With many a bitter thought and heavy sigh,

The grave Salustian his discourse resumed:—

“Iberia fell, my children—but her eye

No pomp of battle, no big war illumed.

’Twas fraud and treason her destruction doomed!

France came as an ally—her Lares seized—

The joy-pealed cannon soon in hatred boomed.

And reckless Murat well his master pleased,

His foul behests fulfilled, his rapine-thirst appeased.

“But vengeance ’gainst Godoy the people swore,

Who counselled Carlos from his realm to fly,

And sought in luxury on a foreign shore

The fruits of his portentous sway to enjoy.

Aranjuez saw them burning to destroy!

Shivering in hideous fright, like beast of prey,

Two days, two nights, nor food nor drink Godoy

Partook, till in his den its wolfish bay

The thronging city howled—they stoned him where he lay!

“And mangled, bruised, and torn, from imminent verge

Of death the Guard released him;—Carlos weak

The crown resigned—grey hairs the victim urge,

And, feebler still, Fernando strove to wreak

His feuds upon a throne, where basely meek

Full soon as fawning spaniel he doth woo

The Gaulish tiger—all that France could seek

Too little for his willing hand to do—

All contumelies for him, the Seventh FernÁn, too few!

“Oh galling, dismal servitude! The sword

Which mighty Carlos at PavÍa won

The puny Ferdinand to France restored,

While all through Spain the withering tidings run;

And few believe what patriot ears doth stun.

Wrenched from our armouries the trophy proud,

Which proved how Franks of old must Spaniards shun;

And Altemira voiced our shame aloud:

“The sword of Francis given to noblest hands” he vowed!

“But vain each sacrifice—each base compliance

Still prompted France to urge ignobler claims,

For Spain not yet had raised her proud defiance,

And in Fernando’s youth reposed her aims.

Fernando—he but gorged affronts and shames!

The worshipped Heir of all her line of Kings

His bannered Lion to a genet tames,

Follows his aged sire to France, and flings

Iberia’s crown to earth beneath the Usurper’s wings!

“Oh, wretched mockery of the forms of State,

Oh, farce of Royalty to choke the town!

The sire to-day submits his brow to Fate,

The son to-morrow yieldeth too his crown;

The sire resumes it ’neath NapolÉon’s frown,

Again to-morrow to resign its cares—

Is’t not, then just—how just! that, thus laid down,

The Tyrant’s creature now the bauble wears?

The Father lauds the choice—the Son his ardour shares.

“And both implored of Spaniards to obey

With cordial loyalty the Kingling given,

And both with impious tongue blaspheming say

The usurping dynasty is blest of Heaven!

But Spaniards may not thus be bargain-driven.

Sudden arose the land in all its might;

Sudden its chains like spider-threads were riven.

Too long its slumber—too profound the night;

And when the Nation woke, ’twas in a glare of light!

“Oh, MadrileÑos, generous, dauntless hearts,

Who fell upon that glorious May-lit morn,

Vain is the tear that from the eye-lid starts

At thought of death-wounds all heroic borne,

For Freedom’s blazon doth your biers adorn!

Your blood more potent than Hyantian seed

Sprung armÉd men still fiercer death to scorn

Than ThebÆ saw. Incomparable deed!

Ye braved the Lion’s roar—your wounds Iberia freed.

“For though the sabre clove, the charger trod,

The scattering grape-shot mowed your dense array,

DaÏz, Velarde gave their souls to God

In no unprospering cause that gallant day!

If hundred martyrs perished in the fray,

’Twas myriad men to rouse through prostrate Spain.

Not Murat’s arm could bend her to obey.

Judicial murder bared the knife in vain—

The priestly rite denied—the unoffending slain!

“Asturia first and noblest raised the cry—

Cantabria still untamed the yoke to bear

Our own Biscaya sees with Baston vie—

OviÉdo’s lightning flies to SantandÉr.

