Upon the Chofre stood the dauntless Graham,

And marked the slaughter with determined eye,

Sad yet unshrinking—poured then forth of flame

A torrent hissing red athwart the sky.

Close o’er the stormers’ heads the missiles fly,

The stone-ribbed curtain into fragments hurled—

Full fifty cannon streaming death on high.

Unmoved they stand—no flag of fear unfurled—

A scene unmatched before since dawning of the world!

Even as at NiagÁra’s thundering fall,

Where leaps the torrent with gigantic stride,

Beneath the watery volume Cyclop wall

Of rocks huge-pilÉd spans the river wide,

Where dares the venturous voyager abide,

And while his ears terrific clamour stuns,

Flies free o’erhead the cataract’s foaming tide,

And scarce crystÁlline globule o’er him runs:

Thus stand ’neath Death o’erarched Britannia’s dauntless sons!

“Retire!” was first the cry. “A traitorous foe!

Our batteries’ fire is ’gainst the stormers turned;”

And struck a straggling shot the ranks below;

But Nial and his men the counsel spurned.

To win, whate’er the cost, their bosoms burned;

And ’mid the fiercest of the cannonade,

While San Sebastian for his bulwarks mourned,

Within the rampart solid ground they made—

First step in victory’s march, whose laurels ne’er will fade.

What were thy triumphs, Greece, on Elis’ plain,

Olympian dust AlphÉus’ margin strewing,

The Agora’s grand inspiring shouts, the train

Of statues for the Altis sculptors hewing,

Fame-thirst the prince’ and peasant’s soul imbuing?

Unreal glories to the trampled fear,

Which England with her million eyes is viewing.

First Erin’s sons to encounter peril here.

No rebel wisdom yet impairs that lusty cheer!

Nor one the breach nor one the fierce assault;

Three several columns mount the broken wall;

’Mid deadliest havoc each is forced to halt,

And rush the living where their brothers fall,

Strewn on the crest of that Pyracmon tall;

While heaps of slain a slippery footing yield

To men whose hearts not this e’en can appal.

Still brandish the besieged their fiery shield,

Till thicker strew the dead than live possess the field!

Nor yet Graham’s thunder ceases. Volleying rolls

The red artillery, on each lightning-flash

Dismay is borne to the defenders’ souls,

Destruction’s bolts against the ramparts dash,

And ruin strews the battlements. As lash

The stormy billows Achill’s rock-bound shore

With all the Atlantic’s force, thus many a gash

That fiery torrent opes the bulwarks o’er,

And still at verge of death they madly strain the more!

And they are mad, or more than madness seems

Thy glow, enthusiast Courage! Many a boy

Sees Valour’s guerdon shine with starry beams,

And Danger, made a mockery, seems a joy!

Yet swiftly hostile fires their ranks destroy,

Nor yet to San Sebastian entrance gained.

Already grief their glory ’gins to alloy,

Lest ’neath that wall their glittering arms be stained.

Ere comes defeat be, Graham, thy death-fire two-fold rained!

Resistance chafes their spirits, stirs their blood.

Excitement fires their minds beyond controul;

Till lightning runs through all the arterial flood,

And lion-daring grows the warrior-soul.

Full many a gentle bosom ’neath that roll

Of musketry and cannon feels transformed—

Spurred like a race-horse bounding to the goal,

Till death’s a sport to venturers conflict-warmed,

And not by men but fiends seems San Sebastian stormed.

Oh, sleepless eyes and aching foreheads tell

In homes far distant how those lives are prized,

Which now are diced away, though loved so well—

On Glory’s shadowy altar sacrificed!

The heart-wrung sob at parting undisguised,

The silent hall and the deserted bower,

The tender charge of Beauty idolized,

And curlÉd babes, forgot in this wild hour,—

To Gorgons grim consigned is Manhood’s chosen flower!

What terrible explosion rends the sky?

What fierce combustion wraps in flame the air?

Traverse and curtain tall to ruin fly,

And sulphurous fires the bastioned bulwarks tear

Like rags asunder! Cries of deep despair

Burst from the pale defenders; grenadiers,

Unmoved as rocks till then, in hundreds share

The ramparts’ doom which form their blackened biers;

And rush the stormers in with lustiest British cheers.

