How terrible the march of blood-stained War!

Though rank on rank his fiery breath lay low,

Still patriots crowd, and many a needless scar

And daring profitless derides the foe.

Oh, human passion! Is’t but human wo

Thou deign’st for food, for drink the crimson tide?

Incarnadined Ambition! Here bestow

A glance upon thy fruits, and learn to chide

Thy self-idolatry, thy more than fiendish pride!

Dauntless defenders! On Numantia’s wall,

Or ’mid self-fired Sagunthus’ leaguered towers,

Defying Hannibal whose eyes appal

The flames of sacrifice; or ’gainst the powers

Of Tarik fierce arrayed in darker hours—

From rough Asturian mountains hurling down

Huge rocks whose maw the Moorish host devours,

While great Pelayo’s form with deadly frown

Up Covadonga’s vale comes trampling fell Mahoun!

Or ’mid the echoing heights that girdle round

Fair Roncesvalles taming haughty France,

When Roland’s horn with its tremendous sound

No response woke from aidful troop’s advance,

And Paladin and Peer Bernardo’s lance

Beneath Pyrene slaughtered; or more late

At mightiest Zaragoza, where askance

Flew Gaul’s derided death-bolts winged by hate,—

Unyielding still as here by San Sebastian’s gate.

Not many moons before, Gaul’s soldiery

Through fair Cantabria’s coast licentious strayed,

Brought rapine to the homesteads of the free,

And deathless grief to many a beauteous maid;

And wo unutterable cast its shade

Along Biscaya’s lovely sunlit shore.

Weak natures drooped their foreheads, sore afraid,

But Blanca proudly lifted hers the more,

And death to him whose hand might ruffian-dare she swore!

Not long the chance removed, not long the arm

Of withering conquest left the test untried;

To sabred villains an unrifled charm

Were like a stigma to inhuman pride.

A gentle sister clung to Blanca’s side

One sweet May eve when fills the clustering vine;

And ’neath the trellised porch embowering wide,

As forth their footsteps strayed from Home’s sweet shrine,

Two bearded French hussars forbade them pass its line.

“What! buxom damsels—not discerned before.

“Where hid my Venus?” Blanca cried: “Forbear!”—

“How now? By Heaven, this coyness fires me more;

“No dame of Normandy more beauteous fair,

“No Bretonne maiden binds more golden hair.”—

“Black,” quoth his comrade “is of Beauty’s flower

“For me the hue—so, lovingly we’ll share.

“Come, be a soldier’s bride—for half an hour.”

He grinned—both troopers laughed—the maids were in their power!

This Blanca saw, nor seemed she to resist,

E’en smote not when the dastard seized her waist,

Resented nought when one her sister kist,

Nor frowned when his compeer herself embraced.

Thus lulled each fear, each dark suspicion chased,

They called for wine, the lawless soldier’s bane.

O’erjoyed was Blanca, yet with eager haste

As poured she cup on cup which swift they drain,

Betrayed no joy, though fast it mounted to each brain.

Fired with the generous vintage, which gave all

The ruffian forth, as gives it forth the balm

Of nobler natures, the hussars appal

The maidens’ breasts with many a sinking qualm.

Hell gleams from forth their eyes; and burns each palm;

Distended wide their satyr nostrils scare!

Ye maids of England, blissful in your calm

Security, oh, long from you be far

Invasion’s horrors dire, the fiendishness of War!

One villain seized the gentle Ana’s arm,

And dragged her to the bowering vineyard near;

With cruel irony, “lest aught of harm,”

He said, “should chance to reach your sister dear,

“I’ll take my carbine with me,”—for with fear

He marked the flashing wrath in Blanca’s eye;

Then o’er his shoulder with this parting jeer

He sought to rouse his comrade: “Jules, good b’ye;

“The dove you think you’ve caught may like a falcon fly.”

But Jules still cried: “More wine!” And Blanca poured

Like Hebe for this flagrant Hercules,

While ever and anon she eyed his sword;

But—happier fate—while drains he to the lees

Another cup, he drops his head and frees

His carbine with the movement. Swift as thought,

She lifts the weapon—to the vineyard flees;—

The deadly tube she to a level brought,

When Ana’s struggling arm a friendly vine-branch caught.

Unskilled her aim—but stainless purity

Gave loftiest courage, nerving eye and hand.

She breathed a prayer—an instant gazed on high—

“Oh, Virgin Queen, mi madre, guardian stand!”

Next instant she discharged the flaming brand.

Within the throb of Ana’s beauteous breast

Flew the fleet bullet. Heaven its progress banned;

And through the ravisher’s hot heart it prest,

His fell design extinct in death’s eternal rest!

Up starts the drunkard sobered by the sound,

And runs with hasty sabre to the scene;

But Blanca dropt the carbine to the ground,

Which like Camilla’s battleaxe, I ween,

The virgin bore; and like that Volscian queen,

When fiery swift her footsteps past the steed

Of Aunus’ son, she bounded o’er the green;

And, Ana’s hand in her’s, with matchless speed,

Reached the far shore, where swift her floating bark she freed.

Maddened with rage quick followed the hussar,

But soon his footsteps checked the foaming tide.

Gnashed were his teeth while shot the bark afar,

And rung the maidens’ laughter clear and wide;

For greater not Penthesilea’s pride,

Girt by her crescent-shielded Amazons

In war’s array, whom Dian dared not chide!

Full soon the joyous news like lightning runs,

And wins undying fame ’mongst wild Cantabria’s sons.

And ever after Blanca bore the name

“La Espingarda,” which her daring told,

And gave the carbine she discharged to fame,

When Innocence was made by Virtue bold.

Oh, selfish were the breast, methinks, and cold,

That would not look with eye of favour there:

Such was the maid who led that Nereid fold,—

Whose loud guitar, in scorn a chain to wear,

Called her compatriot men to guard Iberia fair.

Thus oft between Isaro’s isle and San

Sebastian Blanca past with fancy free,

Till through her veins Love’s soft infection ran,

And tamed her spirit of wild gaiety.

A gallant youth and fond did Blanca see

’Mongst Albion’s sons who lay the town before.

Of all the host was braver none than he,

And Blanca trembled to her bosom’s core

Beneath his eagle-glance, when love he whispered o’er.

Full many a sweet, nor yet delusive tale

He told the maid of mingling heart and hand,

And home and household gods in sweetest vale

Amid the glories of his Motherland,

Of joys that glistened ’neath Hope’s faËry wand,

And life’s long course by Gnidian torches lighted,

Of foreheads pure by milder zephyrs fanned,

And England’s happier clime by war unblighted.

His passion soon declared, their mutual vows were plighted.

Hast thou not seen a clear and sparkling rill,

Upon whose ripplings joyous sunbeams quiver,

Flow swift, yet tranquil, from its native hill

Straight to the bosom of some mighty river,—

Its separate existence lost for ever,

Its name, its nature, sunk in the devotion

Of that great confluence? Calm as to the Giver,

Her life she gave, nor struggle nor commotion

Showed where that streamlet flowed, for ever mixed with Ocean.

Morton the youth was named—majestic tall,

For strength and symmetry his shape combined;

Gentle as valiant, generous, loved by all;

A soldier frank, pellucid was his mind,

His judgment sound, his bearing ever kind;

To her ’twas tenderest love that hourly grew.

The pride that scorns unequal lots to bind

In wedlock deeply he contemned, nor knew

A thought that was not all to humbler Blanca true.

And Morton from the maiden learnt how soon

Might Santa Clara’s rocky isle be won,

Where batteries planted ere another moon

The siege must end, and Mota’s fortress stun

With many a thunder-voiced o’erpowering gun;

And Blanca promised to the shore to guide.

Swift Morton warm with warlike zeal doth run,

His plans unfolding to his Chief with pride,

And valiant Graham doth give to Morton margin wide.

Soon were his comrades chos’n, and Nial first,

His bosom-friend, companion oft in arms;

Both of the Light Brigades, and both athirst

For Glory! Nial led ’mid War’s alarms

A file of Rifles. Danger still had charms

For him transcendent; young, as woman fair,

Slight-formed yet lion-brave—his vigour warms

The veteran. Clothed his cheek with beauty rare,

Yet none in all the host so actively would dare.

The Spaniards oft declared he was a girl

In male attire, till they beheld his deeds.

The oldest soldiers watched his looks in per’l,

Obeyed his slightest sign, and where he leads

Follow in battle—though the column bleeds.

Yet Nial hath not reached his twentieth year!

Noble and proud is every thought he feeds.

Such was the youth, who Morton counselling clear,

His plans to take the Isle arranged the trenches near.

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.

“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.

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.

“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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.”

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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!

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.

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!

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.