On San Sebastian’s towering castle wall,

What fiery meteor crowns the brow of night?

Its gathering splendour glows majestical

’Gainst darkling skies—a diadem of light!

It grows amain upon the dazzled sight,

While to their posts the amazed besiegers run;

The eternal stars an instant beam less bright,

As startled by another burning sun,

Which now distincter bears the name “NapolÉon!”

For Gaul’s imperial master shines that flame,

And quivering flouts the Angliberian host;

Effulgent skies enthrone his mighty name—

His fortress stands impregnable, the boast!

This, this his birthday, this the fearless post

Where England’s strength shall fail again, again,

For warriors fresh have poured along the coast;

And though the siege hath cost a thousand men,

No hostile foot shall dare profane that lion’s den!

Great Arthur smiled, and calm the work went on;

Bartolomeo’s heights were strengthened well,

The trenches deepened ere the night was gone;

Antigua’s rocks with thunder bristling tell

The bold besieged how other bosoms swell

With warlike pride that pants for battle’s hour;

And comes the ponderous train of cannon fell

To try the strength of bastion, scarp, and tower,

And bid the boastful Gaul beware Britannia’s power!

Say, is, not death then terrible enough,

Ye Captains fierce, but ye must point his dart?

Is man not made of perishable stuff,

But ye must wing new shafts to pierce his heart?

Say, is not famine, pestilence, the smart

Of dire disease and suffering, toil and wo

Enough, but Nature’s pangs must be by Art

Deep multiplied till tears like Ocean flow,

And shattering death-bolts fly, lest Death arrive too slow?

Genius of Liberty, inspire my song!

For thou alone canst consecrate the strife,

That bids surcease the despot sway of Wrong,

And Man prefer thy dignity to Life

Without thee,—War proclaiming “to the knife”

’Gainst Tyrants. May the strain I feebly raise,

Like the Caÿstrian bird’s with death-notes rife,

Tune every human organ to thy praise,

And curb War’s eagles, save to blast Oppression’s gaze!

On Mont’ Orgullo Mota’s fortress-crown

Seems like defiant Pride from high to smile,

Poised on her lofty cone, while far adown

Blue Ocean bathes her feet and guards the while;

And southward Santa Clara’s rocky isle

Stands like a Cyclop to defend the wall.

War’s stern munitions heaped in many a pile

The ramparts strew, prepared the foe to gall—

Yet deeply now ’tis sworn, shall San Sebastian fall!

The Chofre hills with giant carronades

Are horror-crested. Far on either side

Swift UrumÉa, while the twilight fades,

Are armed the enormous batteries deep and wide.

And opens now like thunder to deride

Yon beacon light the loud artillery’s roar,

With fire and smoke that seem to Hell allied,

Makes wall and castle reel and tremble sore,

And shakes the affrighted wave that foams along the shore!

Dire straits of War! The crystal stream of Life

Is now cut off from San Sebastian’s ground;

Where water flowed, an aliment of strife

The withering Genius of Destruction found.

Oh, fatal skill! Sulphureous heaps abound

Within the tube that from Ernani’s hills

Brought Life, yet soon will scatter Death around.

Though lymph, Pyrene, all thy crags distil,

For San Sebastian vain is every mountain rill.

But, hark the voice of cannon from within!

’Tis raised in joy, a Royal salvo peals.

What new discovery marks that potent din,

Which speaks in thunder that the assailant feels—

Bolts with each flash? For joy the Norman kneels.

Where Mota’s rock above the wave doth frown,

A living fount its bubbling stream reveals,

More prized than diÁmonds on Regal crown.

The stream is hoarded well—its flow supplies the town.

A moment pause the batteries now, while flag

Of truce and summons of surrender due

Approach the wall, nor long before it lag,

For soon in Rey a noble foeman knew

The English arms as he in England too.

No paltering there! Redoubled every post;

More resolute his wing’d defiance flew,

In fiery tempest ’gainst the leaguering host;

And scorning even to read the summons was his boast.

Well answered! Where the river widest swells

’Neath rapid Ocean’s amorous embrace,

And on the SiÉrra swung the Convent bells

For matin-lauds and vesper-song of grace,

The howitzer ascends that holy place,

And from the belfry vomits forth its fire;

From cloisters dim whose cowls the shakos chase

The stabled charger bids the monk retire,

And tell his beads apart till pass War’s tempest dire.

