A youthful Chieftain’s form as Phoebus fair

An instant filled the door—then forward rushed:—

“Back, villains, nor with deeds of carnage dare

To stain the arms that late the Gaul have crushed!

Not men, but demons—where the life-blood gushed

Of all her tribe, this maiden would ye harm?”

’Twas Nial! ’Neath his glance was instant hushed

Each caitiff’s heart. With ill-disguised alarm,

They skulk aloof in awe. Such god-like Virtue’s charm!

He takes the trembling maiden by the hand,

Where huddled in a corner, nigh to swoon,

Shuddering and paralysed, she scarce doth stand,

And ill divineth what a priceless boon

Hath Nial brought her that he came so soon!

For ruffian violence her charms had eyed,

And forward rushed to stain that peerless Moon,

As Nial entered. Better in her pride

A million-fold to have like Isidora died!

But Heaven, I ween, had sent the gallant youth

To rescue Innocence in that dread hour,

And show transcendent courage, manhood, truth

O’er hell-born passion’s momentary power!

He seized her hand—at first from him, her tower

Of strength in peril, she withdrew in fear;

But in his eyes she looked, and when the flower

Of generous youth and beauty stood so near,

Her awe dissolved—her face was bright ’mid many a tear.

As vines their tendrils curl round sturdy elms,

As delicate flowers their heads bend to the sun,

As ivy twines round oak in forest realms,

As jasmine soft doth o’er the trellis run:

So Isabel her soul doth throw upon

Young Nial’s arm, reposing fearless there.

His hero-heart her confidence hath won.

So brave, so kind he looks that even Despair

His presence flies, and blood less direful hues doth wear.

He spoke brief words—but deep, consoling, tender;

Iberia’s language War’s quick ear had taught;

His thrilling voice new confidence doth lend her,

But tow’rds the floor her eyes an instant brought

Sent back the flood of agonizing thought.

And wild she cried, and frantic was her wail;

And shuddering she nigh fell, till Nial caught

The bruisÉd lambkin in his arms, and pale

He bore her through the door, and fanned her in the gale.

Full slowly she revived, and Nial then

An instant left her in the outer air,

While to the chamber he returned again,

And made her butchered kindred next his care.

Joy! joy! Salustian upright sits, and spare

Thy talons, Death, one victim: deep his wound,

But yet not perilous. Nial straight doth tear

His sash away, and swathe it firmly round

Salustian’s side, the blood he staunched, the gash he bound.

Salustian deeply groaned:—“Would I had died,

Would Heaven that I had died this fatal hour!

Where are my girls—my girls? Oh God,” he cried,

“One dashed to pieces—in the villains’ power

The other—Slay me! Hellhounds, all devour

That owns me. Slay me! Oh, in mercy slay.

Yet I’ll not leave my daughter sweet, my flower

Of Beauty in their claws. Kites, Kites, I say,

Where, hellkites, is my girl? My sword your lust shall stay?”

He scrambled to his feet, then to his knees

Fell weakly; but with sword convulsive grasped,

And energy tremendous, Nial sees

Him drag his body o’er the floor, which rasped

His blade in dire excitement, while he gasped

With nostril panting. Nial’s hand in vain

His movement bars, till Isabel is clasped

In her wild father’s arms, who shrieks amain,

Frantic with joy to think her Honour without stain!

And told young Isabel the debt she owed

To Nial’s care, which soothed the old man much,

And tears for his relief abundant flowed,

Though thought of Isidora made him clutch

His sword again. Oh villains, it might touch

Your stony hearts, e’en your’s that did this wrong,

To see its dire effect. Methinks, not such

Are England’s men. I ween that ye belong

To some base mongrel breed, against the helpless strong.

And Nial’s gentle voice the old man’s ear

Like music enters. Slowly he doth rise,

And ’neath the hero’s guidance without fear

Father and daughter, yet with many sighs,

A step advance. In vain Salustian tries

The turret to descend—his wound too deep.

A litter Nial’s active zeal supplies;

And careful borne adown the turret steep,

Salustian soon within young Nial’s tent doth weep.

While Britain’s columns fierce assault the town,

Rages terrific strife without the wall;

The elements with fierce, o’ershadowing frown

Dashed through Pyrene’s wind-compelling hall,

And storm within and storm without appal!

The noble Soult of nobler Moore the foe,

Of San Sebastian strove to avert the fall;

And now Behobia’s broken arch below

By BiriatÚ he threats the Bidasoa’s flow.

At AndarlÁsa craggy mount and moor

Girding the rapid stream forbid its verge;

But OyarzÚn not yet may sleep secure.

’Twixt Jaizquibel and crested Haya urge

His fiery columns straining to emerge.

See on the crownÉd heights our forces rest.

