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diff --git a/6061-0.txt b/6061-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..25914b6 --- /dev/null +++ b/6061-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2670 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Some Poems by Sir Walter Scott, by Walter +Scott, Edited by Henry Morley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Some Poems by Sir Walter Scott + + +Author: Walter Scott + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: May 31, 2020 [eBook #6061] +[This file was first released 30 October 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME POEMS BY SIR WALTER SCOTT*** + + +This eBook was produced by Les Bowler. + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + SOME POEMS BY SIR WALTER SCOTT + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGES +Introduction by Henry Morley ix–xii +The Vision of Don Roderick 133–167 +The Field of Waterloo 168–183 +The Dance of Death 184–188 +Romance of Dunois 189–190 +The Troubadour 190–191 +Pibroch of Donald Dhu 191–192 + + * * * * * + + “_Quid dignum memorare tuis_, _Hispania_, _terris_, + _Vox humana valet_!”—CLAUDIAN. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +Since there is room in this volume for more verses than Colonel Hay’s +{9}, I have added to them a few poems by Sir Walter Scott; the first +written in 1811 at the time of the struggle with Napoleon in the +Peninsula, the second in 1815, after Waterloo. Thus there is over all +this volume a thin haze of battle through which we see only the finer +feelings and the nobler hopes of man. The day is to come when war shall +be no more, but wars have been and may again be necessary to bring on +that day; and it is of such war, not untinged with the light of heaven, +that we have passing shadows in this little book. + +“The Vision of Don Roderick; a Poem, by Walter Scott, Esq.,” was printed +at Edinburgh by James Ballantyne & Co. in 1811. They are the present +representatives of that firm by whom it is here reprinted. It was +originally inscribed “to John Whitmore, Esq., and to the Committee of +Subscribers for relief of the Portuguese Sufferers, in which he +presides,” as a “poem composed for the benefit of the Fund under their +management.” + +The Legend of Don Roderick will be given in the next volume of our +“Companion Poets,” for Robert Southey founded upon it a Romantic Tale in +Verse, which is one of the best tales of the kind in the English +language. Southey’s tale of Roderick himself was written at the same +time when Walter Savage Landor was writing a play upon the subject, and +Scott was, in the piece here reprinted, making it the starting-point of a +vision of the war in the Peninsula. The fatal palace of Don Roderick may +have been a fable connected with the ruins of a Roman amphitheatre. The +fable, as translated by Scott from a Spanish History of King Roderick, +was this:— + + “One mile on the east side of the city of Toledo, among some rocks, + was situated an ancient Tower of magnificent structure, though much + dilapidated by time, which consumes all: four estadoes (_i.e._, four + times a man’s height) below it, there was a Cave with a very narrow + entrance, and a gate cut out of the solid rock, lined with a strong + covering of iron, and fastened with many locks; above the gate some + Greek letters are engraved, which, although abbreviated, and of + doubtful meaning, were thus interpreted, according to the exposition + of learned men:—_The King who opens this cave and discovers the + wonders will discover both good and evil things_. Many kings desired + to know the mystery of this Tower, and sought to find out the manner + with much care; but when they opened the gate, such a tremendous + noise arose in the Cave that it appeared as if the earth was + bursting; many of those present sickened with fear, and others lost + their lives. In order to prevent such great perils (as they supposed + a dangerous enchantment was contained within), they secured the gate + with new locks, concluding, that though a king was destined to open + it, the fated time was not yet arrived. At last King Don Rodrigo, + led on by his evil fortune and unlucky destiny, opened the Tower; and + some bold attendants whom he had brought with him entered, although + agitated with fear. Having proceeded a good way, they fled back to + the entrance, terrified with a frightful vision which they had + beheld. The King was greatly moved, and ordered many torches, so + contrived that the tempest in the cave could not extinguish them, to + be lighted. Then the King entered, not without fear, before all the + others. He discovered, by degrees, a splendid hall, apparently built + in a very sumptuous manner; in the middle stood a Bronze Statue of + very ferocious appearance, which held a battle-axe in its hands. + With this he struck the floor violently, giving it such heavy blows + that the noise in the Cave was occasioned by the motion of the air. + The King, greatly affrighted and astonished, began to conjure this + terrible vision, promising that he would return without doing any + injury in the Cave, after he had obtained sight of what was contained + in it. The Statue ceased to strike the floor, and the King, with his + followers, somewhat assured, and recovering their courage, proceeded + into the hall; and on the left of the Statue they found this + inscription on the wall: _Unfortunate King_, _thou hast entered here + in an evil hour_. On the right side of the wall the words were + inscribed: _By strange Nations thou shalt be dispossessed_, _and thy + subjects foully degraded_. On the shoulders of the Statue other + words were written, which said, _I call upon __the Arabs_. And upon + his heart was written, _I do my office_. At the entrance of the hall + there was placed a round bowl, from which a great noise, like the + fall of waters, proceeded. They found no other thing in the + hall,—and when the King, sorrowful and greatly affected, had scarcely + turned about to leave the Cavern, the Statue again commenced its + accustomed blows upon the floor. After they had mutually promised to + conceal what they had seen, they again closed the Tower, and blocked + up the gate of the Cavern with earth, that no memory might remain in + the world of such a portentous and evil-boding prodigy. The ensuing + midnight, they heard great cries and clamour from the Cave, + resounding like the noise of Battle, and the ground shaking with a + tremendous roar; the whole edifice of the old Tower fell to the + ground, by which they were greatly affrighted, the Vision which they + had beheld appearing to them as a dream.” + +Scott’s poem on the Field of Waterloo was written to assist the Waterloo +subscription. + + H. M. + + + + +THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. + + +PREFACE. + + +THE following Poem is founded upon a Spanish Tradition, bearing, in +general, that Don Roderick, the last Gothic King of Spain, when the +invasion of the Moors was depending, had the temerity to descend into an +ancient vault, near Toledo, the opening of which had been denounced as +fatal to the Spanish Monarchy. The legend adds, that his rash curiosity +was mortified by an emblematical representation of those Saracens who, in +the year 714, defeated him in battle, and reduced Spain under their +dominion. I have presumed to prolong the Vision of the Revolutions of +Spain down to the present eventful crisis of the Peninsula, and to divide +it, by a supposed change of scene, into, THREE PERIODS. The FIRST of +these represents the Invasion of the Moors, the Defeat and Death of +Roderick, and closes with the peaceful occupation of the country by the +victors. The SECOND PERIOD embraces the state of the Peninsula when the +conquests of the Spaniards and Portuguese in the East and West Indies had +raised to the highest pitch the renown of their arms; sullied, however, +by superstition and cruelty. An allusion to the inhumanities of the +Inquisition terminates this picture. The LAST PART of the Poem opens +with the state of Spain previous to the unparalleled treachery of +BUONAPARTE, gives a sketch of the usurpation attempted upon that +unsuspicious and friendly kingdom, and terminates with the arrival of the +British succours. It may be further proper to mention, that the object +of the Poem is less to commemorate or detail particular incidents, than +to exhibit a general and impressive picture of the several periods +brought upon the stage. + + EDINBURGH, _June_ 24, 1811. + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + + I. + + LIVES there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire + May rise distinguished o’er the din of war; + Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre + Who sung beleaguered Ilion’s evil star? + Such, WELLINGTON, might reach thee from afar, + Wafting its descant wide o’er Ocean’s range; + Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood could mar, + All, as it swelled ’twixt each loud trumpet-change, + That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge! + + II. + + Yes! such a strain, with all o’er-pouring measure, + Might melodise with each tumultuous sound + Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure, + That rings Mondego’s ravaged shores around; + The thundering cry of hosts with conquest crowned, + The female shriek, the ruined peasant’s moan, + The shout of captives from their chains unbound, + The foiled oppressor’s deep and sullen groan, + A Nation’s choral hymn, for tyranny o’erthrown. + + III. + + But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day + Skilled but to imitate an elder page, + Timid and raptureless, can we repay + The debt thou claim’st in this exhausted age? + Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage + Those that could send thy name o’er sea and land, + While sea and land shall last; for Homer’s rage + A theme; a theme for Milton’s mighty hand— + How much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band! + + IV. + + Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast + The friends of Scottish freedom found repose; + Ye torrents! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest, + Returning from the field of vanquished foes; + Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close + That erst the choir of Bards or Druids flung, + What time their hymn of victory arose, + And Cattraeth’s glens with voice of triumph rung, + And mystic Merlin harped, and grey-haired Llywarch sung? + + V. + + Oh! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain, + As sure your changeful gales seem oft to say, + When sweeping wild and sinking soft again, + Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp’s wild sway; + If ye can echo such triumphant lay, + Then lend the note to him has loved you long! + Who pious gathered each tradition grey + That floats your solitary wastes along, + And with affection vain gave them new voice in song. + + VI. + + For not till now, how oft soe’er the task + Of truant verse hath lightened graver care, + From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask, + In phrase poetic, inspiration fair; + Careless he gave his numbers to the air, + They came unsought for, if applauses came: + Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer; + Let but his verse befit a hero’s fame, + Immortal be the verse!—forgot the poet’s name! + + VII. + + Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer tost: + “Minstrel! the fame of whose romantic lyre, + Capricious-swelling now, may soon be lost, + Like the light flickering of a cottage fire; + If to such task presumptuous thou aspire, + Seek not from us the meed to warrior due: + Age after age has gathered son to sire + Since our grey cliffs the din of conflict knew, + Or, pealing through our vales, victorious bugles blew. + + VIII. + + “Decayed our old traditionary lore, + Save where the lingering fays renew their ring, + By milkmaid seen beneath the hawthorn hoar, + Or round the marge of Minchmore’s haunted spring; + Save where their legends grey-haired shepherds sing, + That now scarce win a listening ear but thine, + Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging, + And rugged deeds recount in rugged line, + Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, or Tyne. + + IX. + + “No! search romantic lands, where the near Sun + Gives with unstinted boon ethereal flame, + Where the rude villager, his labour done, + In verse spontaneous chants some favoured name, + Whether Olalia’s charms his tribute claim, + Her eye of diamond, and her locks of jet; + Or whether, kindling at the deeds of Græme, + He sing, to wild Morisco measure set, + Old Albin’s red claymore, green Erin’s bayonet! + + X. + + “Explore those regions, where the flinty crest + Of wild Nevada ever gleams with snows, + Where in the proud Alhambra’s ruined breast + Barbaric monuments of pomp repose; + Or where the banners of more ruthless foes + Than the fierce Moor, float o’er Toledo’s fane, + From whose tall towers even now the patriot throws + An anxious glance, to spy upon the plain + The blended ranks of England, Portugal, and Spain. + + XI. + + “There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark + Still lightens in the sunburnt native’s eye; + The stately port, slow step, and visage dark, + Still mark enduring pride and constancy. + And, if the glow of feudal chivalry + Beam not, as once, thy nobles’ dearest pride, + Iberia! oft thy crestless peasantry + Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit their side, + Have seen, yet dauntless stood—’gainst fortune fought and died. + + XII. + + “And cherished still by that unchanging race, + Are themes for minstrelsy more high than thine; + Of strange tradition many a mystic trace, + Legend and vision, prophecy and sign; + Where wonders wild of Arabesque combine + With Gothic imagery of darker shade, + Forming a model meet for minstrel line. + Go, seek such theme!”—the Mountain Spirit said. + With filial awe I heard—I heard, and I obeyed. + + + +THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. + + + I. + + REARING their crests amid the cloudless skies, + And darkly clustering in the pale moonlight, + Toledo’s holy towers and spires arise, + As from a trembling lake of silver white. + Their mingled shadows intercept the sight + Of the broad burial-ground outstretched below, + And nought disturbs the silence of the night; + All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver glow, + All save the heavy swell of Teio’s ceaseless flow. + + II. + + All save the rushing swell of Teio’s tide, + Or, distant heard, a courser’s neigh or tramp; + Their changing rounds as watchful horsemen ride, + To guard the limits of King Roderick’s camp. + For through the river’s night-fog rolling damp + Was many a proud pavilion dimly seen, + Which glimmered back, against the moon’s fair lamp, + Tissues of silk and silver twisted sheen, + And standards proudly pitched, and warders armed between. + + III. + + But of their Monarch’s person keeping ward, + Since last the deep-mouthed bell of vespers tolled, + The chosen soldiers of the royal guard + The post beneath the proud Cathedral hold: + A band unlike their Gothic sires of old, + Who, for the cap of steel and iron mace, + Bear slender darts, and casques bedecked with gold, + While silver-studded belts their shoulders grace, + Where ivory quivers ring in the broad falchion’s place. + + IV. + + In the light language of an idle court, + They murmured at their master’s long delay, + And held his lengthened orisons in sport:— + “What! will Don Roderick here till morning stay, + To wear in shrift and prayer the night away? + And are his hours in such dull penance past, + For fair Florinda’s plundered charms to pay?” + Then to the east their weary eyes they cast, + And wished the lingering dawn would glimmer forth at last. + + V. + + But, far within, Toledo’s Prelate lent + An ear of fearful wonder to the King; + The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, + So long that sad confession witnessing: + For Roderick told of many a hidden thing, + Such as are lothly uttered to the air, + When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the bosom wring, + And Guilt his secret burden cannot bear, + And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair. + + VI. + + Full on the Prelate’s face, and silver hair, + The stream of failing light was feebly rolled: + But Roderick’s visage, though his head was bare, + Was shadowed by his hand and mantle’s fold. + While of his hidden soul the sins he told, + Proud Alaric’s descendant could not brook, + That mortal man his bearing should behold, + Or boast that he had seen, when Conscience shook, + Fear tame a monarch’s brow, Remorse a warrior’s look. + + VII. + + The old man’s faded cheek waxed yet more pale, + As many a secret sad the King bewrayed; + As sign and glance eked out the unfinished tale, + When in the midst his faltering whisper stayed. + “Thus royal Witiza was slain,”—he said; + “Yet, holy Father, deem not it was I.” + Thus still Ambition strives her crimes to shade.— + “Oh, rather deem ’twas stern necessity! + Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or die. + + VIII. + + “And if Florinda’s shrieks alarmed the air, + If she invoked her absent sire in vain, + And on her knees implored that I would spare, + Yet, reverend Priest, thy sentence rash refrain! + All is not as it seems—the female train + Know by their bearing to disguise their mood:” + But Conscience here, as if in high disdain, + Sent to the Monarch’s cheek the burning blood— + He stayed his speech abrupt—and up the Prelate stood. + + IX. + + “O hardened offspring of an iron race! + What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, shall I say? + What alms, or prayers, or penance can efface + Murder’s dark spot, wash treason’s stain away! + For the foul ravisher how shall I pray, + Who, scarce repentant, makes his crime his boast? + How hope Almighty vengeance shall delay, + Unless, in mercy to yon Christian host, + He spare the shepherd, lest the guiltless sheep be lost?” + + X. + + Then kindled the dark tyrant in his mood, + And to his brow returned its dauntless gloom; + “And welcome then,” he cried, “be blood for blood, + For treason treachery, for dishonour doom! + Yet will I know whence come they, or by whom. + Show, for thou canst—give forth the fated key, + And guide me, Priest, to that mysterious room, + Where, if aught true in old tradition be, + His nation’s future fates a Spanish King shall see.” + + XI. + + “Ill-fated Prince! recall the desperate word, + Or pause ere yet the omen thou obey! + Bethink, yon spell-bound portal would afford + Never to former Monarch entrance-way; + Nor shall it ever ope, old records say, + Save to a King, the last of all his line, + What time his empire totters to decay, + And treason digs, beneath, her fatal mine, + And, high above, impends avenging wrath divine.”— + + XII. + + “Prelate! a Monarch’s fate brooks no delay; + Lead on!”—The ponderous key the old man took, + And held the winking lamp, and led the way, + By winding stair, dark aisle, and secret nook, + Then on an ancient gateway bent his look; + And, as the key the desperate King essayed, + Low muttered thunders the Cathedral shook, + And twice he stopped, and twice new effort made, + Till the huge bolts rolled back, and the loud hinges brayed. + + XIII. + + Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted hall; + Roof, walls, and floor were all of marble stone, + Of polished marble, black as funeral pall, + Carved o’er with signs and characters unknown. + A paly light, as of the dawning, shone + Through the sad bounds, but whence they could not spy; + For window to the upper air was none; + Yet, by that light, Don Roderick could descry + Wonders that ne’er till then were seen by mortal eye. + + XIV. + + Grim sentinels, against the upper wall, + Of molten bronze, two Statues held their place; + Massive their naked limbs, their stature tall, + Their frowning foreheads golden circles grace. + Moulded they seemed for kings of giant race, + That lived and sinned before the avenging flood; + This grasped a scythe, that rested on a mace; + This spread his wings for flight, that pondering stood, + Each stubborn seemed and stern, immutable of mood. + + XV. + + Fixed was the right-hand Giant’s brazen look + Upon his brother’s glass of shifting sand, + As if its ebb he measured by a book, + Whose iron volume loaded his huge hand; + In which was wrote of many a fallen land + Of empires lost, and kings to exile driven: + And o’er that pair their names in scroll expand— + “Lo, DESTINY and TIME! to whom by Heaven + The guidance of the earth is for a season given.”— + + XVI. + + Even while they read, the sand-glass wastes away; + And, as the last and lagging grains did creep, + That right-hand Giant ’gan his club upsway, + As one that startles from a heavy sleep. + Full on the upper wall the mace’s sweep + At once descended with the force of thunder, + And hurtling down at once, in crumbled heap, + The marble boundary was rent asunder, + And gave to Roderick’s view new sights of fear and wonder. + + XVII. + + For they might spy, beyond that mighty breach, + Realms as of Spain in visioned prospect laid, + Castles and towers, in due proportion each, + As by some skilful artist’s hand portrayed: + Here, crossed by many a wild Sierra’s shade, + And boundless plains that tire the traveller’s eye; + There, rich with vineyard and with olive glade, + Or deep-embrowned by forests huge and high, + Or washed by mighty streams, that slowly murmured by. + + XVIII. + + And here, as erst upon the antique stage + Passed forth the band of masquers trimly led, + In various forms, and various equipage, + While fitting strains the hearer’s fancy fed; + So, to sad Roderick’s eye in order spread, + Successive pageants filled that mystic scene, + Showing the fate of battles ere they bled, + And issue of events that had not been; + And, ever and anon, strange sounds were heard between. + + XIX. + + First shrilled an unrepeated female shriek!— + It seemed as if Don Roderick knew the call, + For the bold blood was blanching in his cheek.— + Then answered kettle-drum and attabal, + Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear appal, + The Tecbir war-cry, and the Lelie’s yell, + Ring wildly dissonant along the hall. + Needs not to Roderick their dread import tell— + “The Moor!” he cried, “the Moor!—ring out the Tocsin bell! + + XX. + + “They come! they come! I see the groaning lands + White with the turbans of each Arab horde; + Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving bands, + Alla and Mahomet their battle-word, + The choice they yield, the Koran or the Sword— + See how the Christians rush to arms amain!— + In yonder shout the voice of conflict roared, + The shadowy hosts are closing on the plain— + Now, God and Saint Iago strike, for the good cause of Spain! + + XXI. + + “By Heaven, the Moors prevail! the Christians yield! + Their coward leader gives for flight the sign! + The sceptred craven mounts to quit the field— + Is not yon steed Orelio?—Yes, ’tis mine! + But never was she turned from battle-line: + Lo! where the recreant spurs o’er stock and stone!— + Curses pursue the slave, and wrath divine! + Rivers ingulph him!”—“Hush,” in shuddering tone, + The Prelate said; “rash Prince, yon visioned form’s thine own.” + + XXII. + + Just then, a torrent crossed the flier’s course; + The dangerous ford the Kingly Likeness tried; + But the deep eddies whelmed both man and horse, + Swept like benighted peasant down the tide; + And the proud Moslemah spread far and wide, + As numerous as their native locust band; + Berber and Ismael’s sons the spoils divide, + With naked scimitars mete out the land, + And for the bondsmen base the free-born natives brand. + + XXIII. + + Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose + The loveliest maidens of the Christian line; + Then, menials, to their misbelieving foes, + Castile’s young nobles held forbidden wine; + Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation’s sign, + By impious hands was from the altar thrown, + And the deep aisles of the polluted shrine + Echoed, for holy hymn and organ-tone, + The Santon’s frantic dance, the Fakir’s gibbering moan. + + XXIV. + + How fares Don Roderick?—E’en as one who spies + Flames dart their glare o’er midnight’s sable woof, + And hears around his children’s piercing cries, + And sees the pale assistants stand aloof; + While cruel Conscience brings him bitter proof, + His folly, or his crime, have caused his grief; + And while above him nods the crumbling roof, + He curses earth and Heaven—himself in chief— + Desperate of earthly aid, despairing Heaven’s relief! + + XXV. + + That scythe-armed Giant turned his fatal glass + And twilight on the landscape closed her wings; + Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds pass, + And in their stead rebeck or timbrel rings; + And to the sound the bell-decked dancer springs, + Bazars resound as when their marts are met, + In tourney light the Moor his jerrid flings, + And on the land as evening seemed to set, + The Imaum’s chant was heard from mosque or minaret. + + XXVI. + + So passed that pageant. Ere another came, + The visionary scene was wrapped in smoke + Whose sulph’rous wreaths were crossed by sheets of flame; + With every flash a bolt explosive broke, + Till Roderick deemed the fiends had burst their yoke, + And waved ’gainst heaven the infernal gonfalone! + For War a new and dreadful language spoke, + Never by ancient warrior heard or known; + Lightning and smoke her breath, and thunder was her tone. + + XXVII. + + From the dim landscape rolled the clouds away— + The Christians have regained their heritage; + Before the Cross has waned the Crescent’s ray, + And many a monastery decks the stage, + And lofty church, and low-browed hermitage. + The land obeys a Hermit and a Knight,— + The Genii those of Spain for many an age; + This clad in sackcloth, that in armour bright, + And that was VALOUR named, this BIGOTRY was hight. + + XXVIII. + + VALOUR was harnessed like a chief of old, + Armed at all points, and prompt for knightly gest; + His sword was tempered in the Ebro cold, + Morena’s eagle plume adorned his crest, + The spoils of Afric’s lion bound his breast. + Fierce he stepped forward and flung down his gage; + As if of mortal kind to brave the best. + Him followed his Companion, dark and sage, + As he, my Master, sung the dangerous Archimage. + + XXIX. + + Haughty of heart and brow the Warrior came, + In look and language proud as proud might be, + Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights, and fame: + Yet was that barefoot Monk more proud than he: + And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree, + So round the loftiest soul his toils he wound, + And with his spells subdued the fierce and free, + Till ermined Age and Youth in arms renowned, + Honouring his scourge and haircloth, meekly kissed the ground. + + XXX. + + And thus it chanced that VALOUR, peerless knight, + Who ne’er to King or Kaiser vailed his crest, + Victorious still in bull-feast or in fight, + Since first his limbs with mail he did invest, + Stooped ever to that Anchoret’s behest; + Nor reasoned of the right, nor of the wrong, + But at his bidding laid the lance in rest, + And wrought fell deeds the troubled world along, + For he was fierce as brave, and pitiless as strong. + + XXXI. + + Oft his proud galleys sought some new-found world, + That latest sees the sun, or first the morn; + Still at that Wizard’s feet their spoils he hurled,— + Ingots of ore from rich Potosi borne, + Crowns by Caciques, aigrettes by Omrahs worn, + Wrought of rare gems, but broken, rent, and foul; + Idols of gold from heathen temples torn, + Bedabbled all with blood.—With grisly scowl + The Hermit marked the stains, and smiled beneath his cowl. + + XXXII. + + Then did he bless the offering, and bade make + Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and praise; + And at his word the choral hymns awake, + And many a hand the silver censer sways, + But with the incense-breath these censers raise, + Mix steams from corpses smouldering in the fire; + The groans of prisoned victims mar the lays, + And shrieks of agony confound the quire; + While, ’mid the mingled sounds, the darkened scenes expire. + + XXXIII. + + Preluding light, were strains of music heard, + As once again revolved that measured sand; + Such sounds as when, for silvan dance prepared, + Gay Xeres summons forth her vintage band; + When for the light bolero ready stand + The mozo blithe, with gay muchacha met, + He conscious of his broidered cap and band, + She of her netted locks and light corsette, + Each tiptoe perched to spring, and shake the castanet. + + XXXIV. + + And well such strains the opening scene became; + For VALOUR had relaxed his ardent look, + And at a lady’s feet, like lion tame, + Lay stretched, full loath the weight of arms to brook; + And softened BIGOTRY, upon his book, + Pattered a task of little good or ill: + But the blithe peasant plied his pruning-hook, + Whistled the muleteer o’er vale and hill, + And rung from village-green the merry seguidille. + + XXXV. + + Grey Royalty, grown impotent of toil, + Let the grave sceptre slip his lazy hold; + And, careless, saw his rule become the spoil + Of a loose Female and her minion bold. + But peace was on the cottage and the fold, + From Court intrigue, from bickering faction far; + Beneath the chestnut-tree Love’s tale was told, + And to the tinkling of the light guitar, + Sweet stooped the western sun, sweet rose the evening star. + + XXXVI. + + As that sea-cloud, in size like human hand, + When first from Carmel by the Tishbite seen, + Came slowly overshadowing Israel’s land, + A while, perchance, bedecked with colours sheen, + While yet the sunbeams on its skirts had been, + Limning with purple and with gold its shroud, + Till darker folds obscured the blue serene + And blotted heaven with one broad sable cloud, + Then sheeted rain burst down, and whirlwinds howled aloud:— + + XXXVII. + + Even so, upon that peaceful scene was poured, + Like gathering clouds, full many a foreign band, + And HE, their Leader, wore in sheath his sword, + And offered peaceful front and open hand, + Veiling the perjured treachery he planned, + By friendship’s zeal and honour’s specious guise, + Until he won the passes of the land; + Then burst were honour’s oath and friendship’s ties! + He clutched his vulture grasp, and called fair Spain his prize. + + XXXVIII. + + An iron crown his anxious forehead bore; + And well such diadem his heart became, + Who ne’er his purpose for remorse gave o’er, + Or checked his course for piety or shame; + Who, trained a soldier, deemed a soldier’s fame + Might flourish in the wreath of battles won, + Though neither truth nor honour decked his name; + Who, placed by fortune on a Monarch’s throne, + Recked not of Monarch’s faith, or Mercy’s kingly tone. + + XXXIX. + + From a rude isle his ruder lineage came, + The spark, that, from a suburb-hovel’s hearth + Ascending, wraps some capital in flame, + Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth. + And for the soul that bade him waste the earth— + The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure + That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth, + And by destruction bids its fame endure, + Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure. + + XL. + + Before that Leader strode a shadowy Form; + Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor showed, + With which she beckoned him through fight and storm, + And all he crushed that crossed his desperate road, + Nor thought, nor feared, nor looked on what he trode. + Realms could not glut his pride, blood could not slake, + So oft as e’er she shook her torch abroad— + It was AMBITION bade her terrors wake, + Nor deigned she, as of yore, a milder form to take. + + XLI. + + No longer now she spurned at mean revenge, + Or stayed her hand for conquered foeman’s moan; + As when, the fates of aged Rome to change, + By Cæsar’s side she crossed the Rubicon. + Nor joyed she to bestow the spoils she won, + As when the banded powers of Greece were tasked + To war beneath the Youth of Macedon: + No seemly veil her modern minion asked, + He saw her hideous face, and loved the fiend unmasked. + + XLII. + + That Prelate marked his march—On banners blazed + With battles won in many a distant land, + On eagle-standards and on arms he gazed; + “And hopest thou, then,” he said, “thy power shall stand? + Oh! thou hast builded on the shifting sand, + And thou hast tempered it with slaughter’s flood; + And know, fell scourge in the Almighty’s hand, + Gore-moistened trees shall perish in the bud, + And by a bloody death shall die the Man of Blood!” + + XLIII. + + The ruthless Leader beckoned from his train + A wan fraternal Shade, and bade him kneel, + And paled his temples with the crown of Spain, + While trumpets rang, and heralds cried “Castile!” + Not that he loved him—No!—In no man’s weal, + Scarce in his own, e’er joyed that sullen heart; + Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel, + That the poor puppet might perform his part, + And be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck to start. + + XLIV. + + But on the Natives of that Land misused, + Not long the silence of amazement hung, + Nor brooked they long their friendly faith abused; + For, with a common shriek, the general tongue + Exclaimed, “To arms!”—and fast to arms they sprung. + And VALOUR woke, that Genius of the Land! + Pleasure, and ease, and sloth aside he flung, + As burst the awakening Nazarite his band, + When ’gainst his treacherous foes he clenched his dreadful hand. + + XLV. + + That Mimic Monarch now cast anxious eye + Upon the Satraps that begirt him round, + Now doffed his royal robe in act to fly, + And from his brow the diadem unbound. + So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound, + From Tarik’s walls to Bilboa’s mountains blown, + These martial satellites hard labour found + To guard awhile his substituted throne— + Light recking of his cause, but battling for their own. + + XLVI. + + From Alpuhara’s peak that bugle rung, + And it was echoed from Corunna’s wall; + Stately Seville responsive war-shot flung, + Grenada caught it in her Moorish hall; + Galicia bade her children fight or fall, + Wild Biscay shook his mountain-coronet, + Valencia roused her at the battle-call, + And, foremost still where Valour’s sons are met, + First started to his gun each fiery Miquelet. + + XLVII. + + But unappalled, and burning for the fight, + The Invaders march, of victory secure; + Skilful their force to sever or unite, + And trained alike to vanquish or endure. + Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to ensure, + Discord to breathe, and jealousy to sow, + To quell by boasting, and by bribes to lure; + While nought against them bring the unpractised foe, + Save hearts for Freedom’s cause, and hands for Freedom’s blow. + + XLVIII. + + Proudly they march—but, oh! they march not forth + By one hot field to crown a brief campaign, + As when their Eagles, sweeping through the North, + Destroyed at every stoop an ancient reign! + Far other fate had Heaven decreed for Spain; + In vain the steel, in vain the torch was plied, + New Patriot armies started from the slain, + High blazed the war, and long, and far, and wide, + And oft the God of Battles blest the righteous side. + + XLIX. + + Nor unatoned, where Freedom’s foes prevail, + Remained their savage waste. With blade and brand + By day the Invaders ravaged hill and dale, + But, with the darkness, the Guerilla band + Came like night’s tempest, and avenged the land, + And claimed for blood the retribution due, + Probed the hard heart, and lopped the murd’rous hand; + And Dawn, when o’er the scene her beams she threw + ’Midst ruins they had made, the spoilers’ corpses knew. + + L. + + What minstrel verse may sing, or tongue may tell, + Amid the visioned strife from sea to sea, + How oft the Patriot banners rose or fell, + Still honoured in defeat as victory! + For that sad pageant of events to be + Showed every form of fight by field and flood; + Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their glee, + Beheld, while riding on the tempest scud, + The waters choked with slain, the earth bedrenched with blood! + + LI. + + Then Zaragoza—blighted be the tongue + That names thy name without the honour due! + For never hath the harp of Minstrel rung, + Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true! + Mine, sap, and bomb thy shattered ruins knew, + Each art of war’s extremity had room, + Twice from thy half-sacked streets the foe withdrew, + And when at length stern fate decreed thy doom, + They won not Zaragoza, but her children’s bloody tomb. + + LII. + + Yet raise thy head, sad city! Though in chains, + Enthralled thou canst not be! Arise, and claim + Reverence from every heart where Freedom reigns, + For what thou worshippest!—thy sainted dame, + She of the Column, honoured be her name + By all, whate’er their creed, who honour love! + And like the sacred relics of the flame, + That gave some martyr to the blessed above, + To every loyal heart may thy sad embers prove! + + LIII. + + Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona fair! + Faithful to death thy heroes shall be sung, + Manning the towers, while o’er their heads the air + Swart as the smoke from raging furnace hung; + Now thicker darkening where the mine was sprung, + Now briefly lightened by the cannon’s flare, + Now arched with fire-sparks as the bomb was flung, + And reddening now with conflagration’s glare, + While by the fatal light the foes for storm prepare. + + LIV. + + While all around was danger, strife, and fear, + While the earth shook, and darkened was the sky, + And wide Destruction stunned the listening ear, + Appalled the heart, and stupefied the eye,— + Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry, + In which old Albion’s heart and tongue unite, + Whene’er her soul is up, and pulse beats high, + Whether it hail the wine-cup or the fight, + And bid each arm be strong, or bid each heart be light. + + LV. + + Don Roderick turned him as the shout grew loud— + A varied scene the changeful vision showed, + For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud, + A gallant navy stemmed the billows broad. + From mast and stern St. George’s symbol flowed, + Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear; + Mottling the sea their landward barges rowed, + And flashed the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear, + And the wild beach returned the seamen’s jovial cheer. + + LVI. + + It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight! + The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars, + Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite, + Legions on legions bright’ning all the shores. + Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars, + Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum, + Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours, + And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb, + For, bold in Freedom’s cause, the bands of Ocean come! + + LVII. + + A various host they came—whose ranks display + Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight, + The deep battalion locks its firm array, + And meditates his aim the marksman light; + Far glance the light of sabres flashing bright + Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead, + Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night, + Nor the fleet ordnance whirled by rapid steed, + That rivals lightning’s flash in ruin and in speed. + + LVIII. + + A various host—from kindred realms they came, + Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown— + For yon fair bands shall merry England claim, + And with their deeds of valour deck her crown. + Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown, + And hers their scorn of death in freedom’s cause, + Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown, + And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause, + And free-born thoughts which league the Soldier with the Laws. + + LIX. + + And, oh! loved warriors of the Minstrel’s land! + Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave! + The rugged form may mark the mountain band, + And harsher features, and a mien more grave; + But ne’er in battlefield throbbed heart so brave + As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid; + And when the pibroch bids the battle rave, + And level for the charge your arms are laid, + Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset stayed! + + LX. + + Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, + Mingling wild mirth with war’s stern minstrelsy, + His jest while each blithe comrade round him flings, + And moves to death with military glee: + Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free, + In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known, + Rough Nature’s children, humorous as she: + And HE, yon Chieftain—strike the proudest tone + Of thy bold harp, green Isle!—the Hero is thine own. + + LXI. + + Now on the scene Vimeira should be shown, + On Talavera’s fight should Roderick gaze, + And hear Corunna wail her battle won, + And see Busaco’s crest with lightning blaze:— + But shall fond fable mix with heroes’ praise? + Hath Fiction’s stage for Truth’s long triumphs room? + And dare her wild flowers mingle with the bays + That claim a long eternity to bloom + Around the warrior’s crest, and o’er the warrior’s tomb! + + LXII. + + Or may I give adventurous Fancy scope, + And stretch a bold hand to the awful veil + That hides futurity from anxious hope, + Bidding beyond it scenes of glory hail, + And painting Europe rousing at the tale + Of Spain’s invaders from her confines hurled, + While kindling nations buckle on their mail, + And Fame, with clarion-blast and wings unfurled, + To Freedom and Revenge awakes an injured World! + + LXIII. + + O vain, though anxious, is the glance I cast, + Since Fate has marked futurity her own: + Yet Fate resigns to worth the glorious past, + The deeds recorded, and the laurels won. + Then, though the Vault of Destiny be gone, + King, Prelate, all the phantasms of my brain, + Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun, + Yet grant for faith, for valour, and for Spain, + One note of pride and fire, a Patriot’s parting strain! + + + +CONCLUSION. + + + I. + + “Who shall command Estrella’s mountain-tide + Back to the source, when tempest-chafed, to hie? + Who, when Gascogne’s vexed gulf is raging wide, + Shall hush it as a nurse her infant’s cry? + His magic power let such vain boaster try, + And when the torrent shall his voice obey, + And Biscay’s whirlwinds list his lullaby, + Let him stand forth and bar mine eagles’ way, + And they shall heed his voice, and at his bidding stay. + + II. + + “Else ne’er to stoop, till high on Lisbon’s towers + They close their wings, the symbol of our yoke, + And their own sea hath whelmed yon red-cross powers!” + Thus, on the summit of Alverca’s rock + To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul’s Leader spoke. + While downward on the land his legions press, + Before them it was rich with vine and flock, + And smiled like Eden in her summer dress;— + Behind their wasteful march a reeking wilderness. + + III. + + And shall the boastful Chief maintain his word, + Though Heaven hath heard the wailings of the land, + Though Lusitania whet her vengeful sword, + Though Britons arm and WELLINGTON command! + No! grim Busaco’s iron ridge shall stand + An adamantine barrier to his force; + And from its base shall wheel his shattered band, + As from the unshaken rock the torrent hoarse + Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a devious course. + + IV. + + Yet not because Alcoba’s mountain-hawk + Hath on his best and bravest made her food, + In numbers confident, yon Chief shall baulk + His Lord’s imperial thirst for spoil and blood: + For full in view the promised conquest stood, + And Lisbon’s matrons from their walls might sum + The myriads that had half the world subdued, + And hear the distant thunders of the drum, + That bids the bands of France to storm and havoc come. + + V. + + Four moons have heard these thunders idly rolled, + Have seen these wistful myriads eye their prey, + As famished wolves survey a guarded fold— + But in the middle path a Lion lay! + At length they move—but not to battle-fray, + Nor blaze yon fires where meets the manly fight; + Beacons of infamy, they light the way + Where cowardice and cruelty unite + To damn with double shame their ignominious flight. + + VI. + + O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and Wrath! + Ne’er to be told, yet ne’er to be forgot, + What wanton horrors marked their wreckful path! + The peasant butchered in his ruined cot, + The hoary priest even at the altar shot, + Childhood and age given o’er to sword and flame, + Woman to infamy;—no crime forgot, + By which inventive demons might proclaim + Immortal hate to man, and scorn of God’s great name! + + VII. + + The rudest sentinel, in Britain born, + With horror paused to view the havoc done, + Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch forlorn, + Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer grasped his gun. + Nor with less zeal shall Britain’s peaceful son + Exult the debt of sympathy to pay; + Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun, + Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor the gay, + Nor the poor peasant’s mite, nor bard’s more worthless lay. + + VIII. + + But thou—unfoughten wilt thou yield to Fate, + Minion of Fortune, now miscalled in vain! + Can vantage-ground no confidence create, + Marcella’s pass, nor Guarda’s mountain-chain? + Vainglorious fugitive! yet turn again! + Behold, where, named by some prophetic Seer, + Flows Honour’s Fountain, {164} as foredoomed the stain + From thy dishonoured name and arms to clear— + Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her favour here! + + IX. + + Yet, ere thou turn’st, collect each distant aid; + Those chief that never heard the lion roar! + Within whose souls lives not a trace portrayed + Of Talavera or Mondego’s shore! + Marshal each band thou hast, and summon more; + Of war’s fell stratagems exhaust the whole; + Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron pour, + Legion on legion on thy foeman roll, + And weary out his arm—thou canst not quell his soul. + + X. + + O vainly gleams with steel Agueda’s shore, + Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava’s plain, + And front the flying thunders as they roar, + With frantic charge and tenfold odds, in vain! + And what avails thee that, for CAMERON slain, + Wild from his plaided ranks the yell was given— + Vengeance and grief gave mountain-range the rein, + And, at the bloody spear-point headlong driven, + Thy Despot’s giant guards fled like the rack of heaven. + + XI. + + Go, baffled boaster! teach thy haughty mood + To plead at thine imperious master’s throne, + Say, thou hast left his legions in their blood, + Deceived his hopes, and frustrated thine own; + Say, that thine utmost skill and valour shown, + By British skill and valour were outvied; + Last say, thy conqueror was WELLINGTON! + And if he chafe, be his own fortune tried— + God and our cause to friend, the venture we’ll abide. + + XII. + + But you, ye heroes of that well-fought day, + How shall a bard, unknowing and unknown, + His meed to each victorious leader pay, + Or bind on every brow the laurels won? + Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest tone, + O’er the wide sea to hail CADOGAN brave; + And he, perchance, the minstrel-note might own, + Mindful of meeting brief that Fortune gave + ’Mid yon far western isles that hear the Atlantic rave. + + XIII. + + Yes! hard the task, when Britons wield the sword, + To give each Chief and every field its fame: + Hark! Albuera thunders BERESFORD, + And Red Barosa shouts for dauntless GRÆME! + O for a verse of tumult and of flame, + Bold as the bursting of their cannon sound, + To bid the world re-echo to their fame! + For never, upon gory battle-ground, + With conquest’s well-bought wreath were braver victors crowned! + + XIV. + + O who shall grudge him Albuera’s bays, + Who brought a race regenerate to the field, + Roused them to emulate their fathers’ praise, + Tempered their headlong rage, their courage steeled, + And raised fair Lusitania’s fallen shield, + And gave new edge to Lusitania’s sword, + And taught her sons forgotten arms to wield— + Shivered my harp, and burst its every chord, + If it forget thy worth, victorious BERESFORD! + + XV. + + Not on that bloody field of battle won, + Though Gaul’s proud legions rolled like mist away, + Was half his self-devoted valour shown,— + He gaged but life on that illustrious day; + But when he toiled those squadrons to array, + Who fought like Britons in the bloody game, + Sharper than Polish pike or assagay, + He braved the shafts of censure and of shame, + And, dearer far than life, he pledged a soldier’s fame. + + XVI. + + Nor be his praise o’erpast who strove to hide + Beneath the warrior’s vest affection’s wound, + Whose wish Heaven for his country’s weal denied; + Danger and fate he sought, but glory found. + From clime to clime, where’er war’s trumpets sound, + The wanderer went; yet Caledonia! still + Thine was his thought in march and tented ground; + He dreamed ’mid Alpine cliffs of Athole’s hill, + And heard in Ebro’s roar his Lyndoch’s lovely rill. + + XVII. + + O hero of a race renowned of old, + Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell, + Since first distinguished in the onset bold, + Wild sounding when the Roman rampart fell! + By Wallace’ side it rung the Southron’s knell, + Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned its fame, + Tummell’s rude pass can of its terrors tell, + But ne’er from prouder field arose the name + Than when wild Ronda learned the conquering shout of GRÆME! + + XVIII. + + But all too long, through seas unknown and dark, + (With Spenser’s parable I close my tale,) + By shoal and rock hath steered my venturous bark, + And landward now I drive before the gale. + And now the blue and distant shore I hail, + And nearer now I see the port expand, + And now I gladly furl my weary sail, + And, as the prow light touches on the strand, + I strike my red-cross flag and bind my skiff to land. + + + + +THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. + + + I. + + FAIR Brussels, thou art far behind, + Though, lingering on the morning wind, + We yet may hear the hour + Pealed over orchard and canal, + With voice prolonged and measured fall, + From proud St. Michael’s tower; + Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now, + Where the tall beeches’ glossy bough + For many a league around, + With birch and darksome oak between, + Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, + Of tangled forest ground. + Stems planted close by stems defy + The adventurous foot—the curious eye + For access seeks in vain; + And the brown tapestry of leaves, + Strewed on the blighted ground, receives + Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. + No opening glade dawns on our way, + No streamlet, glancing to the ray, + Our woodland path has crossed; + And the straight causeway which we tread + Prolongs a line of dull arcade, + Unvarying through the unvaried shade + Until in distance lost. + + II. + + A brighter, livelier scene succeeds; + In groups the scattering wood recedes, + Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads, + And corn-fields glance between; + The peasant, at his labour blithe, + Plies the hooked staff and shortened scythe:— + But when these ears were green, + Placed close within destruction’s scope, + Full little was that rustic’s hope + Their ripening to have seen! + And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:— + Let not the gazer with disdain + Their architecture view; + For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, + And disproportioned spire, are thine, + Immortal WATERLOO! + + III. + + Fear not the heat, though full and high + The sun has scorched the autumn sky, + And scarce a forest straggler now + To shade us spreads a greenwood bough; + These fields have seen a hotter day + Than e’er was fired by sunny ray, + Yet one mile on—yon shattered hedge + Crests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge + Looks on the field below, + And sinks so gently on the dale + That not the folds of Beauty’s veil + In easier curves can flow. + Brief space from thence, the ground again + Ascending slowly from the plain + Forms an opposing screen, + Which, with its crest of upland ground, + Shuts the horizon all around. + The softened vale between + Slopes smooth and fair for courser’s tread; + Not the most timid maid need dread + To give her snow-white palfrey head + On that wide stubble-ground; + Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush are there, + Her course to intercept or scare, + Nor fosse nor fence are found, + Save where, from out her shattered bowers, + Rise Hougomont’s dismantled towers. + + IV. + + Now, see’st thou aught in this lone scene + Can tell of that which late hath been?— + A stranger might reply, + “The bare extent of stubble-plain + Seems lately lightened of its grain; + And yonder sable tracks remain + Marks of the peasant’s ponderous wain, + When harvest-home was nigh. + On these broad spots of trampled ground, + Perchance the rustics danced such round + As Teniers loved to draw; + And where the earth seems scorched by flame, + To dress the homely feast they came, + And toiled the kerchiefed village dame + Around her fire of straw.” + + V. + + So deem’st thou—so each mortal deems, + Of that which is from that which seems:— + But other harvest here + Than that which peasant’s scythe demands, + Was gathered in by sterner hands, + With bayonet, blade, and spear. + No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, + No stinted harvest thin and cheap! + Heroes before each fatal sweep + Fell thick as ripened grain; + And ere the darkening of the day, + Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay + The ghastly harvest of the fray, + The corpses of the slain. + + VI. + + Ay, look again—that line, so black + And trampled, marks the bivouac, + Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery’s track, + So often lost and won; + And close beside, the hardened mud + Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood, + The fierce dragoon, through battle’s flood, + Dashed the hot war-horse on. + These spots of excavation tell + The ravage of the bursting shell— + And feel’st thou not the tainted steam, + That reeks against the sultry beam, + From yonder trenchéd mound? + The pestilential fumes declare + That Carnage has replenished there + Her garner-house profound. + + VII. + + Far other harvest-home and feast, + Than claims the boor from scythe released, + On these scorched fields were known! + Death hovered o’er the maddening rout, + And, in the thrilling battle-shout, + Sent for the bloody banquet out + A summons of his own. + Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye + Could well each destined guest espy, + Well could his ear in ecstasy + Distinguish every tone + That filled the chorus of the fray— + From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray, + From charging squadrons’ wild hurra, + From the wild clang that marked their way,— + Down to the dying groan, + And the last sob of life’s decay, + When breath was all but flown. + + VIII. + + Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, + Feast on!—but think not that a strife, + With such promiscuous carnage rife, + Protracted space may last; + The deadly tug of war at length + Must limits find in human strength, + And cease when these are past. + Vain hope!—that morn’s o’erclouded sun + Heard the wild shout of fight begun + Ere he attained his height, + And through the war-smoke, volumed high, + Still peals that unremitted cry, + Though now he stoops to night. + For ten long hours of doubt and dread, + Fresh succours from the extended head + Of either hill the contest fed; + Still down the slope they drew, + The charge of columns pauséd not, + Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; + For all that war could do + Of skill and force was proved that day, + And turned not yet the doubtful fray + On bloody Waterloo. + + IX. + + Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine, + When ceaseless from the distant line + Continued thunders came! + Each burgher held his breath, to hear + These forerunners of havoc near, + Of rapine and of flame. + What ghastly sights were thine to meet, + When rolling through thy stately street, + The wounded showed their mangled plight + In token of the unfinished fight, + And from each anguish-laden wain + The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain! + How often in the distant drum + Heard’st thou the fell Invader come, + While Ruin, shouting to his band, + Shook high her torch and gory brand!— + Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand, + Impatient, still his outstretched hand + Points to his prey in vain, + While maddening in his eager mood, + And all unwont to be withstood, + He fires the fight again. + + X. + + “On! On!” was still his stern exclaim; + “Confront the battery’s jaws of flame! + Rush on the levelled gun! + My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance! + Each Hulan forward with his lance, + My Guard—my Chosen—charge for France, + France and Napoleon!” + Loud answered their acclaiming shout, + Greeting the mandate which sent out + Their bravest and their best to dare + The fate their leader shunned to share. + But HE, his country’s sword and shield, + Still in the battle-front revealed, + Where danger fiercest swept the field, + Came like a beam of light, + In action prompt, in sentence brief— + “Soldiers, stand firm!” exclaimed the Chief, + “England shall tell the fight!” + + XI. + + On came the whirlwind—like the last + But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast— + On came the whirlwind—steel-gleams broke + Like lightning through the rolling smoke; + The war was waked anew, + Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud, + And from their throats, with flash and cloud, + Their showers of iron threw. + Beneath their fire, in full career, + Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier, + The lancer couched his ruthless spear, + And hurrying as to havoc near, + The cohorts’ eagles flew. + In one dark torrent, broad and strong, + The advancing onset rolled along, + Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim, + That, from the shroud of smoke and flame, + Pealed wildly the imperial name. + + XII. + + But on the British heart were lost + The terrors of the charging host; + For not an eye the storm that viewed + Changed its proud glance of fortitude, + Nor was one forward footstep stayed, + As dropped the dying and the dead. + Fast as their ranks the thunders tear, + Fast they renewed each serried square; + And on the wounded and the slain + Closed their diminished files again, + Till from their line scarce spears’-lengths three, + Emerging from the smoke they see + Helmet, and plume, and panoply,— + Then waked their fire at once! + Each musketeer’s revolving knell, + As fast, as regularly fell, + As when they practise to display + Their discipline on festal day. + Then down went helm and lance, + Down were the eagle banners sent, + Down reeling steeds and riders went, + Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent; + And, to augment the fray, + Wheeled full against their staggering flanks, + The English horsemen’s foaming ranks + Forced their resistless way. + Then to the musket-knell succeeds + The clash of swords—the neigh of steeds— + As plies the smith his clanging trade, + Against the cuirass rang the blade; + And while amid their close array + The well-served cannon rent their way, + And while amid their scattered band + Raged the fierce rider’s bloody brand, + Recoiled in common rout and fear, + Lancer and guard and cuirassier, + Horsemen and foot,—a mingled host + Their leaders fall’n, their standards lost. + + XIII. + + Then, WELLINGTON! thy piercing eye + This crisis caught of destiny— + The British host had stood + That morn ’gainst charge of sword and lance + As their own ocean-rocks hold stance, + But when thy voice had said, “Advance!” + They were their ocean’s flood.— + O Thou, whose inauspicious aim + Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame, + Think’st thou thy broken bands will bide + The terrors of yon rushing tide? + Or will thy chosen brook to feel + The British shock of levelled steel, + Or dost thou turn thine eye + Where coming squadrons gleam afar, + And fresher thunders wake the war, + And other standards fly?— + Think not that in yon columns, file + Thy conquering troops from distant Dyle— + Is Blucher yet unknown? + Or dwells not in thy memory still + (Heard frequent in thine hour of ill), + What notes of hate and vengeance thrill + In Prussia’s trumpet-tone?— + What yet remains?—shall it be thine + To head the relics of thy line + In one dread effort more?— + The Roman lore thy leisure loved, + And than canst tell what fortune proved + That Chieftain, who, of yore, + Ambition’s dizzy paths essayed + And with the gladiators’ aid + For empire enterprised— + He stood the cast his rashness played, + Left not the victims he had made, + Dug his red grave with his own blade, + And on the field he lost was laid, + Abhorred—but not despised. + + XIV. + + But if revolves thy fainter thought + On safety—howsoever bought,— + Then turn thy fearful rein and ride, + Though twice ten thousand men have died + On this eventful day + To gild the military fame + Which thou, for life, in traffic tame + Wilt barter thus away. + Shall future ages tell this tale + Of inconsistence faint and frail? + And art thou He of Lodi’s bridge, + Marengo’s field, and Wagram’s ridge! + Or is thy soul like mountain-tide, + That, swelled by winter storm and shower, + Rolls down in turbulence of power, + A torrent fierce and wide; + Reft of these aids, a rill obscure, + Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor, + Whose channel shows displayed + The wrecks of its impetuous course, + But not one symptom of the force + By which these wrecks were made! + + XV. + + Spur on thy way!—since now thine ear + Has brooked thy veterans’ wish to hear, + Who, as thy flight they eyed + Exclaimed,—while tears of anguish came, + Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and shame, + “O that he had but died!” + But yet, to sum this hour of ill, + Look, ere thou leav’st the fatal hill, + Back on yon broken ranks— + Upon whose wild confusion gleams + The moon, as on the troubled streams + When rivers break their banks, + And, to the ruined peasant’s eye, + Objects half seen roll swiftly by, + Down the dread current hurled— + So mingle banner, wain, and gun, + Where the tumultuous flight rolls on + Of warriors, who, when morn begun, + Defied a banded world. + + XVI. + + List—frequent to the hurrying rout, + The stern pursuers’ vengeful shout + Tells, that upon their broken rear + Rages the Prussian’s bloody spear. + So fell a shriek was none, + When Beresina’s icy flood + Reddened and thawed with flame and blood, + And, pressing on thy desperate way, + Raised oft and long their wild hurra, + The children of the Don. + Thine ear no yell of horror cleft + So ominous, when, all bereft + Of aid, the valiant Polack left— + Ay, left by thee—found soldiers grave + In Leipsic’s corpse-encumbered wave. + Fate, in those various perils past, + Reserved thee still some future cast; + On the dread die thou now hast thrown + Hangs not a single field alone, + Nor one campaign—thy martial fame, + Thy empire, dynasty, and name + Have felt the final stroke; + And now, o’er thy devoted head + The last stern vial’s wrath is shed, + The last dread seal is broke. + + XVII. + + Since live thou wilt—refuse not now + Before these demagogues to bow, + Late objects of thy scorn and hate, + Who shall thy once imperial fate + Make wordy theme of vain debate.— + Or shall we say, thou stoop’st less low + In seeking refuge from the foe, + Against whose heart, in prosperous life, + Thine hand hath ever held the knife? + Such homage hath been paid + By Roman and by Grecian voice, + And there were honour in the choice, + If it were freely made. + Then safely come—in one so low,— + So lost,—we cannot own a foe; + Though dear experience bid us end, + In thee we ne’er can hail a friend.— + Come, howsoe’er—but do not hide + Close in thy heart that germ of pride, + Erewhile, by gifted bard espied, + That “yet imperial hope;” + Think not that for a fresh rebound, + To raise ambition from the ground, + We yield thee means or scope. + In safety come—but ne’er again + Hold type of independent reign; + No islet calls thee lord, + We leave thee no confederate band, + No symbol of thy lost command, + To be a dagger in the hand + From which we wrenched the sword. + + XVIII. + + Yet, even in yon sequestered spot, + May worthier conquest be thy lot + Than yet thy life has known; + Conquest, unbought by blood or harm, + That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, + A triumph all thine own. + Such waits thee when thou shalt control + Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, + That marred thy prosperous scene:— + Hear this—from no unmovéd heart, + Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART + With what thou MIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN! + + XIX. + + Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renewed + Bankrupt a nation’s gratitude, + To thine own noble heart must owe + More than the meed she can bestow. + For not a people’s just acclaim, + Not the full hail of Europe’s fame, + Thy Prince’s smiles, the State’s decree, + The ducal rank, the gartered knee, + Not these such pure delight afford + As that, when hanging up thy sword, + Well may’st thou think, “This honest steel + Was ever drawn for public weal; + And, such was rightful Heaven’s decree, + Ne’er sheathed unless with victory!” + + XX. + + Look forth, once more, with softened heart, + Ere from the field of fame we part; + Triumph and Sorrow border near, + And joy oft melts into a tear. + Alas! what links of love that morn + Has War’s rude hand asunder torn! + For ne’er was field so sternly fought, + And ne’er was conquest dearer bought, + Here piled in common slaughter sleep + Those whom affection long shall weep + Here rests the sire, that ne’er shall strain + His orphans to his heart again; + The son, whom, on his native shore, + The parent’s voice shall bless no more; + The bridegroom, who has hardly pressed + His blushing consort to his breast; + The husband, whom through many a year + Long love and mutual faith endear. + Thou canst not name one tender tie, + But here dissolved its relics lie! + Oh! when thou see’st some mourner’s veil + Shroud her thin form and visage pale, + Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting tears + Stream when the stricken drum she hears; + Or see’st how manlier grief, suppressed, + Is labouring in a father’s breast,— + With no inquiry vain pursue + The cause, but think on Waterloo! + + XXI. + + Period of honour as of woes, + What bright careers ’twas thine to close!— + Marked on thy roll of blood what names + To Britain’s memory, and to Fame’s, + Laid there their last immortal claims! + Thou saw’st in seas of gore expire + Redoubted PICTON’S soul of fire— + Saw’st in the mingled carnage lie + All that of PONSONBY could die— + DE LANCEY change Love’s bridal-wreath + For laurels from the hand of Death— + Saw’st gallant MILLER’S failing eye + Still bent where Albion’s banners fly, + And CAMERON, in the shock of steel, + Die like the offspring of Lochiel; + And generous GORDON, ’mid the strife, + Fall while he watched his leader’s life.— + Ah! though her guardian angel’s shield + Fenced Britain’s hero through the field. + Fate not the less her power made known, + Through his friends’ hearts to pierce his own! + + XXII. + + Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay! + Who may your names, your numbers, say? + What high-strung harp, what lofty line, + To each the dear-earned praise assign, + From high-born chiefs of martial fame + To the poor soldier’s lowlier name? + Lightly ye rose that dawning day, + From your cold couch of swamp and clay, + To fill, before the sun was low, + The bed that morning cannot know.— + Oft may the tear the green sod steep, + And sacred be the heroes’ sleep, + Till time shall cease to run; + And ne’er beside their noble grave, + May Briton pass and fail to crave + A blessing on the fallen brave + Who fought with Wellington! + + XXIII. + + Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted face + Wears desolation’s withering trace; + Long shall my memory retain + Thy shattered huts and trampled grain, + With every mark of martial wrong, + That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont! + Yet though thy garden’s green arcade + The marksman’s fatal post was made, + Though on thy shattered beeches fell + The blended rage of shot and shell, + Though from thy blackened portals torn, + Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn, + Has not such havoc bought a name + Immortal in the rolls of fame? + Yes—Agincourt may be forgot, + And Cressy be an unknown spot, + And Blenheim’s name be new; + But still in story and in song, + For many an age remembered long, + Shall live the towers of Hougomont + And Field of Waterloo! + + + +CONCLUSION. + + + STERN tide of human Time! that know’st not rest, + But, sweeping from the cradle to the tomb, + Bear’st ever downward on thy dusky breast + Successive generations to their doom; + While thy capacious stream has equal room + For the gay bark where Pleasure’s steamers sport, + And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom, + The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court, + Still wafting onward all to one dark silent port;— + + Stern tide of Time! through what mysterious change + Of hope and fear have our frail barks been driven! + For ne’er, before, vicissitude so strange + Was to one race of Adam’s offspring given. + And sure such varied change of sea and heaven, + Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe, + Such fearful strife as that where we have striven, + Succeeding ages ne’er again shall know, + Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow. + + Well hast thou stood, my Country!—the brave fight + Hast well maintained through good report and ill; + In thy just cause and in thy native might, + And in Heaven’s grace and justice constant still; + Whether the banded prowess, strength, and skill + Of half the world against thee stood arrayed, + Or when, with better views and freer will, + Beside thee Europe’s noblest drew the blade, + Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid. + + Well art thou now repaid—though slowly rose, + And struggled long with mists thy blaze of fame, + While like the dawn that in the orient glows + On the broad wave its earlier lustre came; + Then eastern Egypt saw the growing flame, + And Maida’s myrtles gleamed beneath its ray, + Where first the soldier, stung with generous shame, + Rivalled the heroes of the watery way, + And washed in foemen’s gore unjust reproach away. + + Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high, + And bid the banner of thy Patron flow, + Gallant Saint George, the flower of Chivalry, + For thou halt faced, like him, a dragon foe, + And rescued innocence from overthrow, + And trampled down, like him, tyrannic might, + And to the gazing world may’st proudly show + The chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight, + Who quelled devouring pride and vindicated right. + + Yet ’mid the confidence of just renown, + Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus acquired, + Write, Britain, write the moral lesson down: + ’Tis not alone the heart with valour fired, + The discipline so dreaded and admired, + In many a field of bloody conquest known, + —Such may by fame be lured, by gold be hired: + ’Tis constancy in the good cause alone + Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons have won. + + + + +THE DANCE OF DEATH. +[1815.] + + + I. + + NIGHT and morning were at meeting + Over Waterloo; + Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; + Faint and low they crew, + For no paly beam yet shone + On the heights of Mount Saint John; + Tempest-clouds prolonged the sway + Of timeless darkness over day; + Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower + Marked it a predestined hour. + Broad and frequent through the night + Flashed the sheets of levin-light: + Muskets, glancing lightnings back, + Showed the dreary bivouac + Where the soldier lay, + Chill and stiff, and drenched with rain, + Wishing dawn of morn again, + Though death should come with day. + + II. + + ’Tis at such a tide and hour + Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, + And ghastly forms through mist and shower + Gleam on the gifted ken; + And then the affrighted prophet’s ear + Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear + Presaging death and ruin near + Among the sons of men;— + Apart from Albyn’s war-array, + ’Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay; + Grey Allan, who, for many a day, + Had followed stout and stern, + Where, through battle’s rout and reel, + Storm of shot and edge of steel, + Led the grandson of Lochiel, + Valiant Fassiefern. + Through steel and shot he leads no more, + Low laid ’mid friends’ and foemen’s gore— + But long his native lake’s wild shore, + And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower, + And Morven long shall tell, + And proud Bennevis hear with awe + How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, + Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra + Of conquest as he fell. + + III. + + Lone on the outskirts of the host, + The weary sentinel held post, + And heard, through darkness far aloof, + The frequent clang of courser’s hoof, + Where held the cloaked patrol their course, + And spurred ’gainst storm the swerving horse; + But there are sounds in Allan’s ear, + Patrol nor sentinel may hear, + And sights before his eye aghast + Invisible to them have passed, + When down the destined plain, + ’Twixt Britain and the bands of France, + Wild as marsh-borne meteor’s glance, + Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance, + And doomed the future slain.— + Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, + When Scotland’s James his march prepared + For Flodden’s fatal plain; + Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, + As Choosers of the Slain, adored + The yet unchristened Dane. + An indistinct and phantom band, + They wheeled their ring-dance hand in hand, + With gestures wild and dread; + The Seer, who watched them ride the storm, + Saw through their faint and shadowy form + The lightning’s flash more red; + And still their ghastly roundelay + Was of the coming battle-fray, + And of the destined dead. + + IV. + SONG. + + Wheel the wild dance + While lightnings glance, + And thunders rattle loud, + And call the brave + To bloody grave, + To sleep without a shroud. + + Our airy feet, + So light and fleet, + They do not bend the rye + That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, + And swells again in eddying wave, + As each wild gust blows by; + But still the corn, + At dawn of morn, + Our fatal steps that bore, + At eve lies waste, + A trampled paste + Of blackening mud and gore. + Wheel the wild dance + While lightnings glance, + And thunders rattle loud, + And call the brave + To bloody grave, + To sleep without a shroud. + + V. + + Wheel the wild dance! + Brave sons of France, + For you our ring makes room; + Make space full wide + For martial pride, + For banner, spear, and plume. + Approach, draw near, + Proud cuirassier! + Room for the men of steel! + Through crest and plate + The broadsword’s weight + Both head and heart shall feel. + + VI. + + Wheel the wild dance + While lightnings glance, + And thunders rattle loud, + And call the brave + To bloody grave, + To sleep without a shroud. + + Sons of the spear! + You feel us near + In many a ghastly dream; + With fancy’s eye + Our forms you spy, + And hear our fatal scream. + With clearer sight + Ere falls the night, + Just when to weal or woe + Your disembodied souls take flight + On trembling wing—each startled sprite + Our choir of death shall know. + + VII. + + Wheel the wild dance + While lightnings glance, + And thunders rattle loud, + And call the brave + To bloody grave, + To sleep without a shroud. + + Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, + Redder rain shall soon be ours— + See the east grows wan— + Yield we place to sterner game, + Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame + Shall the welkin’s thunders shame, + Elemental rage is tame + To the wrath of man. + + VIII. + + At morn, grey Allan’s mates with awe + Heard of the visioned sights he saw, + The legend heard him say; + But the Seer’s gifted eye was dim, + Deafened his ear, and stark his limb, + Ere closed that bloody day. + He sleeps far from his Highland heath, + But often of the Dance of Death + His comrades tell the tale + On picquet-post, when ebbs the night, + And waning watch-fires glow less bright, + And dawn is glimmering pale. + + + + +ROMANCE OF DUNOIS. +FROM THE FRENCH. +[1815.] + + +[The original of this little Romance makes part of a manuscript +collection of French Songs, probably compiled by some young officer, +which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and +with blood as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late +owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of +the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is +strictly literal.] + + IT was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine, + But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary’s shrine: + “And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,” was still the Soldier’s prayer; + “That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair.” + + His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it with his sword, + And followed to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord; + Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry filled the air, + “Be honoured aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.” + + They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege-Lord said, + “The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid.— + My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair, + For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.” + + And then they bound the holy knot before Saint Mary’s shrine, + That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine; + And every lord and lady bright that were in chapel there + Cried, “Honoured be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair!” + + + + +THE TROUBADOUR. +FROM THE SAME COLLECTION. +[1815.] + + + GLOWING with love, on fire for fame + A Troubadour that hated sorrow + Beneath his lady’s window came, + And thus he sung his last good-morrow: + “My arm it is my country’s right, + My heart is in my true-love’s bower; + Gaily for love and fame to fight + Befits the gallant Troubadour.” + + And while he marched with helm on head + And harp in hand, the descant rung, + As faithful to his favourite maid, + The minstrel-burden still he sung: + “My arm it is my country’s right, + My heart is in my lady’s bower; + Resolved for love and fame to fight + I come, a gallant Troubadour.” + + Even when the battle-roar was deep, + With dauntless heart he hewed his way, + ’Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, + And still was heard his warrior-lay: + “My life it is my country’s right, + My heart is in my lady’s bower; + For love to die, for fame to fight, + Becomes the valiant Troubadour.” + + Alas! upon the bloody field + He fell beneath the foeman’s glaive, + But still reclining on his shield, + Expiring sung the exulting stave:— + “My life it is my country’s right, + My heart is in my lady’s bower; + For love and fame to fall in fight + Becomes the valiant Troubadour.” + + + + +PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU. + + +[This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to Clan MacDonald. The words +of the set, theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations are applied, +run thus in Gaelic:— + + Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; + Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; + Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; + Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi. + The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, + The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, + The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-place at Inverlochy.] + + PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, + Pibroch of Donuil, + Wake thy wild voice anew, + Summon Clan Conuil. + Come away, come away, + Hark to the summons! + Come in your war array, + Gentles and commons. + + Come from deep glen, and + From mountain so rocky, + The war-pipe and pennon + Are at Inverlochy. + Come every hill-plaid, and + True heart that wears one, + Come every steel blade, and + Strong hand that bears one. + + Leave untended the herd, + The flock without shelter; + Leave the corpse uninterr’d, + The bride at the altar; + Leave the deer, leave the steer, + Leave nets and barges: + Come with your fighting gear, + Broadswords and targes. + + Come as the winds come, when + Forests are rended; + Come as the waves come, when + Navies are stranded: + Faster come, faster come, + Faster and faster, + Chief, vassal, page and groom, + Tenant and master. + + Fast they come, fast they come; + See how they gather! + Wide waves the eagle plume, + Blended with heather. + Cast your plaids, draw your blades, + Forward each man set! + Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, + Knell for the onset! + + + + +FOOTNOTES. + + +{9} This eText comes from a book (_Pike Country Ballads and Other +Poems_, 1891 George Routledge) which contains a number of poems by John +Hay. These have been released separately by Project Gutenberg under the +title “Pike Country Ballads and Other Poems” by John Hay. They are not +included here to avoid duplication. + +{164} The literal translation of _Fuentes d’Honoro_. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME POEMS BY SIR WALTER SCOTT*** + + +******* This file should be named 6061-0.txt or 6061-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/0/6/6061 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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