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diff --git a/6061-h/6061-h.htm b/6061-h/6061-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..97cd3b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/6061-h/6061-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3211 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Some Poems by Sir Walter Scott, by Walter Scott</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .5em; + text-decoration: none;} + span.red { color: red; } + body {background-color: #ffffc0; } + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +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: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME POEMS BY SIR WALTER SCOTT*** +</pre> +<p>This eBook was produced by Les Bowler.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/cover.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>SOME POEMS BY SIR WALTER SCOTT</h1> +<h2><span class="smcap">Contents</span>.</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td></td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGES</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Introduction by Henry Morley</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#pageix">ix</a></span>–xii</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Vision of Don Roderick</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span>–167</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Field of Waterloo</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page168">168</a></span>–183</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Dance of Death</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page184">184</a></span>–188</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Romance of Dunois</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page189">189</a></span>–190</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Troubadour</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page190">190</a></span>–191</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Pibroch of Donald Dhu</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page191">191</a></span>–192</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<blockquote><p>“<i>Quid dignum memorare tuis</i>, +<i>Hispania</i>, <i>terris</i>,<br /> +<i>Vox humana valet</i>!”—<span +class="smcap">Claudian</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h2><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. ix</span><span +class="smcap">Introduction</span>.</h2> +<p>Since there is room in this volume for more verses than +Colonel Hay’s <a name="citation9"></a><a href="#footnote9" +class="citation">[9]</a>, 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; <a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +x</span>and it is of such war, not untinged with the light of +heaven, that we have passing shadows in this little book.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“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>i.e.</i>, 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:—<i>The King who +opens this cave and discovers the wonders will discover both good +and evil things</i>. Many kings desired to know the mystery +of this Tower, and sought to find out the <a +name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xi</span>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: +<i>Unfortunate King</i>, <i>thou hast entered here in an evil +hour</i>. On the right side of the wall the words were +inscribed: <i>By strange Nations thou shalt be dispossessed</i>, +<i>and thy subjects foully degraded</i>. On the shoulders +of the Statue other words were written, which said, <i>I call +upon </i><a name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xii</span><i>the Arabs</i>. And upon his heart was written, +<i>I do my office</i>. 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.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Scott’s poem on the Field of Waterloo was written to +assist the Waterloo subscription.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">H. M.</p> +<h2><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>THE +VISION OF DON RODERICK.</h2> +<h3>PREFACE.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> 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, <span class="smcap">Three +Periods</span>. The <span class="smcap">First</span> 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 <span class="smcap">Second +Period</span> 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 <a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>inhumanities of the Inquisition terminates this +picture. The <span class="smcap">Last Part</span> of the +Poem opens with the state of Spain previous to the unparalleled +treachery of <span class="smcap">Buonaparte</span>, 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.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>, <i>June</i> 24, 1811.</p> +<h3><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>INTRODUCTION.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Lives</span> there a strain, whose sounds of +mounting fire<br /> + May rise distinguished o’er +the din of war;<br /> + Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre<br /> + Who sung beleaguered Ilion’s +evil star?<br /> + Such, <span class="smcap">Wellington</span>, might +reach thee from afar,<br /> + Wafting its descant wide +o’er Ocean’s range;<br /> + Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood could +mar,<br /> + All, as it swelled ’twixt +each loud trumpet-change,<br /> +That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yes! such a strain, with all +o’er-pouring measure,<br /> + Might melodise with each +tumultuous sound<br /> + Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure,<br +/> + That rings Mondego’s ravaged +shores around;<br /> + The thundering cry of hosts with conquest +crowned,<br /> + The female shriek, the ruined +peasant’s moan,<br /> + The shout of captives from their chains unbound,<br +/> + The foiled oppressor’s deep +and sullen groan,<br /> +A Nation’s choral hymn, for tyranny o’erthrown.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page136"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 136</span>III.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But we, weak minstrels of a +laggard day<br /> + Skilled but to imitate an elder +page,<br /> + Timid and raptureless, can we repay<br /> + The debt thou claim’st in +this exhausted age?<br /> + Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage<br +/> + Those that could send thy name +o’er sea and land,<br /> + While sea and land shall last; for Homer’s +rage<br /> + A theme; a theme for +Milton’s mighty hand—<br /> +How much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ye mountains stern! within +whose rugged breast<br /> + The friends of Scottish freedom +found repose;<br /> + Ye torrents! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their +rest,<br /> + Returning from the field of +vanquished foes;<br /> + Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close<br /> + That erst the choir of Bards or +Druids flung,<br /> + What time their hymn of victory arose,<br /> + And Cattraeth’s glens with +voice of triumph rung,<br /> +And mystic Merlin harped, and grey-haired Llywarch sung?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oh! if your wilds such +minstrelsy retain,<br /> + As sure your changeful gales seem +oft to say,<br /> + When sweeping wild and sinking soft again,<br /> + Like trumpet-jubilee, or +harp’s wild sway;<br /> + If ye can echo such triumphant lay,<br /> + Then lend the note to him has +loved you long!<br /> + Who pious gathered each tradition grey<br /> + That floats your solitary wastes +along,<br /> +And with affection vain gave them new voice in song.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page137"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 137</span>VI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> For not till now, how oft +soe’er the task<br /> + Of truant verse hath lightened +graver care,<br /> + From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask,<br /> + In phrase poetic, inspiration +fair;<br /> + Careless he gave his numbers to the air,<br /> + They came unsought for, if +applauses came:<br /> + Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer;<br /> + Let but his verse befit a +hero’s fame,<br /> +Immortal be the verse!—forgot the poet’s name!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Hark, from yon misty cairn +their answer tost:<br /> + “Minstrel! the fame of whose +romantic lyre,<br /> + Capricious-swelling now, may soon be lost,<br /> + Like the light flickering of a +cottage fire;<br /> + If to such task presumptuous thou aspire,<br /> + Seek not from us the meed to +warrior due:<br /> + Age after age has gathered son to sire<br /> + Since our grey cliffs the din of +conflict knew,<br /> +Or, pealing through our vales, victorious bugles blew.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Decayed our old +traditionary lore,<br /> + Save where the lingering fays +renew their ring,<br /> + By milkmaid seen beneath the hawthorn hoar,<br /> + Or round the marge of +Minchmore’s haunted spring;<br /> + Save where their legends grey-haired shepherds +sing,<br /> + That now scarce win a listening +ear but thine,<br /> + Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging,<br /> + And rugged deeds recount in rugged +line,<br /> +Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, or Tyne.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page138"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 138</span>IX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “No! search romantic +lands, where the near Sun<br /> + Gives with unstinted boon ethereal +flame,<br /> + Where the rude villager, his labour done,<br /> + In verse spontaneous chants some +favoured name,<br /> + Whether Olalia’s charms his tribute claim,<br +/> + Her eye of diamond, and her locks +of jet;<br /> + Or whether, kindling at the deeds of Græme,<br +/> + He sing, to wild Morisco measure +set,<br /> +Old Albin’s red claymore, green Erin’s bayonet!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">X.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Explore those regions, +where the flinty crest<br /> + Of wild Nevada ever gleams with +snows,<br /> + Where in the proud Alhambra’s ruined breast<br +/> + Barbaric monuments of pomp +repose;<br /> + Or where the banners of more ruthless foes<br /> + Than the fierce Moor, float +o’er Toledo’s fane,<br /> + From whose tall towers even now the patriot +throws<br /> + An anxious glance, to spy upon the +plain<br /> +The blended ranks of England, Portugal, and Spain.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “There, of Numantian +fire a swarthy spark<br /> + Still lightens in the sunburnt +native’s eye;<br /> + The stately port, slow step, and visage dark,<br /> + Still mark enduring pride and +constancy.<br /> + And, if the glow of feudal chivalry<br /> + Beam not, as once, thy +nobles’ dearest pride,<br /> + Iberia! oft thy crestless peasantry<br /> + Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit +their side,<br /> +Have seen, yet dauntless stood—’gainst fortune fought +and died.