ZugÁramurdi, Echallar a dirge

May roar for him who dares the eagle’s nest.

Great Arthur guards the pass with high, heroic breast.

Not his the blame for San Sebastian’s deeds;

Upon the mountain-peaks he guides the war.

No warning voice the ravening soldier heeds,

And battling rides the Chief revered afar.

To Fuentarabia’s walls our legions bar

The French approach, and Bidasoa runs

Round tall San Marcial’s foot their path to mar;

And Spain hath banded there her warrior sons,

While o’er the river’s edge France points her thunderous guns.

By BiriatÚ now Reille the river fords,

And climbs San Marcial with his fierce brigades,

But tangled furze and copse impede their swords.

Confusion mixes skirmishers and aids;

The mountain steep their forceful vigour jades;

And dashing down its sides Spain’s columns rush.

Before that charge the might of Jena fades.

As reeds are swept beneath the torrent’s gush,

So headlong falls the Frank, and feels subjection’s blush.

But rapid Soult who notes the unequal fight

O’er Bidasoa’s stream two bridges throws

On barks securely moored and trestles light,

And, quick, Villatte’s reserves their fronts disclose.

O’er bridge and mount they fly to face their foes.

San Marcial’s sides they climb, his shrine they gain.

Thy line, Castile, an instant backward goes.

But up great Arthur rides—the sons of Spain

Recall their strength, and hurl the foemen to the plain.

For ’neath that mighty Chief’s commanding eye

Impossible to sink or droop or quail.

And Aylmer’s British-born brigade is nigh

To baffle France if, Spain, thy sons should fail.

A loud Castilian shout doth rend the gale,

Acknowledging the Hero’s presence there.

Full swift the Gaul is dashed into the vale,

Urged to the brink of Bidasoa fair;

And drowned or slaughtered sink the victims of despair.

Soult from the summit of the Grand Monarque

(For sight in mountain war is baffled oft,

And loftiest points befit the leader’s mark)

Beheld the dreadful rout and mourned aloft;

Then urged his columns onward, gliding soft

To Vera’s fords, his loud artillery’s roar

Covering the stream. Our men derisive scoft

To see his shells descend destructive o’er

His own astounded troops, their ranks molesting sore.

Ill brooks the Frenchman withering laughter’s scorn:

The Lusitan brigade they swift assail,

Whose head by rapid fire is backward borne.

With wondrous fleetness mounting from the vale,

Rough Haya’s slopes the active foemen scale.

But Inglis’ columns now the skirmish join,

And soon Clausel is on the English trail.

’Mid Haya’s dells and lofty ridges shine

For many an hour their fires along each broken line.

Joy! joy! the battle to the Frenchward side

Is proudly borne, and pass Kempt’s rifles keen

O’er Bidasoa’s stream, where swift they glide,

In modest garments all of darkest green—

A hue for special service chos’n, I ween,

For England loves the daring and the frank.

In brightest red her columns robed are seen,

A mark inviting like the target’s blank;

And fair her mind is spoke, and fair her battle’s rank!

Kempt holds Lesaca, and the chain’s complete

From Santa Barbara now to Haya’s crest.

Clausel beholds the movement of defeat,

And dreads to tempt the battle further west.

Hill threatens D’Erlon at his Chief’s behest.

Dalhousie, Colville gall the Gallic line;

GirÓn’s Castilians aim at Conroux’ breast;

The Lusitan battalion’s bayonets shine;

And swift the French are forced their stronghold to resign.

See blaze their camp in fires terrific whirled

By rising tempest-blasts along the sky;

Tent, abatÍs, redoubt, and breastwork hurled

To ruin far and near—below—on high.

Red streams the fluttering canvass in the eye

Of that autumnal sun—fierce embers flare,

And strew the gale—fall blackening timbers nigh;

Pyrene’s sides reflect the lurid glare,

And myriad crackling sparks are borne upon the air.

But now resounds the cannonade of Graham—

That direful torrent o’er the stormers’ heads—

And bids Soult pause. A moment grief o’ercame

The hero’s soul—almost a tear he sheds,

For ominous boding and profound he dreads

The noble city’s fall. Yet firm he stands,

And menacing the foe his phalanx treads

San Marcial’s sides, where still their blazing brands

And glittering points of steel are swayed by sturdy hands.

And now the direful storm that fell when San

Sebastian’s scarp was won the battle palls.

The tempest louder shouts than warring man;

San Marcial’s voice on Haya echoing calls,

And rattles Jaizquibel his thunder-balls,

Mocking weak mortals, far along the sky.

Terrific lightnings o’er Pyrene’s walls

Flash like the swords of mountain spirits on high;

And halts the strife of Man—his pellets cease to fly.

Louder and louder grows the tempest’s voice.