Now Mont’ Orgullo vaunting Pride doth shew

Less proudly throned, for climb OlÍa’s side

The straining oxen, dragging upward slow,

With starting eye-ball and hoof opening wide,

Cannon and mortar o’er the foaming tide

Terrific hung. And Man the work completes,

Where fail the labouring beasts, till e’en Mount Pride

O’ercrested now from far defiance meets;

And from the MiradÓr who gazeth slaughter greets!

The booming salvo hurls its ceaseless shower,

Saint John’s huge bastion slowly crumbling falls,

Destruction seizes many a stately tower,

And totter to their base Tirynthian walls

Beneath the fury of resistless balls,

From circling orchards heaved by Britain’s sons;

And snake-like trench advancing swift appals

The garrison, as o’er the isthmus runs

The deadly sapper’s stroke that like an earthquake stuns.

And sally forth the warlike sons of France,

As prisoned lions vainly lash the bar,

To foil the miner in his bold advance,

And rages on the isthmus fiercest war;

Full many a shrapnell shell doth strew afar

Its withering shower of lead in thickest hail.

But what can like the British bayonet mar

Thy prowess, France? Before ’t the sallyers quail,

And fly like scattered hawks flung headlong on the gale.

With glancing steel upon the trenches’ edge

Confronted Cameron the advancing host;

And swift retired before that gleaming wedge

The light-limbed chasseur, battling Gallia’s boast.

And, rough fascine and earth-piled gabion most

The ground demanding, rose the isthmus o’er

Banquette and parapet, the foremost post

Of war for those who sap and mine explore,

And lithe artilleryman and lynx-eyed caÇadore.

And now the isthmus boasts its battery too;

At shortest range ’tis thundering ’gainst the wall.

Saint John protect thy bastion, or ’twill rue;

Sebastian, guard thy castle, or ’twill fall!

And lo, where shells ascending vertical,

Like iron disc by surest player cast,

Unerring light the townsmen to appal,

And, scattering hundred deaths, with ruin blast

The region doomed where’er that tempest dire hath past.

See many a bark that swan-like floats the tide

Steal rapid round the fair Cantabrian shore.

Daughters of luxury, your frail heads hide!

’Tis women’s arms that ply the lusty oar

That hostile castle’s bristling wall before.

A patriot impulse bids them proudly dare

(Was never seen the like!) the batteries’ roar,

Their fruits and wine with the besiegers share,

And bless the arms upraised to guard Iberia fair!

Isaro’s sunlit isle her dark-eyed maids

Sends laden with the grape’s delicious bloom;

GuernÍca from its close embowering shades

Sends clustered muscatel whose globes illume

Bright tints of amber. OndarrÓa’s gloom

Of archÉd boughs gives golden apples forth,

Fair as on Hesperus’ dragon drew the doom;

Ripe Ceres’ gifts of Deba prove the worth;

And bland Zumaya opes her garden of the north.

Brown nuts and almonds from Cestona’s groves,

Soft melons come from Castro’s silvery streams;

The small black olive that the mountain loves

From Orrio’s hills ’mid peach and nectarine gleams.

Palencia sends her wine which most esteems

The midnight watcher on the tented field,

With blissful thoughts to stimulate his dreams

When, the watch ended, soon his eyes are sealed

By Heaven’s physician, sleep, and all his sorrows healed.

BermÉo’s vines of green most tender send

Black clusters soft with purple bloom bespread;

And where her gnarled and twisted fig-trees bend

’Neath load of luscious fruit their dark green head,

The gathered treasure for a feast is shed.

The quince sweet-flavoured, and the juicy gourd,

The beautiful love-apple coral-red,

And curd-white cheese (an Arcady restored)

For Valour’s sons they bring to spread the ambrosial board.

Bright-eyed Biscayan maids, as shapely tall

As Atlas’ daughter in her sun-lit isle

Led in the dance through flowery vale and knoll,

Mother of streams while Tethys fair the while

The chorus blest with an approving smile.

The lively movements of the Vascon race,

The Tartar glance, the ringing laugh where guile

Ne’er enters, brown yet blooming charms of face,

And teeth of dazzling lustre lend uncommon grace.

Their hair dark shining shamed the raven’s wing,

In tresses long their shoulders floating down,

With ribands gay confined or silken string,

Or slight embroidered veil the head to crown.

Of gold and pearl some covet the renown,

Pendent from prettiest ears; with coral some

Their necks encircle. Camisoles each gown

Surmount, gallooned with silk or silver from

Shoulder to waist so fair that Envy’s self is dumb.

’Twas thus the Basque barqueras, happiest race,

Like their Cantabrian mothers rowed along;

A nymph-republic from whose dwelling-place

Both man and dame excludes the Nereid throng,

True to their Ocean-sire, as Dian strong.

Two row each bark, and one Dorina steers

’Neath fluttering banderoles, and oft with song

They tune their oars, or dance with merry cheers

ZorcÍcos, while Basque drum and timbrel greet the ears.

And oft, through summertide, some sheltered cove

On fair Biscaya’s coast these Nereids sought

To cool their lovely limbs, while far above

A sister-sentinel their safety wrought,

With eyes whose jealousy was still uncaught.

And through the crystal waters joyously

Spinning, like ivory, charms surpassing thought,

They plunged and sported, laughing wild with glee,

And swam with matchless skill—their element the sea.

And, robed again, full oft the Nymphs advanced

’Neath dewy eve in beauteous double file,

And boundingly the gay ZorcÍco danced,

With shouldered oars and frolic feet, the while

Basque drum and tamborine and Ocean’s smile

Make mirthful holiday. Now high they leap,

With mazy figure now the sense beguile,

Now cross their clattering blades as in the deep,

And laugh, dance, sing—methinks, ’tis better thus than weep.

Nor vigilance secures that lovely coast,

Nor danger’s tremulous excitements flee,

For Gaul her cruisers and her armÉd host

From fair Santona pours along the sea;

And even Columbian rovers, far too free

To curb the lust of plunder, hovering there—

Indifferent whether Spain’s or England’s be

The rifled flag—like vultures foul prepare

On battle’s skirt to fall, and aidless stragglers tear.

For years had past since great Britannia’s hand

Made Earth and Ocean feel her trident stroke;

And TrafalgÁr and San Vicente, fanned

By Victory’s wing, no present terrors woke;

Nor o’er the Deep her voice in thunder spoke,

Since feeble councils numbed at home the arms,

Which even thus paralysed Gaul’s legions broke;

And but that patriot zeal the virgin warms,

Had Famine crushed our men more dire than War’s alarms.

Yet nought could baffle England’s Chieftain-shield,

Who drove the Invader to Pyrene’s foot,

With thunder-shock on many a battle-field,

While Spain with aidful arm the foeman smote.

Oh, glorious rivalship! where late each throat

Was hostile grasped, now rank with rank contending,

Now side by side,—the Armada’s strife forgot,

Gibraltar’s griefs, Saint Vincent’s memory rending—

Against the general foe in War’s proud union blending.

Heroic brotherhood! Mark o’er all her soil

Where Spain’s Partidas like Cadmean seed

Spring armed and terrible to make War’s toil

Ubiquitous, the foe unceasing bleed;

Till, like bull gored and vanquished, he recede,

While Mina and the Empecinado hang

Upon his flanks, and give the Invader’s meed

In death from every crag—where Tell-like sprang

The Guerrillero forth, whose loud trabÚco rang.

The carcase of a rotten State may fall

Corrupt asunder, life-blood e’en diseased;

Head, body, members vile contagion’s thrall,

By gore-stained hands Religion’s emblems seized—

But Nations ne’er yet died when Tyrants pleased!

Yea, lives for aye the spirit and the soul

Invincible, howe’er by despots teased;

And let Injustice sting, Invasion roll,

The sudden counter-shock will shake the distant Pole!

And quakes the stern invading Tyrant now,

Whose legions to the frontier back are driven;

For even Pyrene’s rocky margins bow

Before the giant march, with fetters riven,

Of Freedom’s phalanx marshalled on by Heaven!

Rey, on thine arm an Empire’s fate depends.

To San Sebastian haply now is given

The fortress key their swelling strength that bends.

France jealous eyes thee! Rey his post full well defends.

From GuetarÍa see where vulture-eyed

That scowling band of Franks perforce retires,

And turns their chief in demon triumph joyed

To mark the scene where, Gaul, thy pride expires.

Sudden explode terrific blasting fires,

And swift the fortress-ruins blot the skies

With matrons, virgins, babes, and aged sires,

Rent by the train the ruffian, as he flies,

Hath left alight—to fierce Revenge a sacrifice.

Shudder, thou worm that point’st thy petty sting;

A breath may quench both thee and all thy line!

Fly, passion, hate, ’neath Mercy’s sheltering wing—

Hath not the Lord declared: “Revenge is mine?”

Reptile, dost Him defy? Not thus will shine

Thy courage when, at dissolution’s hour,

The more thou scornest now the more thou’lt whine,

And feel no weed that deems itself a flower

So mean as man who dares to brave the Almighty’s power!

From Haya’s crest of rough and broken crag

A darkling thunder-storm came grandly down.

From peak to peak, while gathering rain-drops lag,

The fiery demon leaps, from chasm to crown—

Terrific dance!—then hides ’neath blackest frown,

Whose pall o’erspreads the sky; low growls at times,

Then volleying roars while floods the welkin drown.

Andaye took up the song of mountain-climes,

And JaizquibÉl gave back the sound with thunder-chimes!

San Marcial echoes it with savage pride,

The Grand Monarque rebellows it with zeal.

Then, when the monsters huge had shook each side

With giant laughter, of which every peal

Is thunder that can make the despot feel,

And waked Pyrene o’er his widest span,

While peak to peak replied, and torrents reel

With that rejoicing music, as it ran,

That spake their savage strength in terror’s tones to man.

Dark muffled thus they slept. Yet even in dreams,

Such dreams as mountain-spirits give to birth,

The thunderous memory lives. Low muttering seems

To sullen tell how baleful was that mirth,

Whose very faintest echo shook the earth,

Gigantic! Downward gathering comes the storm

O’er Haya’s flank and Oyarzuno’s girth

By crag and deep ravine, till lightning warm

With wind and rain it falls o’er UrumÉa’s form.

And ’mid the thickest of the storm behold

Where scud Cantabria’s daughters through the tide,

The death-rain from the rampart fronting bold,

And bear to Britain’s sons, Hesperia’s pride,

The tribute of support for arms allied.

Now brighter beams each eye, and heroes wear

Unwonted blushes warrior cheeks to hide,

And feel thrice-nerved their arms by Beauty rare,

Their spirits bounding high: on Valour smiles the fair!

Amongst these maids the beauteous Blanca stood,

Pride of the ocean-beat Biscayan coast;

A laughing damsel gay yet angel-good,

Light-haired, blue-eyed, in Spain no vulgar boast,

Where black-eyed maidens are a countless host.

With mirth so radiant was her spirit free,

That all she gladdened—melting roughest frost:

Like her none danced Bolera or OlÉ,

And none could featly touch the light guitar as she.

Her auburn hair in clustering curls around

Her sunny face now shrouded, now revealed

Its beauties, waving with each fairy bound;

Her peachy cheek now glancing, now concealed.

Her eye the wound it gave next instant healed,

So bright yet soft, so keen yet melting tender.

A sweetness inexpressible made yield

All hearts: ripe lips, and teeth of pearly splendour,

Made Nature’s task in vain another charm to lend her.

No coif encircling bound her beauteous head,

No silken net her tresses rich confined,

To mar the lustre which her glances shed;

But ribands plain its wild luxuriance bind.

She wore no jewels: streamed upon the wind

A gauzy veil, with flowers of golden sheen

Embroidered, floating gracefully behind,

Her only ornament—yet form and mien

Proclaimed her thus attired ’mongst hundred maids the queen.

Her xaquetilla, to the shape most lithe,

Was of cerulean velvet, room supplying

For her full bosom’s play, when free and blithe

She plied the oar, yet to her form close lying,

Which no compression needed, art defying.

Two billows heaved within, as on the tide

She mastered, with its foam in whiteness vying;

And from her ears to every turn of pride

Two tiniest silver bells with tinklings sweet replied.

So fair the maid in infancy had been,

That San Sebastian chose her then to bear

A cherub’s wings amid the festal scene

Her warrior-patron’s day that honours there.

And with her foster-sister not less fair,

The noble Isidora, hand in hand,

Oft walked she thus in childhood—beauteous pair!

Though tender still their loves apart they stand,

For San Sebastian’s siege the approach of Blanca banned.

She was the leader of the virgin group,

The Delia of that race of shallops gay;

And vigorous-handed to the oar could stoop,

When gales tempestuous tost the stormy Bay.

For high the spirit of that lightsome fay,

And bold as Manuela’s self, the Maid

Of Zaragoza, she could guide the fray,

The French marauders menaced undismayed,

And oft her wild guitar thus prompted to the raid:—