Of volumed smoke at length the eddying wave

Falls o’er the battlement and clears the ground.

Still would the sons of France the fortress save,

Amazed amid the ruin spread around;

But onward to their breasts the assailants bound,

And momently the baffled foemen scare.

They rally—I ween none there hath quarter found;

They stand—and desperate valour all doth dare.

In vain—the stormers rush like lightning to their lair.

Red as the slaughter which their hands achieved,

The British garb doth smite the foe with awe;

And as our sturdy bowmen CreÇy grieved

O’er Gaul’s full-mailÉd Knights triumphant saw,

So the strong bayonet deals resistless law;

And fly before that conflict hand to hand

Of bone and muscle, ere a breath they draw,

The sons of France, a wrongful Tyrant’s band,

Who fight not heaven-inspired for Freedom in the land.

Unconquered yeomen, England’s strength and pride!

Who ne’er have yet been wanting at her call

Against the world to stand, or dashing ride

’Gainst odds that all but Britons would appal!

For where, brave hearts, doth rise your serried wall

Of adamant, in vain the thunder-scar.

Upon that conquering ground ye stand or fall.

Oh, strenuous arms alike for toil and war,

May ne’er be seen the day when Wrong your might shall mar!

Oh, Rank and Dignity! I saw too flies

Spawned in the self-same chamber, sporting gay.

With equal force, on equal wing, they rise

Through the short sunshine of a summer day.

Yet one the other buzzed to keep away,

And flouted oft—intensest scorn revealing,

As telling him below the Knave should stay,

Too far beneath him born for kindly feeling—

One hatched upon the floor, the other on the ceiling!

Five deadly hours that conflict fell endured;

But onward now the tide of Valour flowing,

Chafed by the long restraint all foaming poured,

The seeds of Death with every wavelet sowing,

And, ah, on Mercy scarce a thought bestowing!

As destrier strong whose mouth with curbing bleeds,

When loosed the rein, doth plunge with eye-ball glowing,

Mad snort, and trampling hoof which Fury speeds,

So dash the stormers in like spurred and panting steeds.

A standard floats upon the cavalier.

It is the far-renownÉd tricolor,

Whose folds more proudly ne’er have waved than here,

Though many a victor field they’ve fluttered o’er.

Up Nial springs with hand still dripping gore,

And stoutly tears that tyrant-standard down.

Three loud huzzas resound from sky to shore—

Floats in its stead the flag of Leon’s crown.

’Tis ours! And Spain once more is mistress of her town.

Thus strove Peleides with the King of Men

For fair BriseÏs many a stubborn hour,

And hung War’s chances on the wistful ken

Of her ’mongst all Lyrnessian spoil the flower,

Whose charms drew eyes from Ilion’s loftiest tower.

Thus to Achilles’ arms the maid restored

Was stript o’ the robes that swept Atrides’ bower,

And decked anew in livery of her lord,

To show no tyrant folds should float o’er his adored.

And well too fought thy warriors, Lusitain,

Who, led by Britons, clomb the further breach,

Resolved to strike a vigorous blow for Spain,

And, how their iron fathers strove, to teach:

Afonso, AvÍz, Nun’ Alvares—heroes each—

Castro and Albuquerque not quite forgot

By their descendants, dauntless here who reach

And pluck the wreath to wear might be their lot,

If were not all their fire as fitful even as hot.

Not thy Fidalgos, withered boughs, I ween,

Nor yet thy Royalty as much despised,

Who fled like hinds when danger crost the scene,

Their cumbrous rank like Manhood ne’er disguised,

Their scutcheoned pomp like carrion fitly prized!

Henceforth shall men for an opprobrium know

The names by chroniclers most idolized,

And choose strong blood Plebeian’s healthier flow,

That scaled Sebastian’s towers while nobles quaked below.

And Spain her Guerrilleros—Dorian race—

Sent to the conflict with unconquered hearts,

And eyes that Tyranny could ne’er abase,

Unerringly to guide their fiery darts,

Where Vengeance winged with every shot departs.

And hasting to the War, whose sacred cry

Was “Death to the Invader!”, warm while starts

The big round tear from fair Pastora’s eye,

The peasant-soldier thus with Heaven made an ally:—

Oh glorious race, indomitably fierce!