From secular oak and pine huge branches riven

Are whirled through air by winds that fierce rejoice;

And trees for playthings to the blast are given,

As howls the whirlwind breath of angry Heaven!

And pettiest streams to cataracts are swelled,

And torrents dash adown the mountain driven;

While Druid stone and cairn are instant felled,

And boulders rolled along like pebbles are compelled.

Dismayed and scattered fly the rival hosts,

Full many a Gaul in Bidasoa drowned;

But, ah, no respite San Sebastian boasts—

No truce proclaimed upon that fatal ground.

Still havoc, plunder, stalk the streets around,

Still bloodhounds bathe their sides in streaming gore!

No angel-voice to plead for mercy found,

No power to quell the fierce hyÆna’s roar—

Even Hope doth seem to fly from that devoted shore!

Too dire the scenes that San Sebastian stain

To leave Salustian safe within its wall;

Young Isabel doth by his side remain

In Nial’s tent, and soothe his sorrows all,

But oft her face doth Isidor recall!

Before the old man from the tower descended,

Had Nial, fearful lest the sight appal

Their eyelids, moved the shattered corse and tended

Its hurried funeral, where no tear with his was blended.

But Blanca’s corse, her foster-sister fair,

Was borne with flowrets strewn to Isaro’s isle,

While snow-white banner trembled in the air

Above the bark where cold she lay the while,

To show her virgin spirit without guile!

And while her sisters of the oar with long

And pensive strokes, and thoughts that War revile,

In mournful pageant tame the waters strong,

The Island coast they round with low funereal song.

And now with interest deep that hourly grew

To tenderest love doth Nial oft behold

Sweet Isabel, not formally to woo,

But drink unconsciously a bliss untold

From presence that his destiny doth mould!

Her figure light and graceful as gazelle,

Her eyes’ majestic orbs like starlight rolled,

Her nature gentle yet with witching spell

Of buoyant life, upon his kindred bosom fell.

And felt the maiden boundless gratitude

To him the saviour of herself and sire.

Love when he comes doth little there intrude,

With such devoted zeal she doth admire;

’Tis only kindling an intenser fire.

Neither had noted the delicious hour,

When mutual transport as in Heavenly choir

Their souls united; but the common power

They owned with one accord—of hearts the richest dower.

She loved him with a deep idolatry,

So like a god he to her eyes doth seem,

Who came from demon-hate her soul to free,

Nor shorn at times of a HypÉrion beam—

The very image of her virgin dream!

Like to those angel-visitants descending

To earthly loves in Time’s primeval gleam.

And Nial joys her beauty in defending,

And deems celestial charms were ne’er so sweetly blending.

And while the father ’neath the daughter’s care

Doth gather strength and resignation’s calm,

Young Nial to the grave doth pious bear

The corse of Carlos which their tears embalm.

And Morton low reposeth ’neath the palm

Of martyr-courage in the self-same grave.

Funereal rite was none nor dirge nor psalm;

But warriors mourned for them, the true and brave—

There sleep, young soldiers, well—for gallant souls ye gave!

And Nial wept his faithful comrade dead,

Like woman wept—nor blame his hero-soul,

For many a fervid kindness done and said

Rushed o’er his mind, and swept to memory’s goal,

Till tears in torrents gushed beyond controul.

Oh, tears are generous, noble! Tears became

Achilles’ cheek, when Death Patroclus stole;

His frame sharp anguish shook who shook the frame

Of Troy—nor, Nial, blush that thou didst weep the same!

Three days, three nights, Sebastian’s sack went on;

And as in fire the earth will sink at last,

And fire avenge the deeds that then were done,

Through fiery scourge so San Sebastian past.

Raged o’er the town, urged by the Atlantic blast,

The red relentless flame, and to and fro

Swept like a desert courser, lurid cast

Its glare o’er Ocean, flashed above—below,

Till all was smouldering heaps of desolation, wo!

Biscayan Nereids! fill your urns with tears;

With scent of gore the bloodhound’s on the trail.

Mourn, UrumÉan Naiads, plunged in fears,

For shrieks portentous load the sighing gale

From virgins all dishevelled, lorn, and pale;

And stab and death-shot end what leers begin,

And strong men fall o’erpowered, and seniors frail

Are slaughtered with the babes of all their kin,

And vilest passions loosed—the Carnival of Sin!

Oh, spectral portent of Calamity!

Oh, ghost of violated Beauty smeared

With blood and fiery blackness. See it, see

Where War’s wild wave hath swept o’er homes endeared—

All, all by Havoc’s burning ploughshare seared!

An awful silence reigns, more horrid than

The late artillery’s roar—a trophy reared

To ruin in each street, that crimson ran.

A plague infects the air from piled, putrescent man!

Ay, thousand corses, shroudless, graveless lie,

And flout Heaven’s nostril with their carrion hue.