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page139"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 139</span>XII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “And cherished still by +that unchanging race,<br /> + Are themes for minstrelsy more +high than thine;<br /> + Of strange tradition many a mystic trace,<br /> + Legend and vision, prophecy and +sign;<br /> + Where wonders wild of Arabesque combine<br /> + With Gothic imagery of darker +shade,<br /> + Forming a model meet for minstrel line.<br /> + Go, seek such +theme!”—the Mountain Spirit said.<br /> +With filial awe I heard—I heard, and I obeyed.</p> +<h3><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>THE +VISION OF DON RODERICK.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Rearing</span> their crests amid the cloudless +skies,<br /> + And darkly clustering in the pale +moonlight,<br /> + Toledo’s holy towers and spires arise,<br /> + As from a trembling lake of silver +white.<br /> + Their mingled shadows intercept the sight<br /> + Of the broad burial-ground +outstretched below,<br /> + And nought disturbs the silence of the night;<br /> + All sleeps in sullen shade, or +silver glow,<br /> +All save the heavy swell of Teio’s ceaseless flow.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II.</p> +<p class="poetry"> All save the rushing swell of +Teio’s tide,<br /> + Or, distant heard, a +courser’s neigh or tramp;<br /> + Their changing rounds as watchful horsemen ride,<br +/> + To guard the limits of King +Roderick’s camp.<br /> + For through the river’s night-fog rolling +damp<br /> + Was many a proud pavilion dimly +seen,<br /> + Which glimmered back, against the moon’s fair +lamp,<br /> + Tissues of silk and silver twisted +sheen,<br /> +And standards proudly pitched, and warders armed between.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But of their Monarch’s +person keeping ward,<br /> + Since last the deep-mouthed bell +of vespers tolled,<br /> + The chosen soldiers of the royal guard<br /> + The post beneath the proud +Cathedral hold:<br /> + <a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>A band unlike their Gothic sires of old,<br /> + Who, for the cap of steel and iron +mace,<br /> + Bear slender darts, and casques bedecked with +gold,<br /> + While silver-studded belts their +shoulders grace,<br /> +Where ivory quivers ring in the broad falchion’s place.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> In the light language of an +idle court,<br /> + They murmured at their +master’s long delay,<br /> + And held his lengthened orisons in sport:—<br +/> + “What! will Don Roderick +here till morning stay,<br /> + To wear in shrift and prayer the night away?<br /> + And are his hours in such dull +penance past,<br /> + For fair Florinda’s plundered charms to +pay?”<br /> + Then to the east their weary eyes +they cast,<br /> +And wished the lingering dawn would glimmer forth at last.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But, far within, +Toledo’s Prelate lent<br /> + An ear of fearful wonder to the +King;<br /> + The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent,<br /> + So long that sad confession +witnessing:<br /> + For Roderick told of many a hidden thing,<br /> + Such as are lothly uttered to the +air,<br /> + When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the bosom wring,<br /> + And Guilt his secret burden cannot +bear,<br /> +And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Full on the Prelate’s +face, and silver hair,<br /> + The stream of failing light was +feebly rolled:<br /> + But Roderick’s visage, though his head was +bare,<br /> + Was shadowed by his hand and +mantle’s fold.<br /> + <a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +142</span>While of his hidden soul the sins he told,<br /> + Proud Alaric’s descendant +could not brook,<br /> + That mortal man his bearing should behold,<br /> + Or boast that he had seen, when +Conscience shook,<br /> +Fear tame a monarch’s brow, Remorse a warrior’s +look.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The old man’s faded +cheek waxed yet more pale,<br /> + As many a secret sad the King +bewrayed;<br /> + As sign and glance eked out the unfinished tale,<br +/> + When in the midst his faltering +whisper stayed.<br /> + “Thus royal Witiza was slain,”—he +said;<br /> + “Yet, holy Father, deem not +it was I.”<br /> + Thus still Ambition strives her crimes to +shade.—<br /> + “Oh, rather deem ’twas +stern necessity!<br /> +Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or die.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “And if +Florinda’s shrieks alarmed the air,<br /> + If she invoked her absent sire in +vain,<br /> + And on her knees implored that I would spare,<br /> + Yet, reverend Priest, thy sentence +rash refrain!<br /> + All is not as it seems—the female train<br /> + Know by their bearing to disguise +their mood:”<br /> + But Conscience here, as if in high disdain,<br /> + Sent to the Monarch’s cheek +the burning blood—<br /> +He stayed his speech abrupt—and up the Prelate stood.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “O hardened offspring +of an iron race!<br /> + What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, +shall I say?<br /> + What alms, or prayers, or penance can efface<br /> + Murder’s dark spot, wash +treason’s stain away!<br /> + <a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span>For the foul ravisher how shall I pray,<br /> + Who, scarce repentant, makes his +crime his boast?<br /> + How hope Almighty vengeance shall delay,<br /> + Unless, in mercy to yon Christian +host,<br /> +He spare the shepherd, lest the guiltless sheep be +lost?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">X.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then kindled the dark tyrant +in his mood,<br /> + And to his brow returned its +dauntless gloom;<br /> + “And welcome then,” he cried, “be +blood for blood,<br /> + For treason treachery, for +dishonour doom!<br /> + Yet will I know whence come they, or by whom.<br /> + Show, for thou canst—give +forth the fated key,<br /> + And guide me, Priest, to that mysterious room,<br /> + Where, if aught true in old +tradition be,<br /> +His nation’s future fates a Spanish King shall +see.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Ill-fated Prince! +recall the desperate word,<br /> + Or pause ere yet the omen thou +obey!<br /> + Bethink, yon spell-bound portal would afford<br /> + Never to former Monarch +entrance-way;<br /> + Nor shall it ever ope, old records say,<br /> + Save to a King, the last of all +his line,<br /> + What time his empire totters to decay,<br /> + And treason digs, beneath, her +fatal mine,<br /> +And, high above, impends avenging wrath divine.”—</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Prelate! a +Monarch’s fate brooks no delay;<br /> + Lead on!”—The +ponderous key the old man took,<br /> + And held the winking lamp, and led the way,<br /> + By winding stair, dark aisle, and +secret nook,<br /> + <a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>Then on an ancient gateway bent his look;<br /> + And, as the key the desperate King +essayed,<br /> + Low muttered thunders the Cathedral shook,<br /> + And twice he stopped, and twice +new effort made,<br /> +Till the huge bolts rolled back, and the loud hinges brayed.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Long, large, and lofty was +that vaulted hall;<br /> + Roof, walls, and floor were all of +marble stone,<br /> + Of polished marble, black as funeral pall,<br /> + Carved o’er with signs and +characters unknown.<br /> + A paly light, as of the dawning, shone<br /> + Through the sad bounds, but whence +they could not spy;<br /> + For window to the upper air was none;<br /> + Yet, by that light, Don Roderick +could descry<br /> +Wonders that ne’er till then were seen by mortal eye.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Grim sentinels, against the +upper wall,<br /> + Of molten bronze, two Statues held +their place;<br /> + Massive their naked limbs, their stature tall,<br /> + Their frowning foreheads golden +circles grace.<br /> + Moulded they seemed for kings of giant race,<br /> + That lived and sinned before the +avenging flood;<br /> + This grasped a scythe, that rested on a mace;<br /> + This spread his wings for flight, +that pondering stood,<br /> +Each stubborn seemed and stern, immutable of mood.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Fixed was the right-hand +Giant’s brazen look<br /> + Upon his brother’s glass of +shifting sand,<br /> + As if its ebb he measured by a book,<br /> + Whose iron volume loaded his huge +hand;<br /> + <a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>In which was wrote of many a fallen land<br /> + Of empires lost, and kings to +exile driven:<br /> + And o’er that pair their names in scroll +expand—<br /> + “Lo, <span +class="smcap">Destiny</span> and <span class="smcap">Time</span>! +to whom by Heaven<br /> +The guidance of the earth is for a season +given.”—</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Even while they read, the +sand-glass wastes away;<br /> + And, as the last and lagging +grains did creep,<br /> + That right-hand Giant ’gan his club upsway,<br +/> + As one that startles from a heavy +sleep.<br /> + Full on the upper wall the mace’s sweep<br /> + At once descended with the force +of thunder,<br /> + And hurtling down at once, in crumbled heap,<br /> + The marble boundary was rent +asunder,<br /> +And gave to Roderick’s view new sights of fear and +wonder.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> For they might spy, beyond +that mighty breach,<br /> + Realms as of Spain in visioned +prospect laid,<br /> + Castles and towers, in due proportion each,<br /> + As by some skilful artist’s +hand portrayed:<br /> + Here, crossed by many a wild Sierra’s +shade,<br /> + And boundless plains that tire the +traveller’s eye;<br /> + There, rich with vineyard and with olive glade,<br +/> + Or deep-embrowned by forests huge +and high,<br /> +Or washed by mighty streams, that slowly murmured by.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And here, as erst upon the +antique stage<br /> + Passed forth the band of masquers +trimly led,<br /> + In various forms, and various equipage,<br /> + While fitting strains the +hearer’s fancy fed;<br /> + <a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>So, to sad Roderick’s eye in order spread,<br /> + Successive pageants filled that +mystic scene,<br /> + Showing the fate of battles ere they bled,<br /> + And issue of events that had not +been;<br /> +And, ever and anon, strange sounds were heard between.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> First shrilled an unrepeated +female shriek!—<br /> + It seemed as if Don Roderick knew +the call,<br /> + For the bold blood was blanching in his +cheek.—<br /> + Then answered kettle-drum and +attabal,<br /> + Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear appal,<br /> + The Tecbir war-cry, and the +Lelie’s yell,<br /> + Ring wildly dissonant along the hall.<br /> + Needs not to Roderick their dread +import tell—<br /> +“The Moor!” he cried, “the Moor!—ring out +the Tocsin bell!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “They come! they +come! I see the groaning lands<br /> + White with the turbans of each +Arab horde;<br /> + Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving bands,<br /> + Alla and Mahomet their +battle-word,<br /> + The choice they yield, the Koran or the +Sword—<br /> + See how the Christians rush to +arms amain!