Earth’s peasant-lords, triumphant o’er each shock;

No, not more vain AntÆus’ self to pierce,

For sprung, too, from thy soil new strength to mock

Thy foes, like Afric’s giant whom enlock

The arms of Hercules; or liker him,

The Achaian marsh heaved upward like a rock,

Whose hissing heads struck off, still heads more grim

Rose terrible to tear the Invader limb from limb!

Five deadly hours that conflict fell did last,

And o’er the scarp now streams the flood of War;

But many a barricade must still be past,

Where dauntless Rey disputes ’gainst Victory’s star,

With feeble garrison that yields each bar,

O’erpowered by numbers though they battled well.

And, vanquished soon by Fate, entrenched they are

In Mont’ Orgullo, where both shot and shell

Pours on the brave resolved their lives to dearly sell.

Now Slaughter stalks triumphantly alone,

And silent is the fierce artillery’s roar;

But shriek and shout and yell, cry, curse, and groan,

Make music dire to rend the bosom’s core,

And louder than Man’s thunder rolled before

Comes Heaven’s artillery from the mountains down,

Dark, stormy, terrible: leap lightnings o’er

The murky cope to mark the Almighty’s frown

For deeds of carnage done in that devoted town.

What careth Man red-handed for His wrath?

What bellowing beast so terrible as he,

When boundless passions master him? His path

Is more destructive than the stormy sea.

His nostril is a furnace. Ominously

Doth glare his bloodshot eye. Nor Beauty saves

The virgin, nor grey hairs and tottering knee

The reverend sire. Lust, rapine, murder waves

A pirate flag o’er all, and hearths are turned to graves!

Oh, meek-eyed Pity! Tenderness of Soul!

Oh, sacred source of sympathetic tears!

Say, hast thou fled the Earth, whose tottering pole

Can ill sustain its weight of grief and fears?

Is dried your fountain, choked by crimson biers?

Oh, human anguish! Yet, by man’s accord,

The day shall come, when he who as in years

Gone by shall dare produce thee—King or Lord—

A Pariah-brand shall wear, than Demons more abhorred!

Still havoc, plunder reigns. Where is thy sword,

Sebastian, Warrior-Saint, that now should wheel

Like the Archangel’s, Eden who restored

To Solitude? Dost thou less horror feel

That thine own City ’neath the shock should reel

Of ruffian violence? PrÆtorian brave,

The Imperial Boar withstanding in thy zeal,

Thou whom nor Roman shafts subdued nor glaive,

Thy consecrated town arise, great Saint, and save!

Oh, arrow-pierced for Christ! whose mighty ban

Against the arrowy shower of pestilence

In aid Divine is still invoked by Man,

And potent still, this plague send howling hence.

By that great voice, whose eloquence intense,

When Marcus trembled, made him firm to win

The Martyr-crown, and Christian turned the dense

Blood-thirsting crowd—guard, judges—all within

Its mighty compass, rise, and stay the steps of sin!

Nazrene Apollo, beautiful as bold,

Whose worship whirls the enthusiast Southern maid

To passion oft and madness, to behold

Thee limned so blooming fair—give, give thine aid!

Oh, by Irene’s love who undismayed

Unbound thee, pouring balm into each wound

The archers left—against the pillar laid—

When dead they thought thee who had only swooned;

By her who healed thee, raise that voice to mercy tuned!

By that majestic Faith, whose dauntless power

Confronted CÆsar at his palace gate,

When to the Capitol in glory’s hour

The Tyrant proud ascended, lording fate;

And dared reproach him with his cruel hate

For God’s elect; and by the Martyr-crown

Thy zeal soon won, oh leave not desolate

The walls that bear thy name. Forbear to frown.

The patron gives no sign. Alas, devoted town!

High on the greater breach where hours before

Had swept the wave of battle, ’neath the black

And murky cope, which flashed red lightnings o’er,

A maiden stood alone in murder’s track,

A white-robed angel seemed ’mid general wrack,

And to and fro amid the heaps of slain,

And round and round and forward then and back,

Peered in each pallid face War’s iron rain

Had shattered there, and passed like Judgment in Death’s train.