It wakes Galicia, kindling Leon’s air.

Castile, unconquered Aragon, Navarre,

The standard of revolt successive bear.

Valencian, Catalan, and And’luz far

The cry devoted raise: ‘Against the Invader War!’

“And lightning fell, ’twas said, upon the shrine

Of Guadalupe within the fatal hour

That saw the last of Leon’s Royal line

Retire to France, and own the Usurper’s power.

In Covadonga, where Mafoma’s flower

Pelayo slaughtered, drops of sweat were seen

Upon the face of Her who stood our tower

In battle; Compostella’s tomb a din

Of arms gave forth, Saint James proclaiming we should win!

“Thus spoke the general voice—thus Spain believed,

And, Heaven and Earth approving, rushed to arms.

The web of Tyranny was swift unweaved,

The land was soon o’erspread by War’s alarms;

For Freedom’s fire once lit intensely charms!

But terrible at first in dire excess

Rude license many a timid patriot harms.

If perished tyrant-tools yet, ah, not less

Good men, too, slaughtered fell in butchery’s helplessness.

“’Twas then the Asturian seniors crost the sea,

And I amongst the number, as ye know,

To Albion’s glorious Island of the free,

Her aid demanding ’gainst the general foe.

And grand and mighty was the enthusiast flow

From brave and generous hearts we witnessed there.

Our strife forgot, our feuds aside we throw,

Like ancient warriors after battle share

The social rite, and war combined ’gainst France declare.

“But Spain would first her might unaided try,

And arms and subsidy alone we sought;

With pain Britannia curbed her spirit high,

But doughtiest weapons to the strife we brought.

Our earlier efforts in the conflict nought

Availed us—France her legions marshalled well.

Undisciplined our valour marvels wrought;

But ’gainst Gaul’s serried phalanx to rebel

Was no light peasant’s task, and hundreds fighting fell.

“Oh, wondrous power of Discipline in war!

Spain’s men despised the conscript boys of France;

Iberia’s sons were stronger, statelier far,

More powerful arm to arm to wield the lance.

But when untrained, disordered they advance,

The unbroken, slender column mows them down.

’Tis thus wild horses o’er the Pampas prance,

The lasso by the light-limbed rider’s thrown,

The strong steed flung to earth his victor hand must own.

“Joy to Valencia! Loud her praise be sung,

Where first the stern Invader was repelled.

In vain from Hell the assassin Calvo sprung,

In vain her Chiefs in dire subjection held.

Soon ’gainst his traitorous vengeance they rebelled.

His strangled carcase on Domingo’s plain,

His severed arm that many a victim felled,

Inscribed with his foul deeds—relentless Cain—

Proclaim that murderous fiends no more dishonour Spain.

“Joy to Valencia! From her leaguered wall,

Full valiantly defended, Moncey flies.

His shattered legions into fragments fall,

So well her grape and musketry she plies;

And torn his summons to surrender lies.

This—this her answer:—‘We have sworn beneath

‘Our country’s ruins buried, ere shall rise,

‘A foreign standard here, to yield our breath,’

And France her flag withdrew all dark with hues of death.

“In SantandÉr Luarca’s mitred head—

Apostle pure—the patriot movement guides;

Priest, peasant, noble gallantly he led,

But, ah, Besaya’s torrent yields its sides;

The Frenchman through the conquered city rides.

Palencia bows her head—ValladolÍd

Gives hostages; her might the Gaul derides.

And Torquemada many a peasant-Cid

Sees ’neath French sabres fall her flaming towers amid.

“Oh, ruthless grasp of the Invader’s hand!

Yet not for this shall Spain his sceptre own.

In vain Te Deums swell through all the land,

In vain allegiance forced sustains his throne.

Though rebels fall, rebellion hath not flown!

Intrusive, throneless, crownless, mocking King,

No Monarch reigneth save o’er hearts alone!

A Tyrant sent thee, poor and bodiless thing,

But ne’er to rule in Spain—for flight prepare thy wing!

“Unconquered Zaragoza shuts her gates;

No fortress her’s, and scarce a circling wall.

Enough that from her soul the foe she hates,

And ’neath her ruined towers hath sworn to fall,

Or ere she live a foreign tyrant’s thrall.

Sublime devotion! Palafox prepares

The proud defence. His gallant soldiers all

Obey his voice: ‘Who loves me with me shares

‘The city’s doom!’ Till death they guard their lion-lairs.

“And many a rampart raised the citizens,

Their puny wall with bristling men defending;

And Tio Jorge and Marin from their dens

Emerge their energies plebeian lending.

On many a dire assault her efforts spending

By Carmen and Portillo, still repelled,

France hurls her shells the town terrific rending.

The Moorish Cosso’s blown in air, and yelled

Is many a dying shriek, but still the rampart’s held.

“Engracia’s stormed—the summons to despair

Is oft repeated but as oft disdained.

Though Zaragoza burn—though tortures tear,

Her vigorous arms shall ne’er by France be chained!

The foe hath entered and the Cosso gained;

But desperate is the fight which there doth rage.

Francisco’s convent burns, yet death fires rained

More fiercely glare—such war did man ne’er wage.

Beside Numantine fame ’twill sound through many an age!

“Within the Cosso’s wide and central street

The foemen fierce contend from side to side.

From roof and window hostile volleys meet;

Each house a fortress, where assault is tried

In vain—the very women far and wide

Rain household gear and scalding water down.

The black and shattered walls with blood are dyed.

The dead in heaps putrescent grimly frown;

And pestilence doth threat the death-devoted town.

“In every street are rival batteries placed.

Entrenched behind a bulwark of the slain,

See where yon Zaragozan death has faced,

Resolved a cannon of the Frank to gain.

’Neath corse-heaped covert he hath passed a chain

Round the huge gun—its end his comrades take—

Their lusty sinews pull with might and main—

The monster moves—but, ah, the chain doth break;

Yet soon as Night doth fall the prize their own they make.

“Terrific sight—the hospital is fired,

And maniacs issue from the blazing walls;

Gibbering and mouthing ’mongst the soldiers tired,

Even more than War their screaming wild appals.

Some frantic laugh while of their number falls

A victim smote—some mope—some mutterings blend;

Some dance and sing amid the hissing balls,

Some with hyÆna yells the welkin rend,

And drivelling idiots cry while warriors fierce contend.

“Glorious resistance! See—the French recede;

To far Pamplona o’er the plain they pass.

Heroic town! not vainly thou dost bleed,

For thou art free, though all one bruisÉd mass.

No monument of marble or of brass

Can rival, sufferer, thy eternal fame!

Nor ’mongst thy patriots be forgotten Sass,

The hero-priest who to the dying came

Now with the Host, and now against the foe took aim!

“Nor dauntless Manuela be unsung,

Who when her townsmen from the battery fled,

With burning linstock to the rampart sprung,

And mounting on the cannon vowed till dead

Ne’er through the siege to leave its Gorgon head.

PenthesilÉa not more beautiful!

Nor thou, Burita, sprung from noblest bed,

And delicate as fair—of courage full—

’Mid showering shot and shell, as Hebe bountiful!

“And, gallant Palafox, let bright-eyed Fame

Thy praise resound, whom nought could turn or bend;

For when no mandate but the word of shame

‘Capitulation!’ France would deign to send,

‘War to the knife!’ thy answer straight was penned.

Worthy was all the heroic times of old.

And monks were seen a warlike arm to lend,

And cloistered sisters the cartouche to mould.

Though History rend each page, this, this shall be enrolled!

“Her tercios Aragon, the Catalan

His bold SomÁtenÉs equipped for war.

Spain’s armÉd peasants all her fields o’erran,

But strife amongst the chiefs too oft a bar,

And Valour weak indiscipline doth mar.

At Rio Seco see the furious charge

Of France’s chivalry like Aias’ car

Mow thousands down beside the streamlet’s marge,

While o’er the affrighted plain their broken lines enlarge.

“But Vengeance comes! Beneath Morena’s shade,

At Baylen see on Andaluzan plains

Where sinks Dupont by olive-circled glade

And deep ravine where blood like water rains,

And wears his mighty host dishonouring chains.

CastaÑos, Reding, bright your laurels shine,

While prostrate ’neath your arm the Gaul remains;

But, ah, perfidious snares your glory mine,

And butchery stains the steel which Conquest lit divine,

“See—see, the Intrusive King o’er Ebro flies,

In pale affright by Baylen’s victory driven;

But tall Pyrene’s bulwarks o’er him rise,

A shield impregnable to despots given.

Dissolve, dissolve that towering rampart, Heaven!

And aid our vengeful spear to hurl him back.

By Spain’s right arm be Spain’s rude fetters riven.

Our warriors move—of zeal there is no lack.

The Invaders feel their ire, like gathering thunder black.

“And hangs upon their skirt with fierce annoy

The mountain Guerrillero tiger-springing,

The Chapelchurri burning to destroy,

From heights around BilbaÖ vengeance winging,

The Chapelgorri with his musket ringing,

A dearer Chacolin—the Frenchman’s blood—

Thirsting to pour, the rich libation flinging

O’er crag and spray—their dainty flesh the food

Of vulture screaming fierce, and kite, and raven’s brood.

“But weak the impulse, uncombined the assault;

Divisions, jealousies, our councils blight.

Too oft on Victory’s field our leaders halt,

And leave unplucked the fruit that gleams in sight:

Oh, that our men had Chiefs to lead them right.

In vain! France rallies through the land once more.

Our peasant warriors gather to the fight,

But compact serried legions gall them sore.

The soiled Escorial holds the Usurper as before!

“To Albion now Hesperia turns her eyes;

Though bloodshot all and weeping, proud her gaze;

For still her spirit doth unconquered rise,

And still she struggles to the world’s amaze.

Swift Albion answers to the call we raise,

And sends to aid our arms a gallant host.

Around her swords the light triumphant plays

Of many a field where perished Gallia’s boast,

And see her fleet descend on Lusitania’s coast.

“For vain, too, there hath Gaul her efforts found.

Our kinsmen scorn to wear a foreign chain.

Indignantly they rise their Tyrants round,

And bear the Freeman’s threatening port, like Spain.

But feeble, too, the bands of Lusitain

’Gainst veteran cohorts battling all through life.

Great Arthur comes from England to maintain

Thy contest, Liberty. With ardour rife

His warriors reach the shore, and gird them for the strife.

“Upon thy beauteous banks, MondÉgo, where

The cry of murdered IÑez lingers still,

And faithful Pedro’s grief the breeze doth bear

In many a sigh from fair Coimbra’s hill,

There Albion’s heroes land. Rude blasts and chill

Blow from the Atlantic. On Boarcos’ crags

Full many a soldier perisheth. But will

Indomitable their’s—nor Lusia lags;

Priest, student, peasant, crowd ’neath azure-crimson flags.

“Hark to the footfall fierce and measured tread

Of Britain’s legions o’er the affrighted ground,

While martial music’s stirring voice is shed,

Enthusiast Valour waking at the sound.

Trombone and cornet make the heart to bound,

The deep bassoon and clarion shrill afar

Their echoes send—the mellow horn around

Gives softer notes, ring fifes their merry bar,

And rolls the doubling drum to stimulate the War.

“RoriÇa, hail! VimiÈiro, blest thy sod!

For there the might of France is hurled to dust.

The robber-host is victory-smote by God.

Junot retires with all his spoils unjust,

But sated once for aye his gory lust!

And other fields by England’s might are tried,

In Heaven and in her arm reposing trust.

Corunna’s heights see crushed the Gaulish pride,

But sad the victory gained where Moore heroic died.

“And rushed great Arthur to the field again,

And conquest o’er his helm unceasing played.

On many a dire, tremendous battle plain

The eagle-crest of Gallia low he laid,

The arms allied in all triumphant made.

My soul doth grow more tranquil—blame him not,

If ruffian-soldiers’ deeds his laurels shade;

Too oft in Victory justice is forgot,

Too oft are armÉd men like fiends when passion’s hot.

“Oh Death in battle! Glory thou art called,

When stirred the fervent blood to seething strife;

But Man prefers thee peaceful coffined, palled,

And shudders unprepared to yield The Life;

For, oh, with terror the dark shore is rife!

Who in precipitate Death would choose to miss

The pillow tended by the loving wife,

The dying hand stretched forth to her to kiss,

The last words whispered low, surviving Memory’s bliss!

“That word recalls, my girls, your mother dead,

And brings to these weak eyes a sacred tear.

Belov’d Juana! round thy honoured head

Celestial glory beams, yet, oh, look here,

And shed protection o’er thy children dear!”

Salustian ceased—he kist the foreheads pure

Of both his weeping daughters, Carlos near

Impatient stood, his eyes with ceaseless lure

Tow’rds the lance-casement drawn, where Morn’s first glimmerings pour.

A day of terror to a night of gloom

Succeedeth; light reveals no glimpse of joy.

But rends the Sun the veil from living tomb,

To show how swift can ruffians armed destroy.

Thy treasures, San Sebastian, a decoy,

Thy household gods are shivered into dust!

Nor yet upon thy fell invaders cloy

Barbarian violence and Rapine’s lust.

The thunder-storm hath ceased—but, Heaven, thy arm is just!

“Thou wilt not go—thou wilt not, Carlos, leave

“Thy Isidora’s side—thy life expose.

“What boots their plunder? ’Tis for thee I grieve,

“Alone—unaided, amongst ruffian foes.

“Father, I dread the worst if Carlos goes.”

But Carlos kist her tenderly, and said:

“No danger fear, mi alma, blushful rose!

“I will be careful for thy sake—this head

“Bright Heaven is sure to shield—an Angel I would wed!”

Don Carlos wended to Salustian’s home;—

A smouldering heap of ruins met his gaze!

And rifled remnants of that noble dome

Drunk grenadiers transported through the blaze.

Oh, who shall paint his horror and amaze!

He took by the throat the first who crost his path.

Red bayonets flashed beneath the autumnal rays;

But buckled to his side a sword he hath,

And many a victim falls a prey to Carlos’ wrath.

Now thronged the soldiery, and Carlos prest

By numbers fought full long with valour rare;

Till faint and bleeding from his wounded breast,

He gained once more the mute Cathedral square.

But, ah, the bloodhounds tracked him to his lair,

And forced an entrance to the sacred pile.

His blood doth guide them up the belfry stair.

They reach the door—they burst it in—the while

Young Isidora screams, and laugh those demons vile.

Grey-haired Salustian feebly snatched a sword,

And Carlos strove to lift—but falls his hand.

Clasped to her breast the maiden her adored,

And wildly shrieking Isabel doth stand,

Nor for her clamour cared the ruthless band.

They charged impetuous, as the breach were still

Before them—fell that chieftain in the land,

Salustian, piercÉd—Carlos they did kill

In Isidora’s arms, where spouts a crimson rill!

Fell to the ground his corse—the maiden stood,

Like Horror’s statue, chained unto the floor.

Flowed round her lovely feet a stream of blood,

New reeking monsters reeled in at the door.

Hell glared i’ their drunken glance. An instant more,

And Honour’s soul had perished. In their eyes

She reads her doom. A fiend through slippery gore

Advanced—in front the casement open lies.

She leaps—Archangels weep at Virtue’s sacrifice!