Oh human hearts, that nurture fond designs,

While shattering Fate his iron moulds doth fill!

Oh, loving breasts unwarned by direst signs,

The present joy-burst blindly hugging still!

Impregnable redoubt of Human Will!

Less strong than thine is San Sebastian’s wall.

The ruin-clinging ivy Time can kill,

But not avert thy worship from its thrall,

Till comes the destined hour, and instant bids thee fall!

In summer skies I saw serenely bright

Creation smile o’er pastoral cottage fair.

Effulgent glory dwelt in loveliest light

On copse and garden, hedge and homestead there.

It seemed as exiled from that spot was Care!

Sudden a cloud o’ergathering, fringed with red,

Burst in black thunder bellowing through the air.

A hissing bolt its flame terrific sped;

The cottage ruined lay—its peaceful inmates dead!

Not fairer Hella on the Ægean flood

With her young brother sate the golden fleece,

Than Blanca steered her bark when Morton stood

Within its round, ’mid war discovering peace,

And from his eyes drank love-light without cease;

Nor with more grief was Athamantis torn,

When sank her lovely form ’twixt sunny Greece

And blue Propontis, than made Blanca mourn,

When Morton owned his gage to join the Hope Forlorn.

“Ah, do not go! Mi Dios, thou wilt not go!

“Guillermo, thou wouldst kill thy Blanca. Death

“Is there nigh certain.” William smiled: “Why no,

“Not certain quite. Sweet Blanca, I’ll have breath

“To kiss thee on my return. Why sorroweth

“My love so soon, that was so brave erewhile?”—

“I care not for myself but thee, for saith

“The general voice, tis fatal.”—“See, I smile”—

“Oh God, if aught befal thee, Death may light his pile.”

A trumpet sounded. “’Tis the summons—hark,”

Quoth William. Blanca straight grew lily-pale.

He kist her thrice, then leapt from out the bark.

“Fear not,” he said. “To-morrow without fail

“We meet,” then flew with heart unused to quail.

But Blanca motionless remained behind,

Like calmed Feluca which the dying gale

Hath quite forsook. Oh, Love had tamed her mind,

And pride and patriot thoughts for him were idle wind!

Now battle’s roar which she had learnt to love,

Or strove to love for liberty to Spain,

Fell on her ear with horror, as the dove

By cry of falcon is transfixed with pain;

And still she numbered William ’mongst the slain,

And every cannon with terrific boom

That maid so bold before made shake amain,

As were his breast the target. Rolled the drum;

“We meet to-morrow.” Ah, that morrow ne’er may come!

Dire was the chill that fell on Blanca’s soul,

And oft she sighed for Isidora’s ear,

To pour her woes and hear those lips console—

Her foster-sister more than sister dear!

But Isidora’s lot was e’en more drear,

For none might dare from San Sebastian pass;

And shivering from each cannon’s shock with fear,

She longed by Blanca’s side—’twas vain, alas!

To pluck the summer-flowers, and brush the dewy grass,

Dark fell the night like thickest, deadliest pall

On Blanca’s bosom fluttering nigh to swoon;

But while she drained her bitterest cup of gall,

O’er fair Biscaya’s bay arose the Moon

In wondrous beauty, and dispelled full soon

Her gloom by enchantment. So serenely bright,

It seemed as ’twere from Heaven a special boon,

And Blanche with tears invoked the Virgin’s might,

And deemed she saw her form within that orb of light!

A cherry-coloured riband from her head,

Which used to bind and float beneath her hair,

With trembling hand she loosed, and o’er it spread

A golden curl of William’s, tied it there

In fashion of a cross, and with this prayer

Consigned it to her bosom: “Empress-Queen

“Of Heaven, Immaculate Virgin! Spare, oh, spare

“His life. Mi Madre, on Isaro’s green

“Thy shrine shall have a crown as fair as e’er was seen.”

At length the foeman’s guns are nearly mute,

The hour doth come for the terrific shock.

Where thou hast sown, Britannia, pluck the fruit;

Sebastian hoary, tremble on thy rock!

With false assault the gallant Rey to mock,

And haply make the veteran spring his mines

(Oh, perilous emprize, where Death will lock

With icy arms the form that fairest shines)

Leap forth a dauntless score of warriors from the lines.

Oh England! great thy glory, great the love

Thy children bear thee, when to certain death,

Or death nigh certain, dauntlessly they move,

Condensed in shouts for thee their parting breath!

’Tis not one Curce or Ion gloryeth

Thy history to record, one Mutius fierce,

One Regulus self-devoted. Hundreds hath

Each fleet and army, prompt for thee to pierce

Their panting breasts, and choose for bridal bed a hearse!

Young Nial forward flies with impulse dire—

Of these heroic warriors he the head;

They gain the breach—they mount—they shout—they fire,

Their shouts are drowned in showers of answering lead;

But still unsprung the mines, nor terror fed

A valour calm as sleeps the Ocean near.

Vain is the assault, and stretched full soon lie dead

All who so late upraised that gallant cheer—

All save their leader bold who stalks the trenches near.

The hour is come! Breaks heavily the morn

From densest misty shroud. Great Arthur calls

For nigh a thousand hearts that danger scorn

To rush like Ocean-surge against the walls,

And swarm where thickest fly the deadly balls:

“Men who can show what ’tis to mount a breach.”

That voice inspires with valour where it falls;

A thousand men leap forward—heroes each—

With arms to pluck the prize where Romans dare not reach!

And winnowed must be Valour’s chosen grain,

Where headlong to a shroud or victory borne,

All brave alike the peril proud disdain,

Yet culled the chosen for a Hope Forlorn!

Mark the doomed band whose plumes seem loftier worn,

Whose cheeks more red for courted wounds and death.

Oh, many a mother’s breast shall soon be torn,

And widowed spouse and sister gasp for breath,

Nigh perishing for them whose requiem Glory saith!

Hark to the muffled tread, where stealing slow

Adown the trenches musters their array,

While rank on rank in many a bristling row

Is gathering stern as dimly grows the day,

Nor from yon level sun a beam can stray!

The army’s hum, the awakening city’s din,

The dusky masses gilded by no ray,

But dim with curling vapours, ere begin

The cannon’s roar, make each more doubtful who shall win.

A moment now the bravest pause in awe,

’Twixt life and death. Next moment—direful clash!

Opens in thunder every dragon-maw

Of fierce artillery with its lightning-flash.

As cleaves Heaven’s thunderbolt the mountain ash,

So hurled in ruins is the battlement.

While Furies with that scourge its granite lash,

Not adamant, I ween, were long unbent,

And wider grows the breach and easier of ascent.

Within the trenches many an eager eye

With fevered gaze doth watch the sinking tide,

Whose ebb will give to conquer or to die—

Oh, cruel use of Man’s unerring guide,

Which Nature’s hand hath stretched so fair and wide,

The throbbing pulse of Ocean! Father Time

Seems heavily on leaden wing to ride,

And hours seem days, and hour-like minutes climb

I’ the anxious nervous pause of that suspense sublime.

And words are few and brief. It seemeth waste

Of breath in idle converse to dilate,

When hundreds momently to Judgment haste;—

And sight usurps all functions! Mouths of Fate

Prophetic line the wall, where batteries wait

The onset, slowly turned the breach to flank,

And bayonets bristle ’neath the parapet,

For them prepared! The heart’s of interest blank,

That hath not waited thus in Battle’s foremost rank.

The hour is come! The signal, “On, men, on!”

Sends from the trenches hundreds tow’rds the town.

Like greyhounds straining on the slips, they are gone,

While grape and shell in showers come pouring down,

To where the grisly bastion-breach doth frown.

Away, away, o’er slippery tidal shore,

O’er seaweed dank and shell-incrusted stone.

None stoops to pick, though strewn the seabeach o’er,

Save those whom other shells make stoop to rise no more!

Loud, louder still the batteries poured their fire,

And softer rippled wavelets o’er the strand.

’Twixt Man and Nature, oh, what contrast dire!

The clattering death-tubes scarce a zephyr fanned.

Is Ocean awed to silence by the land,

Or is’t amazed at human hate and rage?

The eye ferocious, and the red right hand

That writes its name renowned in History’s page?

Nature, I ween, is shocked, and beasts themselves more sage!

Ah better far on Albion’s soil to tread

The verdurous meadow or the breezy hill,

For peaceful toil or sportful wandering spread,

In pastoral loveliness unrivalled still;

Where blend sweet lane and slope with murmuring rill,

Hedgerow, and vocal grove, and village green,

And gardens fair and homesteads bright which fill

True household gods and beauty,—there, I ween,

Alone ’neath tempering clouds in full perfection seen.

Ah, better ’twere beneath this radiant sky,

This sparkling sunlight shimmering o’er the plain,

To give to tender thoughts the melting eye,

And yield the heart to Love’s delicious pain.

The genius bland, the balmy air of Spain,

More fit the lute than dire artillery’s roar.

Ah, better far to sing such sweet refrain

Some dark-eyed Andaluzan’s bower before,

As thus might ease the shaft that quivers in the core:—

The hour is come! The stream of valour doomed

Pours through the openings of the huge seawall.

Death reaps even now his harvest. Deep entombed

I’ the earth full twoscore men like raindrops fall,

By premature mine that else had swallowed all!

Unchecked the rush of that tremendous crowd,

And far beyond the Hope Forlorn appal

The bristling ramparts, as with daring proud

They fly to the horrid breach,—tho’ Hell should yawn, uncowed!

Who leads the van? Green Erin’s son, Mac Iar,

Fleet as the roebuck on his native hills;

Dauntless as Brian’s sword, through showering fire,

He boundeth o’er the seabeach rocks and rills,

Impetuous. How his manly figure fills

The eyes of thousands! How his dancing plume

Of streaming snow enchains his followers’ wills,

Doubling their speed, while copes i’ the front with doom

That gallant form that seems defiant of the tomb!

Alcides’ arm—the eye that Python slew,

The limbs and shoulder of the Delian God!

Now ’neath the breach that form triumphant view,

Now see it stretched supine upon the sod!

Ay, instant struck, as strikes Heaven’s fire the rod

That points from loftiest pinnacle. No dirge

Shall wail that fall, no cypress o’er it nod.

’Tis War’s repast! Their course the stormers urge,

And o’er the Hero’s corse go sweeping like a surge!

And Morton now, and Nial by his side,

In peril’s front the impetuous stormers lead;

Nor less their beauty nor their valour’s pride

Than his whose doom was first that day to bleed.

In generous rivalry, like mettled steed,

They strain to win the breach, their grisly goal.

Their flashing swords, athirst for Glory’s meed,

Their tossing plumes, the advancing crowd controul,—

And daring like to their’s inspires each warrior soul.

On, on they rush, their line with dead bestrewing,

While Mont ’Orgullo and Santelmo pour

Both shot and shell, the living brave renewing

The venturous rank where heroes fall before.

Up, up the breach they climb, swift mounting o’er

Bastion and parapet in fragments hurled—

Titanic ruins strewn along the shore—

While nearer now the culverin smoke is curled,

And deadly grapeshot paves the path to a new world.

From every quarter sweeps an iron shower—

Cannon and musketry in front and rear—

From nearest horn and distant fort and tower,

From rampart, bastion, curtain, cavalier.

Up, up the breach they climb and laugh at fear!

The summit’s gained—it seems the verge of Hell—

A gulf impassable! Live thunder near

Leaps forth from guns whose momentary knell

Rings for the brave who fall where late they stood so well.

Still swarms the fiery brink. Who now will dare

Leap the dire chasm—who like Empedocles

Will plunge into the Ætna flaming there,

And be esteemed a God? Who to appease

Hesperia’s manes, like the youth who sees

The barathrum profound i’ the Forum yawn,

Spurs his strong courser, is engulfed, and frees

Great Rome—who now, by patriot impulse drawn,

Will sound that fell abyss, and haste fair Freedom’s dawn?

Oh frightful precipice! Full many an eye

Glares on its horrid depth and back recoils.

Madly to plunge were hopelessly to die,

Or torn and shattered fall into the toils.

Even lingering here is death! As rankest soils

Are strown with richest growths, the valiant strew

That gory Scylla’s crest. Charybdis boils

With vortex under. What may heroes do?

Advance? In vain. Recede? No, Britons’ hearts be true!

Up climbs a multitude of strenuous men,

Who thick as forest-leaves autumnal fall,

So keen for entrance to the lion’s den,

Not death at every footstep can appal!

Sore doth that storm of fire their valour gall,

And slowly with reluctant pride they sink,

Till stubborn planted on the lower wall

They stand beneath the fiery torrent’s brink,

While ever and anon their chain doth lose a link.

Thrice to the deadly summit of the breach

Did Morton rush, and thrice was backward borne,

Like mariner that, dashed on stormy beach,

Swayed by the surge against the cliffs is torn.

But nought could drown unconquerable scorn

Of death in that young hero. Up once more

He rushed to the crest, and fell. Young Blanca, mourn!

Thy lover’s heart is pierced, he totters o’er,

And falls ’mid heaps of slain—his dirge the artillery’s roar:—

What stream is poured afresh? new Volunteers!

They come, impetuous as the Pampas steed,

Dash o’er the strand and trample craven fears,

Fly up the breach where thick-strewn heroes bleed.

They reach the crest. In vain! Snapt like a reed

Is many an oak of war. The valorous surge

Is spent in its vain fury, like seaweed

Each quivering corse depositing. Yet urge

The living on, though fire their ranks incessant scourge.

Thus swarm i’ the summer ray o’er parchÉd ground

Unnumbered emmets toiling onward straight.

Vain is the wrath that slays and strews around;

Unslack’d their zeal, uncheck’d their war with fate.

New myriads crowd each instant, even while wait

Unpitying feet to tread them into dust,

Indomitable. To small thus likened great,

Men swarm to the breach, and glut the gory lust

Of sternest foe, yet stand, true to their country’s trust.

And all—must all be slaughtered? Lord of Hosts!

Must this great valour be a Holocaust?

Must men like oxen perish at their posts,

And all the guerdon of their daring lost?

Still do they mount and slow receding, crost

Their dream of triumph, totter, sink, and fall.

Even won the prize, how terrible the cost!

The victory-flag to thousands were a pall.

Oh Lord of Hosts, arise, or butchery smites them all!

With blood-red arms see Carnage, screaming hag,

Gloat o’er each gash that lets the life away,

Plash through the crimson stream, and curse if lag

The shower of death-bolts darkening bright mid-day.

See sopt her hands in gore, see ’mid the fray

Where burst her eyes from forth her grisly head,

In rapture that such numbers slaughtered lay:

While reek her tangled tresses, see her fed

On dying groans, astride like Nightmare on the dead!