’Twas Blanca! she had heard too soon, too soon

Of William’s fall, and sought his corse, I ween.

As girt with thunder-clouds the silver Moon,

So shone the maiden in that direful scene.

But, ah, her cheek had lost its rosy sheen,

Glared wild her eye, her tresses loosely fell.

With frantic haste and Pythonissa’s mien,

She tears away the corses where they dwell

In gory heaps that prove they stood the tempest well.

She halts—she starts—on Morton’s corse she lights.

Too true the mournful tidings! One shrill cry—

She falls upon his breast, more dull than Night’s,

His cold lips kisses in her agony,

And clasps again—again—till no reply

Convinces even her fond heart the source

Of Life is frozen—then, without a sigh,

Takes from his hand the sword, nor feels remorse,

Her heart transpierces, falls, and dies upon his corse.

Oh noblest maiden, though of low estate,

With every proud and generous impulse rife;

Born to demonstrate to the meanly great,

How vain the pageant of a worthless life!

Sprung from thy heart like wild-flowers all that wife

Could bring of purity to Kingliest throne,

With highest attributes to soothe the strife

Of human passion, for the fall atone,

And show our angel-part preserved in thee alone!

Yet noble as thou wert, thy hand was armed

’Gainst thine own life. ’Neath that terrific shock

Thy great heart broke! The eye that Morton charmed

Burst with its grief-flood like the Prophet’s rock.

Cold, callous wordlings, do not Blanca mock.

Her fault was generous—that she loved too much.

Not long did Anguish at her bosom knock.

Like Indian brides when Death their lords doth clutch,

She died in the same hour. Grief killed her with a touch!

Cantabrian maidens, sisters of the oar,

Mourn, mourn for her your Cynosure and pride.

Her star-like eye shall guide your chase no more,

Your glory fled from earth when Blanca died!

In vain your barks shall o’er the billows ride;

Her beauty gave the sunshine most ye miss.

So graceful ne’er again your fleet shall glide;

Nor waves your prows so joyously shall kiss.

For Nereus ne’er surveyed a daughter fair as this!

Mourn, San Sebastian, for the beauty blighted

Of her your angel-child in by-gone years.

Your eyes no more shall by her charms delighted

Recal celestial dreams to chase your fears.

And, Isidora too, be shed thy tears,

Or hoarded for thyself whom danger girds.

Thy foster-sister memory now endears

Alone, with thought of gentle deeds and words.

For ye were severed long, poor caged and sundered birds!

And, England, mourn for him the youthful Chief,

Whose noble promise Death hath there struck down,

Survived by Blanca for a moment brief,

And followed soon beneath the rampart’s frown.

Oh, perished there young Love and young Renown,

And budding Glory in the path of arms.

Mourn for the brave who fell before the town,

Nor least for Morton, first ’mid War’s alarms

To prove the patriot glow the Briton’s heart that warms.

Still roars the thunder-storm—Day wears the gloom

Of Night’s black canopy, and wears it well.

That pall o’erspreads more horrors than the tomb;

Beneath its folds are done the deeds of Hell!

And chiefs who seek the demon strife to quell

Are slaughtered by their men. Drunk volunteers,

Mad soldiers, vile camp-followers, knaves who swell

The array of War, and know nor shame nor fears,

A plundering pathway hew thro’ havoc, blood, and tears.

Still roars the volleying thunder. Dost not feel

Appalled, thou villain, by that lightning-flash,

Nor dream when brandishing thy dripping steel,

That crimes like thine the Eternal arm will lash?

Doth not that thunder-clap thine eye abash?

For not more fell was Attila than thou;

Not Alaric’s self, whose Visigothic clash

Made Spain and Rome, beneath Honorius, bow,

Led monsters to the assault of much more shameless brow.

Such are War’s lessons—such the hideous brood

Spawned by the Passions in the hour of strife;

Such the dire Madness fed by scent of blood,

Where plunder tempts and sullying gold is rife,

Wine fires each appetite and whets the knife;

Dissolved the bands of Discipline, the mould

Of duty broke, restored barbarian life;

Honour and Valour both to Rapine sold.

Look here, Ambition, here: thy handiwork behold!