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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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:—

“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!

“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!

“’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.

“’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!

“’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!

“’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!

“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!

“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:

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!

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.

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.

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:—

“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.”

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.

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!

’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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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:—

“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!”

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!”

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!

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.

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!

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!