The iron hail is scattered far and nigh,

And earth unnumbered fragments sadly strew:

Wrecked lares—torn apparel—arms that slew

Till butchery broke them, headgear, shell, and shot,

But ah! no living thing—yes, one I view—

A haggard maniac, crouched in loneliest spot.

The sole survivor he where slaughtered thousands rot!

Nor war’s dread engines yet have done their worst,

For Mont’ Orgullo still by Rey is held;

And o’er that stronghold falls a doom accurst,

For ere he leave the Castle must be shelled.

Nine days of horror by our cannon knelled

Bring death to our own captives—on the tenth

When Honour, grisly demon’s voice is quelled

By glut of gore, he proudly yields at length,

Walks forth to beat of drum, and owns Britannia’s strength.

What art thou, Man, that mak’st a pride of strife,

A glory of the sufferings of thy kind?

That dar’st profanely sport with human life,

And ev’n in cruelty canst greatness find?

Oh, steeped in folly, oh, intensely blind,

And worshipping false Honour more than God,

Of beasts derided is thy boasted mind!

Fawn on thy gilded butchers, kiss the rod,

But deem not scenes like these have Heaven’s approving nod.

Not these thy triumphs, England! Ne’er again

Thy soul shall covet save of Locrian power

And intellect the glory! Beaconing men

To happiness be thine—still Freedom’s tower,

Still making every scowling despot cower

By labouring mind alone! let Justice wrest

The axe from War, and give to man her dower.

Plant, plant the olive pure from East to West,

And bare not, save compelled, the sword ’gainst human breast!

Salustian quick regained his wonted strength,

Such strength as leaves the feebler tide of life,

And near Ernani—moved of moderate length

The journey—to a house with comforts rife,

His patrimony fair, where sound of strife

There comes not. Grassy slopes and orchards gay,

And sweetest daughter to replace a wife

Embalmed in deathless memory, fill the day

With gentlest exercise, and health resumes its sway.

And Nial oft on fiery steed doth ride

O’er the brief space that sunders them, to mark

The old man’s progress. Oft bright eyes replied

In mutual glances blithe as song of lark

At each returning. Soft, though lustrous dark,

Beamed Isabel on Nial’s blue-eyed smile.

Salustian saw full clear the kindling spark,

Nor chid the flame that grew and spread the while,

Till Nial’s plighted troth was echoed without guile.

Her soul was all absorbed in his—her life

Was cast, since meeting, in another mould.

The cloud or sunshine, calm repose or strife,

Must be together shared, the bliss untold

Or mortal grief must Fate for both unfold!

No thought her bosom entered but was Nial’s;

Self-consecrate to him, her champion bold—

His—his—though Destiny pour all its phials,

His—his ’mid love’s best joys or life’s acutest trials!

Now tranquilly beneath the autumnal sun,

Whose beams the mountain breezes tempered bland,

Salustian, Isabel from sorrow won

Full many an hour by wings angelic fanned;

And oft within their lawn doth Nial stand,

And pluck the golden apple from the bough,

Or cull grapes purple-clustering for the hand

Of Isabel—now plum or almond—now

The green and luscious fig, the peach with blushing brow.

And quiet smiled the old man, pleased to see

A pair so formed for mutual happiness,

So beautiful in different quality,

Whom destined wedlock’s bonds ere long to bless;

And as he feasted on their comeliness,

At thought of Carlos and of Isidor

A tear would gathering come—yet not the less

He poured on these his deep affection’s store;

But rather, centred thus, his spirit entwined them more.

Now all his momentary ire had ceased

’Gainst Britain’s sons, whose high and generous hearts

Partook no stain of deeds which are the feast

Of felon-natures wielding Victory’s darts.

And when for war again young Nial starts,

Salustian gives his blessing: Isabel

With many a tear a treasured chain imparts

Of Isidora’s hair and her’s: “Twill dwell

Next to my heart,” he said, as sobbed the maid “Farewell!”

But, ah, the town Isaiah’s voice recals

When mourned the awful prophet Zion’s doom,

With battering nations camped around her walls,

Till flames devouring chase the midnight gloom.

Wo to thee, Ariel, wo, gigantic tomb!

The Lord of Hosts shall visit thee with storm

And thunder;—vengeful fires thy pride consume,

In gory dust is laid thy beauteous form,

And as a dream of night thy agonies shall swarm!

In after days, when Isidora long

Had slept the icy slumber of the dead,

The memory of her Beauty and her wrong

O’er her still honoured name a lustre shed;

And many a lover with her story fed

The tuneful echoes of Biscaya’s plain,

Told how all crimson ran her stony bed,

How passed to bliss the maiden without stain,

And thus her early doom preserved in simple strain: