,
   While kindling nations buckle on their mail,
      And Fame, with clarion-blast and wings unfurled,
To Freedom and Revenge awakes an injured World!

   O vain, though anxious, is the glance I cast,
      Since Fate has marked futurity her own:
   Yet Fate resigns to worth the glorious past,
      The deeds recorded, and the laurels won.
   Then, though the Vault of Destiny be gone,
      King, Prelate, all the phantasms of my brain,
   Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun,
      Yet grant for faith, for valour, and for Spain,
One note of pride and fire, a Patriot’s parting strain!

CONCLUSION.

I.

   “Who shall command Estrella’s mountain-tide
      Back to the source, when tempest-chafed, to hie?
   Who, when Gascogne’s vexed gulf is raging wide,
      Shall hush it as a nurse her infant’s cry?
   His magic power let such vain boaster try,
      And when the torrent shall his voice obey,
   And Biscay’s whirlwinds list his lullaby,
      Let him stand forth and bar mine eagles’ way,
And they shall heed his voice, and at his bidding stay.

II.

III.

   And shall the boastful Chief maintain his word,
      Though Heaven hath heard the wailings of the land,
   Though Lusitania whet her vengeful sword,
      Though Britons arm and Wellington command!
   No! grim Busaco’s iron ridge shall stand
      An adamantine barrier to his force;
   And from its base shall wheel his shattered band,
      As from the unshaken rock the torrent hoarse
Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a devious course.

IV.

   Yet not because Alcoba’s mountain-hawk
      Hath on his best and bravest made her food,
   In numbers confident, yon Chief shall baulk
      His Lord’s imperial thirst for spoil and blood:
   For full in view the promised conquest stood,
      And Lisbon’s matrons from their walls might sum
   The myriads that had half the world subdued,
      And hear the distant thunders of the drum,
That bids the bands of France to storm and havoc come.

V.

VI.

   O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and Wrath!
      Ne’er to be told, yet ne’er to be forgot,
   What wanton horrors marked their wreckful path!
      The peasant butchered in his ruined cot,
   The hoary priest even at the altar shot,
      Childhood and age given o’er to sword and flame,
   Woman to infamy;—no crime forgot,
      By which inventive demons might proclaim
Immortal hate to man, and scorn of God’s great name!

VII.

   The rudest sentinel, in Britain born,
      With horror paused to view the havoc done,
   Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch forlorn,
      Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer grasped his gun.
   Nor with less zeal shall Britain’s peaceful son
      Exult the debt of sympathy to pay;
   Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun,
      Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor the gay,
Nor the poor peasant’s mite, nor bard’s more worthless lay.

VIII.

XII.

   But you, ye heroes of that well-fought day,
      How shall a bard, unknowing and unknown,
   His meed to each victorious leader pay,
      Or bind on every brow the laurels won?
   Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest tone,
      O’er the wide sea to hail Cadogan brave;
   And he, perchance, the minstrel-note might own,
      Mindful of meeting brief that Fortune gave
’Mid yon far western isles that hear the Atlantic rave.

XIII.

   Yes! hard the task, when Britons wield the sword,
      To give each Chief and every field its fame:
   Hark! Albuera thunders Beresford,
      And Red Barosa shouts for dauntless Græme!
   O for a verse of tumult and of flame,
      Bold as the bursting of their cannon sound,
   To bid the world re-echo to their fame!
      For never, upon gory battle-ground,
With conquest’s well-bought wreath were braver victors crowned!

XIV.

XV.

   Not on that bloody field of battle won,
      Though Gaul’s proud legions rolled like mist away,
   Was half his self-devoted valour shown,—
      He gaged but life on that illustrious day;
   But when he toiled those squadrons to array,
      Who fought like Britons in the bloody game,
   Sharper than Polish pike or assagay,
      He braved the shafts of censure and of shame,
And, dearer far than life, he pledged a soldier’s fame.

XVI.

   Nor be his praise o’erpast who strove to hide
      Beneath the warrior’s vest affection’s wound,
   Whose wish Heaven for his country’s weal denied;
      Danger and fate he sought, but glory found.
   From clime to clime, where’er war’s trumpets sound,
      The wanderer went; yet Caledonia! still
   Thine was his thought in march and tented ground;
      He dreamed ’mid Alpine cliffs of Athole’s hill,
And heard in Ebro’s roar his Lyndoch’s lovely rill.

XVII.

XVIII.

   But all too long, through seas unknown and dark,
      (With Spenser’s parable I close my tale,)
   By shoal and rock hath steered my venturous bark,
      And landward now I drive before the gale.
   And now the blue and distant shore I hail,
      And nearer now I see the port expand,
   And now I gladly furl my weary sail,
      And, as the prow light touches on the strand,
I strike my red-cross flag and bind my skiff to land.