—<br /> + In yonder shout the voice of conflict roared,<br /> + The shadowy hosts are closing on +the plain—<br /> +Now, God and Saint Iago strike, for the good cause of Spain!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “By Heaven, the Moors +prevail! the Christians yield!<br /> + Their coward leader gives for +flight the sign!<br /> + The sceptred craven mounts to quit the +field—<br /> + Is not yon steed +Orelio?—Yes, ’tis mine!<br /> + <a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>But never was she turned from battle-line:<br /> + Lo! where the recreant spurs +o’er stock and stone!—<br /> + Curses pursue the slave, and wrath divine!<br /> + Rivers ingulph +him!”—“Hush,” in shuddering tone,<br /> +The Prelate said; “rash Prince, yon visioned form’s +thine own.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Just then, a torrent crossed +the flier’s course;<br /> + The dangerous ford the Kingly +Likeness tried;<br /> + But the deep eddies whelmed both man and horse,<br +/> + Swept like benighted peasant down +the tide;<br /> + And the proud Moslemah spread far and wide,<br /> + As numerous as their native locust +band;<br /> + Berber and Ismael’s sons the spoils divide,<br +/> + With naked scimitars mete out the +land,<br /> +And for the bondsmen base the free-born natives brand.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then rose the grated Harem, +to enclose<br /> + The loveliest maidens of the +Christian line;<br /> + Then, menials, to their misbelieving foes,<br /> + Castile’s young nobles held +forbidden wine;<br /> + Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation’s +sign,<br /> + By impious hands was from the +altar thrown,<br /> + And the deep aisles of the polluted shrine<br /> + Echoed, for holy hymn and +organ-tone,<br /> +The Santon’s frantic dance, the Fakir’s gibbering +moan.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXIV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> How fares Don +Roderick?—E’en as one who spies<br /> + Flames dart their glare o’er +midnight’s sable woof,<br /> + And hears around his children’s piercing +cries,<br /> + And sees the pale assistants stand +aloof;<br /> + <a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>While cruel Conscience brings him bitter proof,<br /> + His folly, or his crime, have +caused his grief;<br /> + And while above him nods the crumbling roof,<br /> + He curses earth and +Heaven—himself in chief—<br /> +Desperate of earthly aid, despairing Heaven’s relief!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> That scythe-armed Giant +turned his fatal glass<br /> + And twilight on the landscape +closed her wings;<br /> + Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds pass,<br /> + And in their stead rebeck or +timbrel rings;<br /> + And to the sound the bell-decked dancer springs,<br +/> + Bazars resound as when their marts +are met,<br /> + In tourney light the Moor his jerrid flings,<br /> + And on the land as evening seemed +to set,<br /> +The Imaum’s chant was heard from mosque or minaret.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXVI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> So passed that pageant. +Ere another came,<br /> + The visionary scene was wrapped in +smoke<br /> + Whose sulph’rous wreaths were crossed by +sheets of flame;<br /> + With every flash a bolt explosive +broke,<br /> + Till Roderick deemed the fiends had burst their +yoke,<br /> + And waved ’gainst heaven the +infernal gonfalone!<br /> + For War a new and dreadful language spoke,<br /> + Never by ancient warrior heard or +known;<br /> +Lightning and smoke her breath, and thunder was her tone.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXVII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> From the dim landscape rolled +the clouds away—<br /> + The Christians have regained their +heritage;<br /> + Before the Cross has waned the Crescent’s +ray,<br /> + And many a monastery decks the +stage,<br /> + <a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>And lofty church, and low-browed hermitage.<br /> + The land obeys a Hermit and a +Knight,—<br /> + The Genii those of Spain for many an age;<br /> + This clad in sackcloth, that in +armour bright,<br /> +And that was <span class="smcap">Valour</span> named, this <span +class="smcap">Bigotry</span> was hight.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXVIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Valour</span> was harnessed like a chief of old,<br +/> + Armed at all points, and prompt +for knightly gest;<br /> + His sword was tempered in the Ebro cold,<br /> + Morena’s eagle plume adorned +his crest,<br /> + The spoils of Afric’s lion bound his +breast.<br /> + Fierce he stepped forward and +flung down his gage;<br /> + As if of mortal kind to brave the best.<br /> + Him followed his Companion, dark +and sage,<br /> +As he, my Master, sung the dangerous Archimage.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXIX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Haughty of heart and brow the +Warrior came,<br /> + In look and language proud as +proud might be,<br /> + Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights, and fame:<br +/> + Yet was that barefoot Monk more +proud than he:<br /> + And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree,<br /> + So round the loftiest soul his +toils he wound,<br /> + And with his spells subdued the fierce and free,<br +/> + Till ermined Age and Youth in arms +renowned,<br /> +Honouring his scourge and haircloth, meekly kissed the +ground.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And thus it chanced that +<span class="smcap">Valour</span>, peerless knight,<br /> + Who ne’er to King or Kaiser +vailed his crest,<br /> + Victorious still in bull-feast or in fight,<br /> + Since first his limbs with mail he +did invest,<br /> + <a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>Stooped ever to that Anchoret’s behest;<br /> + Nor reasoned of the right, nor of +the wrong,<br /> + But at his bidding laid the lance in rest,<br /> + And wrought fell deeds the +troubled world along,<br /> +For he was fierce as brave, and pitiless as strong.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXXI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oft his proud galleys sought +some new-found world,<br /> + That latest sees the sun, or first +the morn;<br /> + Still at that Wizard’s feet their spoils he +hurled,—<br /> + Ingots of ore from rich Potosi +borne,<br /> + Crowns by Caciques, aigrettes by Omrahs worn,<br /> + Wrought of rare gems, but broken, +rent, and foul;<br /> + Idols of gold from heathen temples torn,<br /> + Bedabbled all with +blood.—With grisly scowl<br /> +The Hermit marked the stains, and smiled beneath his cowl.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXXII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then did he bless the +offering, and bade make<br /> + Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and +praise;<br /> + And at his word the choral hymns awake,<br /> + And many a hand the silver censer +sways,<br /> + But with the incense-breath these censers raise,<br +/> + Mix steams from corpses +smouldering in the fire;<br /> + The groans of prisoned victims mar the lays,<br /> + And shrieks of agony confound the +quire;<br /> +While, ’mid the mingled sounds, the darkened scenes +expire.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXXIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Preluding light, were strains +of music heard,<br /> + As once again revolved that +measured sand;<br /> + Such sounds as when, for silvan dance prepared,<br +/> + Gay Xeres summons forth her +vintage band;<br /> + <a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>When for the light bolero ready stand<br /> + The mozo blithe, with gay muchacha +met,<br /> + He conscious of his broidered cap and band,<br /> + She of her netted locks and light +corsette,<br /> +Each tiptoe perched to spring, and shake the castanet.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXXIV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And well such strains the +opening scene became;<br /> + For <span +class="smcap">Valour</span> had relaxed his ardent look,<br /> + And at a lady’s feet, like lion tame,<br /> + Lay stretched, full loath the +weight of arms to brook;<br /> + And softened <span class="smcap">Bigotry</span>, +upon his book,<br /> + Pattered a task of little good or +ill:<br /> + But the blithe peasant plied his pruning-hook,<br /> + Whistled the muleteer o’er +vale and hill,<br /> +And rung from village-green the merry seguidille.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXXV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Grey Royalty, grown impotent +of toil,<br /> + Let the grave sceptre slip his +lazy hold;<br /> + And, careless, saw his rule become the spoil<br /> + Of a loose Female and her minion +bold.<br /> + But peace was on the cottage and the fold,<br /> + From Court intrigue, from +bickering faction far;<br /> + Beneath the chestnut-tree Love’s tale was +told,<br /> + And to the tinkling of the light +guitar,<br /> +Sweet stooped the western sun, sweet rose the evening star.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXXVI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> As that sea-cloud, in size +like human hand,<br /> + When first from Carmel by the +Tishbite seen,<br /> + Came slowly overshadowing Israel’s land,<br /> + A while, perchance, bedecked with +colours sheen,<br /> + <a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>While yet the sunbeams on its skirts had been,<br /> + Limning with purple and with gold +its shroud,<br /> + Till darker folds obscured the blue serene<br /> + And blotted heaven with one broad +sable cloud,<br /> +Then sheeted rain burst down, and whirlwinds howled +aloud:—</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXXVII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Even so, upon that peaceful +scene was poured,<br /> + Like gathering clouds, full many a +foreign band,<br /> + And <span class="smcap">He</span>, their Leader, +wore in sheath his sword,<br /> + And offered peaceful front and +open hand,<br /> + Veiling the perjured treachery he planned,<br /> + By friendship’s zeal and +honour’s specious guise,<br /> + Until he won the passes of the land;<br /> + Then burst were honour’s +oath and friendship’s ties!<br /> +He clutched his vulture grasp, and called fair Spain his +prize.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXXVIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> An iron crown his anxious +forehead bore;<br /> + And well such diadem his heart +became,<br /> + Who ne’er his purpose for remorse gave +o’er,<br /> + Or checked his course for piety or +shame;<br /> + Who, trained a soldier, deemed a soldier’s +fame<br /> + Might flourish in the wreath of +battles won,<br /> + Though neither truth nor honour decked his name;<br +/> + Who, placed by fortune on a +Monarch’s throne,<br /> +Recked not of Monarch’s faith, or Mercy’s kingly +tone.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXXIX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> From a rude isle his ruder +lineage came,<br /> + The spark, that, from a +suburb-hovel’s hearth<br /> + Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,<br /> + Hath not a meaner or more sordid +birth.<br /> + <a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>And for the soul that bade him waste the +earth—<br /> + The sable land-flood from some +swamp obscure<br /> + That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth,<br +/> + And by destruction bids its fame +endure,<br /> +Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XL.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Before that Leader strode a +shadowy Form;<br /> + Her limbs like mist, her torch +like meteor showed,<br /> + With which she beckoned him through fight and +storm,<br /> + And all he crushed that crossed +his desperate road,<br /> + Nor thought, nor feared, nor looked on what he +trode.<br /> + Realms could not glut his pride, +blood could not slake,<br /> + So oft as e’er she shook her torch +abroad—<br /> + It was <span +class="smcap">Ambition</span> bade her terrors wake,<br /> +Nor deigned she, as of yore, a milder form to take.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XLI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> No longer now she spurned at +mean revenge,<br /> + Or stayed her hand for conquered +foeman’s moan;<br /> + As when, the fates of aged Rome to change,<br /> + By Cæsar’s side she +crossed the Rubicon.<br /> + Nor joyed she to bestow the spoils she won,<br /> + As when the banded powers of +Greece were tasked<br /> + To war beneath the Youth of Macedon:<br /> + No seemly veil her modern minion +asked,<br /> +He saw her hideous face, and loved the fiend unmasked.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page154"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 154</span>XLII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> That Prelate marked his +march—On banners blazed<br /> + With battles won in many a distant +land,<br /> + On eagle-standards and on arms he gazed;<br /> + “And hopest thou, +then,” he said, “thy power shall stand?<br /> + Oh! thou hast builded on the shifting sand,<br /> + And thou hast tempered it with +slaughter’s flood;<br /> + And know, fell scourge in the Almighty’s +hand,<br /> + Gore-moistened trees shall perish +in the bud,<br /> +And by a bloody death shall die the Man of Blood!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XLIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The ruthless Leader beckoned +from his train<br /> + A wan fraternal Shade, and bade +him kneel,<br /> + And paled his temples with the crown of Spain,<br /> + While trumpets rang, and heralds +cried “Castile!”<br /> + Not that he loved him—No!—In no +man’s weal,<br /> + Scarce in his own, e’er +joyed that sullen heart;<br /> + Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel,<br +/> + That the poor puppet might perform +his part,<br /> +And be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck to start.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XLIV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But on the Natives of that +Land misused,<br /> + Not long the silence of amazement +hung,<br /> + Nor brooked they long their friendly faith +abused;<br /> + For, with a common shriek, the +general tongue<br /> + Exclaimed, “To arms!”—and fast to +arms they sprung.<br /> + And <span +class="smcap">Valour</span> woke, that Genius of the Land!<br /> + Pleasure, and ease, and sloth aside he flung,<br /> + As burst the awakening Nazarite +his band,<br /> +When ’gainst his treacherous foes he clenched his dreadful +hand.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page155"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 155</span>XLV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> That Mimic Monarch now cast +anxious eye<br /> + Upon the Satraps that begirt him +round,<br /> + Now doffed his royal robe in act to fly,<br /> + And from his brow the diadem +unbound.<br /> + So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound,<br /> + From Tarik’s walls to +Bilboa’s mountains blown,<br /> + These martial satellites hard labour found<br /> + To guard awhile his substituted +throne—<br /> +Light recking of his cause, but battling for their own.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XLVI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> From Alpuhara’s peak +that bugle rung,<br /> + And it was echoed from +Corunna’s wall;<br /> + Stately Seville responsive war-shot flung,<br /> + Grenada caught it in her Moorish +hall;<br /> + Galicia bade her children fight or fall,<br /> + Wild Biscay shook his +mountain-coronet,<br /> + Valencia roused her at the battle-call,<br /> + And, foremost still where +Valour’s sons are met,<br /> +First started to his gun each fiery Miquelet.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XLVII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But unappalled, and burning +for the fight,<br /> + The Invaders march, of victory +secure;<br /> + Skilful their force to sever or unite,<br /> + And trained alike to vanquish or +endure.<br /> + Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to ensure,<br /> + Discord to breathe, and jealousy +to sow,<br /> + To quell by boasting, and by bribes to lure;<br /> + While nought against them bring +the unpractised foe,<br /> +Save hearts for Freedom’s cause, and hands for +Freedom’s blow.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page156"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 156</span>XLVIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Proudly they march—but, +oh! they march not forth<br /> + By one hot field to crown a brief +campaign,<br /> + As when their Eagles, sweeping through the North,<br +/> + Destroyed at every stoop an +ancient reign!<br /> + Far other fate had Heaven decreed for Spain;<br /> + In vain the steel, in vain the +torch was plied,<br /> + New Patriot armies started from the slain,<br /> + High blazed the war, and long, and +far, and wide,<br /> +And oft the God of Battles blest the righteous side.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XLIX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Nor unatoned, where +Freedom’s foes prevail,<br /> + Remained their savage waste. +With blade and brand<br /> + By day the Invaders ravaged hill and dale,<br /> + But, with the darkness, the +Guerilla band<br /> + Came like night’s tempest, and avenged the +land,<br /> + And claimed for blood the +retribution due,<br /> + Probed the hard heart, and lopped the +murd’rous hand;<br /> + And Dawn, when o’er the +scene her beams she threw<br /> +’Midst ruins they had made, the spoilers’ corpses +knew.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">L.</p> +<p class="poetry"> What minstrel verse may sing, +or tongue may tell,<br /> + Amid the visioned strife from sea +to sea,<br /> + How oft the Patriot banners rose or fell,<br /> + Still honoured in defeat as +victory!<br /> + For that sad pageant of events to be<br /> + Showed every form of fight by +field and flood;<br /> + Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their glee,<br /> + Beheld, while riding on the +tempest scud,<br /> +The waters choked with slain, the earth bedrenched with +blood!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page157"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 157</span>LI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then Zaragoza—blighted +be the tongue<br /> + That names thy name without the +honour due!<br /> + For never hath the harp of Minstrel rung,<br /> + Of faith so felly proved, so +firmly true!<br /> + Mine, sap, and bomb thy shattered ruins knew,<br /> + Each art of war’s extremity +had room,<br /> + Twice from thy half-sacked streets the foe +withdrew,<br /> + And when at length stern fate +decreed thy doom,<br /> +They won not Zaragoza, but her children’s bloody tomb.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet raise thy head, sad +city! Though in chains,<br /> + Enthralled thou canst not +be! Arise, and claim<br /> + Reverence from every heart where Freedom reigns,<br +/> + For what thou +worshippest!—thy sainted dame,<br /> + She of the Column, honoured be her name<br /> + By all, whate’er their +creed, who honour love!<br /> + And like the sacred relics of the flame,<br /> + That gave some martyr to the +blessed above,<br /> +To every loyal heart may thy sad embers prove!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Nor thine alone such +wreck. Gerona fair!<br /> + Faithful to death thy heroes shall +be sung,<br /> + Manning the towers, while o’er their heads the +air<br /> + Swart as the smoke from raging +furnace hung;<br /> + Now thicker darkening where the mine was sprung,<br +/> + Now briefly lightened by the +cannon’s flare,<br /> + Now arched with fire-sparks as the bomb was +flung,<br /> + And reddening now with +conflagration’s glare,<br /> +While by the fatal light the foes for storm prepare.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page158"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 158</span>LIV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> While all around was danger, +strife, and fear,<br /> + While the earth shook, and +darkened was the sky,<br /> + And wide Destruction stunned the listening ear,<br +/> + Appalled the heart, and stupefied +the eye,—<br /> + Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry,<br /> + In which old Albion’s heart +and tongue unite,<br /> + Whene’er her soul is up, and pulse beats +high,<br /> + Whether it hail the wine-cup or +the fight,<br /> +And bid each arm be strong, or bid each heart be light.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Don Roderick turned him as +the shout grew loud—<br /> + A varied scene the changeful +vision showed,<br /> + For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud,<br /> + A gallant navy stemmed the billows +broad.<br /> + From mast and stern St. George’s symbol +flowed,<br /> + Blent with the silver cross to +Scotland dear;<br /> + Mottling the sea their landward barges rowed,<br /> + And flashed the sun on bayonet, +brand, and spear,<br /> +And the wild beach returned the seamen’s jovial cheer.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LVI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> It was a dread, yet +spirit-stirring sight!<br /> + The billows foamed beneath a +thousand oars,<br /> + Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite,<br /> + Legions on legions +bright’ning all the shores.<br /> + Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars,<br /> + Then peals the warlike thunder of +the drum,<br /> + Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish +pours,<br /> + And patriot hopes awake, and +doubts are dumb,<br /> +For, bold in Freedom’s cause, the bands of Ocean come!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page159"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 159</span>LVII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> A various host they +came—whose ranks display<br /> + Each mode in which the warrior +meets the fight,<br /> + The deep battalion locks its firm array,<br /> + And meditates his aim the marksman +light;<br /> + Far glance the light of sabres flashing bright<br /> + Where mounted squadrons shake the +echoing mead,<br /> + Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night,<br /> + Nor the fleet ordnance whirled by +rapid steed,<br /> +That rivals lightning’s flash in ruin and in speed.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LVIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> A various host—from +kindred realms they came,<br /> + Brethren in arms, but rivals in +renown—<br /> + For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,<br /> + And with their deeds of valour +deck her crown.<br /> + Hers their bold port, and hers their martial +frown,<br /> + And hers their scorn of death in +freedom’s cause,<br /> + Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown,<br /> + And the blunt speech that bursts +without a pause,<br /> +And free-born thoughts which league the Soldier with the +Laws.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LIX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And, oh! loved warriors of +the Minstrel’s land!<br /> + Yonder your bonnets nod, your +tartans wave!<br /> + The rugged form may mark the mountain band,<br /> + And harsher features, and a mien +more grave;<br /> + But ne’er in battlefield throbbed heart so +brave<br /> + As that which beats beneath the +Scottish plaid;<br /> + And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,<br /> + And level for the charge your arms +are laid,<br /> +Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset stayed!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page160"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 160</span>LX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Hark! from yon stately ranks +what laughter rings,<br /> + Mingling wild mirth with +war’s stern minstrelsy,<br /> + His jest while each blithe comrade round him +flings,<br /> + And moves to death with military +glee:<br /> + Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and +free,<br /> + In kindness warm, and fierce in +danger known,<br /> + Rough Nature’s children, humorous as she:<br +/> + And <span class="smcap">He</span>, +yon Chieftain—strike the proudest tone<br /> +Of thy bold harp, green Isle!—the Hero is thine own.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LXI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Now on the scene Vimeira +should be shown,<br /> + On Talavera’s fight should +Roderick gaze,<br /> + And hear Corunna wail her battle won,<br /> + And see Busaco’s crest with +lightning blaze:—<br /> + But shall fond fable mix with heroes’ +praise?<br /> + Hath Fiction’s stage for +Truth’s long triumphs room?<br /> + And dare her wild flowers mingle with the bays<br /> + That claim a long eternity to +bloom<br /> +Around the warrior’s crest, and o’er the +warrior’s tomb!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LXII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Or may I give adventurous +Fancy scope,<br /> + And stretch a bold hand to the +awful veil<br /> + That hides futurity from anxious hope,<br /> + Bidding beyond it scenes of glory +hail,<br /> + And painting Europe rousing at the tale<br /> + Of Spain’s invaders from her +confines hurled,<br /> + While kindling nations buckle on their mail,<br /> + And Fame, with clarion-blast and +wings unfurled,<br /> +To Freedom and Revenge awakes an injured World!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page161"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 161</span>LXIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O vain, though anxious, is +the glance I cast,<br /> + Since Fate has marked futurity her +own:<br /> + Yet Fate resigns to worth the glorious past,<br /> + The deeds recorded, and the +laurels won.<br /> + Then, though the Vault of Destiny be gone,<br /> + King, Prelate, all the phantasms +of my brain,<br /> + Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun,<br /> + Yet grant for faith, for valour, +and for Spain,<br /> +One note of pride and fire, a Patriot’s parting strain!</p> +<h3>CONCLUSION.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Who shall command +Estrella’s mountain-tide<br /> + Back to the source, when +tempest-chafed, to hie?<br /> + Who, when Gascogne’s vexed gulf is raging +wide,<br /> + Shall hush it as a nurse her +infant’s cry?<br /> + His magic power let such vain boaster try,<br /> + And when the torrent shall his +voice obey,<br /> + And Biscay’s whirlwinds list his lullaby,<br +/> + Let him stand forth and bar mine +eagles’ way,<br /> +And they shall heed his voice, and at his bidding stay.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Else ne’er to +stoop, till high on Lisbon’s towers<br /> + They close their wings, the symbol +of our yoke,<br /> + And their own sea hath whelmed yon red-cross +powers!”<br /> + Thus, on the summit of +Alverca’s rock<br /> + <a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul’s Leader +spoke.<br /> + While downward on the land his +legions press,<br /> + Before them it was rich with vine and flock,<br /> + And smiled like Eden in her summer +dress;—<br /> +Behind their wasteful march a reeking wilderness.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And shall the boastful Chief +maintain his word,<br /> + Though Heaven hath heard the +wailings of the land,<br /> + Though Lusitania whet her vengeful sword,<br /> + Though Britons arm and <span +class="smcap">Wellington</span> command!<br /> + No! grim Busaco’s iron ridge shall stand<br /> + An adamantine barrier to his +force;<br /> + And from its base shall wheel his shattered band,<br +/> + As from the unshaken rock the +torrent hoarse<br /> +Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a devious course.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet not because +Alcoba’s mountain-hawk<br /> + Hath on his best and bravest made +her food,<br /> + In numbers confident, yon Chief shall baulk<br /> + His Lord’s imperial thirst +for spoil and blood:<br /> + For full in view the promised conquest stood,<br /> + And Lisbon’s matrons from +their walls might sum<br /> + The myriads that had half the world subdued,<br /> + And hear the distant thunders of +the drum,<br /> +That bids the bands of France to storm and havoc come.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Four moons have heard these +thunders idly rolled,<br /> + Have seen these wistful myriads +eye their prey,<br /> + As famished wolves survey a guarded fold—<br +/> + But in the middle path a Lion +lay!<br /> + <a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span>At length they move—but not to battle-fray,<br /> + Nor blaze yon fires where meets +the manly fight;<br /> + Beacons of infamy, they light the way<br /> + Where cowardice and cruelty +unite<br /> +To damn with double shame their ignominious flight.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O triumph for the Fiends of +Lust and Wrath!<br /> + Ne’er to be told, yet +ne’er to be forgot,<br /> + What wanton horrors marked their wreckful path!<br +/> + The peasant butchered in his +ruined cot,<br /> + The hoary priest even at the altar shot,<br /> + Childhood and age given o’er +to sword and flame,<br /> + Woman to infamy;—no crime forgot,<br /> + By which inventive demons might +proclaim<br /> +Immortal hate to man, and scorn of God’s great name!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The rudest sentinel, in +Britain born,<br /> + With horror paused to view the +havoc done,<br /> + Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch forlorn,<br +/> + Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer +grasped his gun.<br /> + Nor with less zeal shall Britain’s peaceful +son<br /> + Exult the debt of sympathy to +pay;<br /> + Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun,<br /> + Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy +nor the gay,<br /> +Nor the poor peasant’s mite, nor bard’s more +worthless lay.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But thou—unfoughten +wilt thou yield to Fate,<br /> + Minion of Fortune, now miscalled +in vain!<br /> + Can vantage-ground no confidence create,<br /> + Marcella’s pass, nor +Guarda’s mountain-chain?<br /> + <a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>Vainglorious fugitive! yet turn again!<br /> + Behold, where, named by some +prophetic Seer,<br /> + Flows Honour’s Fountain, <a +name="citation164"></a><a href="#footnote164" +class="citation">[164]</a> as foredoomed the stain<br /> + From thy dishonoured name and arms +to clear—<br /> +Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her favour here!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IX.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet, ere thou turn’st, +collect each distant aid;<br /> + Those chief that never heard the +lion roar!<br /> + Within whose souls lives not a trace portrayed<br /> + Of Talavera or Mondego’s +shore!<br /> + Marshal each band thou hast, and summon more;<br /> + Of war’s fell stratagems +exhaust the whole;<br /> + Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron pour,<br /> + Legion on legion on thy foeman +roll,<br /> +And weary out his arm—thou canst not quell his soul.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">X.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O vainly gleams with steel +Agueda’s shore,<br /> + Vainly thy squadrons hide +Assuava’s plain,<br /> + And front the flying thunders as they roar,<br /> + With frantic charge and tenfold +odds, in vain!<br /> + And what avails thee that, for <span +class="smcap">Cameron</span> slain,<br /> + Wild from his plaided ranks the +yell was given—<br /> + Vengeance and grief gave mountain-range the rein,<br +/> + And, at the bloody spear-point +headlong driven,<br /> +Thy Despot’s giant guards fled like the rack of heaven.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Go, baffled boaster! teach +thy haughty mood<br /> + To plead at thine imperious +master’s throne,<br /> + Say, thou hast left his legions in their blood,<br +/> + Deceived his hopes, and frustrated +thine own;<br /> + <a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>Say, that thine utmost skill and valour shown,<br /> + By British skill and valour were +outvied;<br /> + Last say, thy conqueror was <span +class="smcap">Wellington</span>!<br /> + And if he chafe, be his own +fortune tried—<br /> +God and our cause to friend, the venture we’ll abide.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But you, ye heroes of that +well-fought day,<br /> + How shall a bard, unknowing and +unknown,<br /> + His meed to each victorious leader pay,<br /> + Or bind on every brow the laurels +won?<br /> + Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest tone,<br /> + O’er the wide sea to hail +<span class="smcap">Cadogan</span> brave;<br /> + And he, perchance, the minstrel-note might own,<br +/> + Mindful of meeting brief that +Fortune gave<br /> +’Mid yon far western isles that hear the Atlantic rave.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yes! hard the task, when +Britons wield the sword,<br /> + To give each Chief and every field +its fame:<br /> + Hark! Albuera thunders <span +class="smcap">Beresford</span>,<br /> + And Red Barosa shouts for +dauntless <span class="smcap">Græme</span>!<br /> + O for a verse of tumult and of flame,<br /> + Bold as the bursting of their +cannon sound,<br /> + To bid the world re-echo to their fame!<br /> + For never, upon gory +battle-ground,<br /> +With conquest’s well-bought wreath were braver victors +crowned!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O who shall grudge him +Albuera’s bays,<br /> + Who brought a race regenerate to +the field,<br /> + Roused them to emulate their fathers’ +praise,<br /> + Tempered their headlong rage, +their courage steeled,<br /> + <a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>And raised fair Lusitania’s fallen shield,<br /> + And gave new edge to +Lusitania’s sword,<br /> + And taught her sons forgotten arms to +wield—<br /> + Shivered my harp, and burst its +every chord,<br /> +If it forget thy worth, victorious <span +class="smcap">Beresford</span>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XV.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Not on that bloody field of +battle won,<br /> + Though Gaul’s proud legions +rolled like mist away,<br /> + Was half his self-devoted valour shown,—<br /> + He gaged but life on that +illustrious day;<br /> + But when he toiled those squadrons to array,<br /> + Who fought like Britons in the +bloody game,<br /> + Sharper than Polish pike or assagay,<br /> + He braved the shafts of censure +and of shame,<br /> +And, dearer far than life, he pledged a soldier’s fame.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVI.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Nor be his praise +o’erpast who strove to hide<br /> + Beneath the warrior’s vest +affection’s wound,<br /> + Whose wish Heaven for his country’s weal +denied;<br /> + Danger and fate he sought, but +glory found.<br /> + From clime to clime, where’er war’s +trumpets sound,<br /> + The wanderer went; yet Caledonia! +still<br /> + Thine was his thought in march and tented ground;<br +/> + He dreamed ’mid Alpine +cliffs of Athole’s hill,<br /> +And heard in Ebro’s roar his Lyndoch’s lovely +rill.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O hero of a race renowned of +old,<br /> + Whose war-cry oft has waked the +battle-swell,<br /> + Since first distinguished in the onset bold,<br /> + Wild sounding when the Roman +rampart fell!<br /> + <a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>By Wallace’ side it rung the Southron’s +knell,<br /> + Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber +owned its fame,<br /> + Tummell’s rude pass can of its terrors +tell,<br /> + But ne’er from prouder field +arose the name<br /> +Than when wild Ronda learned the conquering shout of <span +class="smcap">Græme</span>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVIII.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But all too long, through +seas unknown and dark,<br /> + (With Spenser’s parable I +close my tale,)<br /> + By shoal and rock hath steered my venturous bark,<br +/> + And landward now I drive before +the gale.<br /> + And now the blue and distant shore I hail,<br /> + And nearer now I see the port +expand,<br /> + And now I gladly furl my weary sail,<br /> + And, as the prow light touches on +the strand,<br /> +I strike my red-cross flag and bind my skiff to land.</p> +<h2><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 168</span>THE +FIELD OF WATERLOO.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> Brussels, thou +art far behind,<br /> +Though, lingering on the morning wind,<br /> + We yet may hear the hour<br /> +Pealed over orchard and canal,<br /> +With voice prolonged and measured fall,<br /> + From proud St. Michael’s tower;<br /> +Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,<br /> +Where the tall beeches’ glossy bough<br /> + For many a league around,<br /> +With birch and darksome oak between,<br /> +Spreads deep and far a pathless screen,<br /> + Of tangled forest ground.<br /> +Stems planted close by stems defy<br /> +The adventurous foot—the curious eye<br /> + For access seeks in vain;<br /> +And the brown tapestry of leaves,<br /> +Strewed on the blighted ground, receives<br /> + Nor sun, nor air, nor rain.<br /> +No opening glade dawns on our way,<br /> +No streamlet, glancing to the ray,<br /> + Our woodland path has crossed;<br /> +And the straight causeway which we tread<br /> +Prolongs a line of dull arcade,<br /> +Unvarying through the unvaried shade<br /> +Until in distance lost.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page169"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 169</span>II.</p> +<p class="poetry">A brighter, livelier scene succeeds;<br /> +In groups the scattering wood recedes,<br /> +Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads,<br /> + And corn-fields glance between;<br /> +The peasant, at his labour blithe,<br /> +Plies the hooked staff and shortened scythe:—<br /> + But when these ears were green,<br /> +Placed close within destruction’s scope,<br /> +Full little was that rustic’s hope<br /> + Their ripening to have seen!<br /> +And, lo, a hamlet and its fane:—<br /> +Let not the gazer with disdain<br /> + Their architecture view;<br /> +For yonder rude ungraceful shrine,<br /> +And disproportioned spire, are thine,<br /> + Immortal <span class="smcap">Waterloo</span>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fear not the heat, though full and high<br /> +The sun has scorched the autumn sky,<br /> +And scarce a forest straggler now<br /> +To shade us spreads a greenwood bough;<br /> +These fields have seen a hotter day<br /> +Than e’er was fired by sunny ray,<br /> +Yet one mile on—yon shattered hedge<br /> +Crests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge<br /> + Looks on the field below,<br /> +And sinks so gently on the dale<br /> +That not the folds of Beauty’s veil<br /> + In easier curves can flow.<br /> +Brief space from thence, the ground again<br /> +Ascending slowly from the plain<br /> + Forms an opposing screen,<br /> +Which, with its crest of upland ground,<br /> +Shuts the horizon all around.<br /> + The softened vale between<br /> +Slopes smooth and fair for courser’s tread;<br /> +Not the most timid maid need dread<br /> +<a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 170</span>To give +her snow-white palfrey head<br /> + On that wide stubble-ground;<br /> +Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush are there,<br /> +Her course to intercept or scare,<br /> + Nor fosse nor fence are found,<br /> +Save where, from out her shattered bowers,<br /> +Rise Hougomont’s dismantled towers.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, see’st thou aught in this lone +scene<br /> +Can tell of that which late hath been?—<br /> + A stranger might reply,<br /> +“The bare extent of stubble-plain<br /> +Seems lately lightened of its grain;<br /> +And yonder sable tracks remain<br /> +Marks of the peasant’s ponderous wain,<br /> + When harvest-home was nigh.<br /> +On these broad spots of trampled ground,<br /> +Perchance the rustics danced such round<br /> + As Teniers loved to draw;<br /> +And where the earth seems scorched by flame,<br /> +To dress the homely feast they came,<br /> +And toiled the kerchiefed village dame<br /> + Around her fire of straw.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V.</p> +<p class="poetry">So deem’st thou—so each mortal +deems,<br /> +Of that which is from that which seems:—<br /> + But other harvest here<br /> +Than that which peasant’s scythe demands,<br /> +Was gathered in by sterner hands,<br /> + With bayonet, blade, and spear.<br /> +No vulgar crop was theirs to reap,<br /> +No stinted harvest thin and cheap!<br /> +Heroes before each fatal sweep<br /> + Fell thick as ripened grain;<br /> +And ere the darkening of the day,<br /> +Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay<br /> +The ghastly harvest of the fray,<br /> + The corpses of the slain.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page171"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 171</span>VI.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay, look again—that line, so black<br /> +And trampled, marks the bivouac,<br /> +Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery’s track,<br /> + So often lost and won;<br /> +And close beside, the hardened mud<br /> +Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,<br /> +The fierce dragoon, through battle’s flood,<br /> + Dashed the hot war-horse on.<br /> +These spots of excavation tell<br /> +The ravage of the bursting shell—<br /> +And feel’st thou not the tainted steam,<br /> +That reeks against the sultry beam,<br /> + From yonder trenchéd mound?<br /> +The pestilential fumes declare<br /> +That Carnage has replenished there<br /> + Her garner-house profound.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII.</p> +<p class="poetry">Far other harvest-home and feast,<br /> +Than claims the boor from scythe released,<br /> + On these scorched fields were known!<br /> +Death hovered o’er the maddening rout,<br /> +And, in the thrilling battle-shout,<br /> +Sent for the bloody banquet out<br /> + A summons of his own.<br /> +Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye<br /> +Could well each destined guest espy,<br /> +Well could his ear in ecstasy<br /> + Distinguish every tone<br /> +That filled the chorus of the fray—<br /> +From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray,<br /> +From charging squadrons’ wild hurra,<br /> +From the wild clang that marked their way,—<br /> + Down to the dying groan,<br /> +And the last sob of life’s decay,<br /> + When breath was all but flown.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page172"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 172</span>VIII.</p> +<p class="poetry">Feast on, stern foe of mortal life,<br /> +Feast on!—but think not that a strife,<br /> +With such promiscuous carnage rife,<br /> + Protracted space may last;<br /> +The deadly tug of war at length<br /> +Must limits find in human strength,<br /> + And cease when these are past.<br /> +Vain hope!—that morn’s o’erclouded sun<br /> +Heard the wild shout of fight begun<br /> + Ere he attained his height,<br /> +And through the war-smoke, volumed high,<br /> +Still peals that unremitted cry,<br /> + Though now he stoops to night.<br /> +For ten long hours of doubt and dread,<br /> +Fresh succours from the extended head<br /> +Of either hill the contest fed;<br /> + Still down the slope they drew,<br /> +The charge of columns pauséd not,<br /> +Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot;<br /> + For all that war could do<br /> +Of skill and force was proved that day,<br /> +And turned not yet the doubtful fray<br /> + On bloody Waterloo.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IX.</p> +<p class="poetry">Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were +thine,<br /> +When ceaseless from the distant line<br /> + Continued thunders came!<br /> +Each burgher held his breath, to hear<br /> +These forerunners of havoc near,<br /> + Of rapine and of flame.<br /> +What ghastly sights were thine to meet,<br /> +When rolling through thy stately street,<br /> +The wounded showed their mangled plight<br /> +In token of the unfinished fight,<br /> +And from each anguish-laden wain<br /> +The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain!<br /> +<a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>How +often in the distant drum<br /> +Heard’st thou the fell Invader come,<br /> +While Ruin, shouting to his band,<br /> +Shook high her torch and gory brand!—<br /> +Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand,<br /> +Impatient, still his outstretched hand<br /> + Points to his prey in vain,<br /> +While maddening in his eager mood,<br /> +And all unwont to be withstood,<br /> + He fires the fight again.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">X.</p> +<p class="poetry">“On! On!” was still his stern +exclaim;<br /> +“Confront the battery’s jaws of flame!<br /> + Rush on the levelled gun!<br /> +My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance!<br /> +Each Hulan forward with his lance,<br /> +My Guard—my Chosen—charge for France,<br /> + France and Napoleon!”<br /> +Loud answered their acclaiming shout,<br /> +Greeting the mandate which sent out<br /> +Their bravest and their best to dare<br /> +The fate their leader shunned to share.<br /> +But <span class="smcap">He</span>, his country’s sword and +shield,<br /> +Still in the battle-front revealed,<br /> +Where danger fiercest swept the field,<br /> + Came like a beam of light,<br /> +In action prompt, in sentence brief—<br /> +“Soldiers, stand firm!” exclaimed the Chief,<br /> + “England shall tell the fight!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XI.</p> +<p class="poetry">On came the whirlwind—like the last<br /> +But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast—<br /> +On came the whirlwind—steel-gleams broke<br /> +Like lightning through the rolling smoke;<br /> + The war was waked anew,<br /> +Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,<br /> +And from their throats, with flash and cloud,<br /> + Their showers of iron threw.<br /> +<a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>Beneath +their fire, in full career,<br /> +Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier,<br /> +The lancer couched his ruthless spear,<br /> +And hurrying as to havoc near,<br /> + The cohorts’ eagles flew.<br /> +In one dark torrent, broad and strong,<br /> +The advancing onset rolled along,<br /> +Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,<br /> +That, from the shroud of smoke and flame,<br /> +Pealed wildly the imperial name.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XII.</p> +<p class="poetry">But on the British heart were lost<br /> +The terrors of the charging host;<br /> +For not an eye the storm that viewed<br /> +Changed its proud glance of fortitude,<br /> +Nor was one forward footstep stayed,<br /> +As dropped the dying and the dead.<br /> +Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,<br /> +Fast they renewed each serried square;<br /> +And on the wounded and the slain<br /> +Closed their diminished files again,<br /> +Till from their line scarce spears’-lengths three,<br /> +Emerging from the smoke they see<br /> +Helmet, and plume, and panoply,—<br /> + Then waked their fire at once!<br /> +Each musketeer’s revolving knell,<br /> +As fast, as regularly fell,<br /> +As when they practise to display<br /> +Their discipline on festal day.<br /> + Then down went helm and lance,<br /> +Down were the eagle banners sent,<br /> +Down reeling steeds and riders went,<br /> +Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent;<br /> + And, to augment the fray,<br /> +Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,<br /> +The English horsemen’s foaming ranks<br /> + Forced their resistless way.<br /> +Then to the musket-knell succeeds<br /> +The clash of swords—the neigh of steeds—<br /> +<a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>As plies +the smith his clanging trade,<br /> +Against the cuirass rang the blade;<br /> +And while amid their close array<br /> +The well-served cannon rent their way,<br /> +And while amid their scattered band<br /> +Raged the fierce rider’s bloody brand,<br /> +Recoiled in common rout and fear,<br /> +Lancer and guard and cuirassier,<br /> +Horsemen and foot,—a mingled host<br /> +Their leaders fall’n, their standards lost.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIII.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, <span class="smcap">Wellington</span>! +thy piercing eye<br /> +This crisis caught of destiny—<br /> + The British host had stood<br /> +That morn ’gainst charge of sword and lance<br /> +As their own ocean-rocks hold stance,<br /> +But when thy voice had said, “Advance!”<br /> + They were their ocean’s flood.—<br /> +O Thou, whose inauspicious aim<br /> +Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame,<br /> +Think’st thou thy broken bands will bide<br /> +The terrors of yon rushing tide?<br /> +Or will thy chosen brook to feel<br /> +The British shock of levelled steel,<br /> + Or dost thou turn thine eye<br /> +Where coming squadrons gleam afar,<br /> +And fresher thunders wake the war,<br /> + And other standards fly?—<br /> +Think not that in yon columns, file<br /> +Thy conquering troops from distant Dyle—<br /> + Is Blucher yet unknown?<br /> +Or dwells not in thy memory still<br /> +(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill),<br /> +What notes of hate and vengeance thrill<br /> + In Prussia’s trumpet-tone?—<br /> +What yet remains?—shall it be thine<br /> +To head the relics of thy line<br /> + In one dread effort more?—<br /> +<a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>The +Roman lore thy leisure loved,<br /> +And than canst tell what fortune proved<br /> + That Chieftain, who, of yore,<br /> +Ambition’s dizzy paths essayed<br /> +And with the gladiators’ aid<br /> + For empire enterprised—<br /> +He stood the cast his rashness played,<br /> +Left not the victims he had made,<br /> +Dug his red grave with his own blade,<br /> +And on the field he lost was laid,<br /> + Abhorred—but not despised.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIV.</p> +<p class="poetry">But if revolves thy fainter thought<br /> +On safety—howsoever bought,—<br /> +Then turn thy fearful rein and ride,<br /> +Though twice ten thousand men have died<br /> + On this eventful day<br /> +To gild the military fame<br /> +Which thou, for life, in traffic tame<br /> + Wilt barter thus away.<br /> +Shall future ages tell this tale<br /> +Of inconsistence faint and frail?<br /> +And art thou He of Lodi’s bridge,<br /> +Marengo’s field, and Wagram’s ridge!<br /> +Or is thy soul like mountain-tide,<br /> +That, swelled by winter storm and shower,<br /> +Rolls down in turbulence of power,<br /> + A torrent fierce and wide;<br /> +Reft of these aids, a rill obscure,<br /> +Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor,<br /> + Whose channel shows displayed<br /> +The wrecks of its impetuous course,<br /> +But not one symptom of the force<br /> + By which these wrecks were made!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XV.</p> +<p class="poetry">Spur on thy way!—since now thine ear<br +/> +Has brooked thy veterans’ wish to hear,<br /> + Who, as thy flight they eyed<br /> +<a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>Exclaimed,—while tears of anguish came,<br /> +Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and shame,<br /> + “O that he had but died!”<br /> +But yet, to sum this hour of ill,<br /> +Look, ere thou leav’st the fatal hill,<br /> + Back on yon broken ranks—<br /> +Upon whose wild confusion gleams<br /> +The moon, as on the troubled streams<br /> + When rivers break their banks,<br /> +And, to the ruined peasant’s eye,<br /> +Objects half seen roll swiftly by,<br /> + Down the dread current hurled—<br /> +So mingle banner, wain, and gun,<br /> +Where the tumultuous flight rolls on<br /> +Of warriors, who, when morn begun,<br /> + Defied a banded world.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVI.</p> +<p class="poetry">List—frequent to the hurrying rout,<br /> +The stern pursuers’ vengeful shout<br /> +Tells, that upon their broken rear<br /> +Rages the Prussian’s bloody spear.<br /> + So fell a shriek was none,<br /> +When Beresina’s icy flood<br /> +Reddened and thawed with flame and blood,<br /> +And, pressing on thy desperate way,<br /> +Raised oft and long their wild hurra,<br /> + The children of the Don.<br /> +Thine ear no yell of horror cleft<br /> +So ominous, when, all bereft<br /> +Of aid, the valiant Polack left—<br /> +Ay, left by thee—found soldiers grave<br /> +In Leipsic’s corpse-encumbered wave.<br /> +Fate, in those various perils past,<br /> +Reserved thee still some future cast;<br /> +On the dread die thou now hast thrown<br /> +Hangs not a single field alone,<br /> +Nor one campaign—thy martial fame,<br /> +Thy empire, dynasty, and name<br /> + Have felt the final stroke;<br /> +<a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>And now, +o’er thy devoted head<br /> +The last stern vial’s wrath is shed,<br /> + The last dread seal is broke.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVII.</p> +<p class="poetry">Since live thou wilt—refuse not now<br /> +Before these demagogues to bow,<br /> +Late objects of thy scorn and hate,<br /> +Who shall thy once imperial fate<br /> +Make wordy theme of vain debate.—<br /> +Or shall we say, thou stoop’st less low<br /> +In seeking refuge from the foe,<br /> +Against whose heart, in prosperous life,<br /> +Thine hand hath ever held the knife?<br /> + Such homage hath been paid<br /> +By Roman and by Grecian voice,<br /> +And there were honour in the choice,<br /> + If it were freely made.<br /> +Then safely come—in one so low,—<br /> +So lost,—we cannot own a foe;<br /> +Though dear experience bid us end,<br /> +In thee we ne’er can hail a friend.—<br /> +Come, howsoe’er—but do not hide<br /> +Close in thy heart that germ of pride,<br /> +Erewhile, by gifted bard espied,<br /> + That “yet imperial hope;”<br /> +Think not that for a fresh rebound,<br /> +To raise ambition from the ground,<br /> + We yield thee means or scope.<br /> +In safety come—but ne’er again<br /> +Hold type of independent reign;<br /> + No islet calls thee lord,<br /> +We leave thee no confederate band,<br /> +No symbol of thy lost command,<br /> +To be a dagger in the hand<br /> + From which we wrenched the sword.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVIII.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, even in yon sequestered spot,<br /> +May worthier conquest be thy lot<br /> + Than yet thy life has known;<br /> +<a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span>Conquest, unbought by blood or harm,<br /> +That needs nor foreign aid nor arm,<br /> + A triumph all thine own.<br /> +Such waits thee when thou shalt control<br /> +Those passions wild, that stubborn soul,<br /> + That marred thy prosperous scene:—<br /> +Hear this—from no unmovéd heart,<br /> +Which sighs, comparing what <span class="GutSmall">THOU +ART</span><br /> + With what thou <span class="GutSmall">MIGHT’ST +HAVE BEEN</span>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIX.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renewed<br /> +Bankrupt a nation’s gratitude,<br /> +To thine own noble heart must owe<br /> +More than the meed she can bestow.<br /> +For not a people’s just acclaim,<br /> +Not the full hail of Europe’s fame,<br /> +Thy Prince’s smiles, the State’s decree,<br /> +The ducal rank, the gartered knee,<br /> +Not these such pure delight afford<br /> +As that, when hanging up thy sword,<br /> +Well may’st thou think, “This honest steel<br /> +Was ever drawn for public weal;<br /> +And, such was rightful Heaven’s decree,<br /> +Ne’er sheathed unless with victory!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XX.</p> +<p class="poetry">Look forth, once more, with softened heart,<br +/> +Ere from the field of fame we part;<br /> +Triumph and Sorrow border near,<br /> +And joy oft melts into a tear.<br /> +Alas! what links of love that morn<br /> +Has War’s rude hand asunder torn!<br /> +For ne’er was field so sternly fought,<br /> +And ne’er was conquest dearer bought,<br /> +Here piled in common slaughter sleep<br /> +Those whom affection long shall weep<br /> +Here rests the sire, that ne’er shall strain<br /> +His orphans to his heart again;<br /> +<a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>The son, +whom, on his native shore,<br /> +The parent’s voice shall bless no more;<br /> +The bridegroom, who has hardly pressed<br /> +His blushing consort to his breast;<br /> +The husband, whom through many a year<br /> +Long love and mutual faith endear.<br /> +Thou canst not name one tender tie,<br /> +But here dissolved its relics lie!<br /> +Oh! when thou see’st some mourner’s veil<br /> +Shroud her thin form and visage pale,<br /> +Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting tears<br /> +Stream when the stricken drum she hears;<br /> +Or see’st how manlier grief, suppressed,<br /> +Is labouring in a father’s breast,—<br /> +With no inquiry vain pursue<br /> +The cause, but think on Waterloo!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXI.</p> +<p class="poetry">Period of honour as of woes,<br /> +What bright careers ’twas thine to close!—<br /> +Marked on thy roll of blood what names<br /> +To Britain’s memory, and to Fame’s,<br /> +Laid there their last immortal claims!<br /> +Thou saw’st in seas of gore expire<br /> +Redoubted <span class="smcap">Picton’s</span> soul of +fire—<br /> +Saw’st in the mingled carnage lie<br /> +All that of <span class="smcap">Ponsonby</span> could +die—<br /> +<span class="smcap">De Lancey</span> change Love’s +bridal-wreath<br /> +For laurels from the hand of Death—<br /> +Saw’st gallant <span class="smcap">Miller’s</span> +failing eye<br /> +Still bent where Albion’s banners fly,<br /> +And <span class="smcap">Cameron</span>, in the shock of steel,<br +/> +Die like the offspring of Lochiel;<br /> +And generous <span class="smcap">Gordon</span>, ’mid the +strife,<br /> +Fall while he watched his leader’s life.—<br /> +Ah! though her guardian angel’s shield<br /> +Fenced Britain’s hero through the field.<br /> +Fate not the less her power made known,<br /> +Through his friends’ hearts to pierce his own!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page181"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 181</span>XXII.</p> +<p class="poetry">Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay!<br /> +Who may your names, your numbers, say?<br /> +What high-strung harp, what lofty line,<br /> +To each the dear-earned praise assign,<br /> +From high-born chiefs of martial fame<br /> +To the poor soldier’s lowlier name?<br /> +Lightly ye rose that dawning day,<br /> +From your cold couch of swamp and clay,<br /> +To fill, before the sun was low,<br /> +The bed that morning cannot know.—<br /> +Oft may the tear the green sod steep,<br /> +And sacred be the heroes’ sleep,<br /> + Till time shall cease to run;<br /> +And ne’er beside their noble grave,<br /> +May Briton pass and fail to crave<br /> +A blessing on the fallen brave<br /> + Who fought with Wellington!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXIII.</p> +<p class="poetry">Farewell, sad Field! whose blighted face<br /> +Wears desolation’s withering trace;<br /> + Long shall my memory retain<br /> +Thy shattered huts and trampled grain,<br /> +With every mark of martial wrong,<br /> +That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont!<br /> +Yet though thy garden’s green arcade<br /> +The marksman’s fatal post was made,<br /> +Though on thy shattered beeches fell<br /> +The blended rage of shot and shell,<br /> +Though from thy blackened portals torn,<br /> +Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn,<br /> +Has not such havoc bought a name<br /> +Immortal in the rolls of fame?<br /> +Yes—Agincourt may be forgot,<br /> +And Cressy be an unknown spot,<br /> + And Blenheim’s name be new;<br /> +But still in story and in song,<br /> +For many an age remembered long,<br /> +Shall live the towers of Hougomont<br /> + And Field of Waterloo!</p> +<h3><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>CONCLUSION.</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Stern</span> tide of human Time! that know’st +not rest,<br /> + But, sweeping from the cradle to the tomb,<br /> + Bear’st ever downward on thy dusky breast<br +/> + Successive generations to their doom;<br /> + While thy capacious stream has equal room<br /> + For the gay bark where Pleasure’s steamers +sport,<br /> + And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom,<br /> + The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court,<br +/> +Still wafting onward all to one dark silent port;—</p> +<p class="poetry"> Stern tide of Time! through +what mysterious change<br /> + Of hope and fear have our frail barks been +driven!<br /> + For ne’er, before, vicissitude so strange<br +/> + Was to one race of Adam’s offspring given.<br +/> + And sure such varied change of sea and heaven,<br /> + Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe,<br /> + Such fearful strife as that where we have +striven,<br /> + Succeeding ages ne’er again shall know,<br /> +Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Well hast thou stood, my +Country!—the brave fight<br /> + Hast well maintained through good report and ill;<br +/> + In thy just cause and in thy native might,<br /> + And in Heaven’s grace and justice constant +still;<br /> + <a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +183</span>Whether the banded prowess, strength, and skill<br /> + Of half the world against thee stood arrayed,<br /> + Or when, with better views and freer will,<br /> + Beside thee Europe’s noblest drew the +blade,<br /> +Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Well art thou now +repaid—though slowly rose,<br /> + And struggled long with mists thy blaze of fame,<br +/> + While like the dawn that in the orient glows<br /> + On the broad wave its earlier lustre came;<br /> + Then eastern Egypt saw the growing flame,<br /> + And Maida’s myrtles gleamed beneath its +ray,<br /> + Where first the soldier, stung with generous +shame,<br /> + Rivalled the heroes of the watery way,<br /> +And washed in foemen’s gore unjust reproach away.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Now, Island Empress, wave thy +crest on high,<br /> + And bid the banner of thy Patron flow,<br /> + Gallant Saint George, the flower of Chivalry,<br /> + For thou halt faced, like him, a dragon foe,<br /> + And rescued innocence from overthrow,<br /> + And trampled down, like him, tyrannic might,<br /> + And to the gazing world may’st proudly show<br +/> + The chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight,<br /> +Who quelled devouring pride and vindicated right.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet ’mid the confidence +of just renown,<br /> + Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus acquired,<br /> + Write, Britain, write the moral lesson down:<br /> + ’Tis not alone the heart with valour fired,<br +/> + The discipline so dreaded and admired,<br /> + In many a field of bloody conquest known,<br /> + —Such may by fame be lured, by gold be +hired:<br /> + ’Tis constancy in the good cause alone<br /> +Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons have won.</p> +<h2><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>THE +DANCE OF DEATH.<br /> +[1815.]</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Night</span> and morning +were at meeting<br /> + Over Waterloo;<br /> +Cocks had sung their earliest greeting;<br /> + Faint and low they crew,<br /> +For no paly beam yet shone<br /> +On the heights of Mount Saint John;<br /> +Tempest-clouds prolonged the sway<br /> +Of timeless darkness over day;<br /> +Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower<br /> +Marked it a predestined hour.<br /> +Broad and frequent through the night<br /> +Flashed the sheets of levin-light:<br /> +Muskets, glancing lightnings back,<br /> +Showed the dreary bivouac<br /> + Where the soldier lay,<br /> +Chill and stiff, and drenched with rain,<br /> +Wishing dawn of morn again,<br /> + Though death should come with day.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis at such a tide and hour<br /> +Wizard, witch, and fiend have power,<br /> +And ghastly forms through mist and shower<br /> + Gleam on the gifted ken;<br /> +And then the affrighted prophet’s ear<br /> +Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear<br /> +Presaging death and ruin near<br /> + Among the sons of men;—<br /> +<a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>Apart +from Albyn’s war-array,<br /> +’Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay;<br /> +Grey Allan, who, for many a day,<br /> + Had followed stout and stern,<br /> +Where, through battle’s rout and reel,<br /> +Storm of shot and edge of steel,<br /> +Led the grandson of Lochiel,<br /> + Valiant Fassiefern.<br /> +Through steel and shot he leads no more,<br /> +Low laid ’mid friends’ and foemen’s +gore—<br /> +But long his native lake’s wild shore,<br /> +And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,<br /> + And Morven long shall tell,<br /> +And proud Bennevis hear with awe<br /> +How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,<br /> +Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra<br /> + Of conquest as he fell.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lone on the outskirts of the host,<br /> +The weary sentinel held post,<br /> +And heard, through darkness far aloof,<br /> +The frequent clang of courser’s hoof,<br /> +Where held the cloaked patrol their course,<br /> +And spurred ’gainst storm the swerving horse;<br /> +But there are sounds in Allan’s ear,<br /> +Patrol nor sentinel may hear,<br /> +And sights before his eye aghast<br /> +Invisible to them have passed,<br /> + When down the destined plain,<br /> +’Twixt Britain and the bands of France,<br /> +Wild as marsh-borne meteor’s glance,<br /> +Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance,<br /> + And doomed the future slain.—<br /> +Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,<br /> +When Scotland’s James his march prepared<br /> + For Flodden’s fatal plain;<br /> +Such, when he drew his ruthless sword,<br /> +As Choosers of the Slain, adored<br /> + The yet unchristened Dane.<br /> +<a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>An +indistinct and phantom band,<br /> +They wheeled their ring-dance hand in hand,<br /> + With gestures wild and dread;<br /> +The Seer, who watched them ride the storm,<br /> +Saw through their faint and shadowy form<br /> + The lightning’s flash more red;<br /> +And still their ghastly roundelay<br /> +Was of the coming battle-fray,<br /> + And of the destined dead.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV.<br /> +SONG.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wheel the wild dance<br /> +While lightnings glance,<br /> + And thunders rattle loud,<br /> +And call the brave<br /> +To bloody grave,<br /> + To sleep without a shroud.</p> +<p class="poetry">Our airy feet,<br /> +So light and fleet,<br /> + They do not bend the rye<br /> +That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave,<br /> +And swells again in eddying wave,<br /> + As each wild gust blows by;<br /> +But still the corn,<br /> +At dawn of morn,<br /> + Our fatal steps that bore,<br /> +At eve lies waste,<br /> +A trampled paste<br /> + Of blackening mud and gore.<br /> +Wheel the wild dance<br /> +While lightnings glance,<br /> + And thunders rattle loud,<br /> +And call the brave<br /> +To bloody grave,<br /> + To sleep without a shroud.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page187"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 187</span>V.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wheel the wild dance!<br /> +Brave sons of France,<br /> + For you our ring makes room;<br /> +Make space full wide<br /> +For martial pride,<br /> + For banner, spear, and plume.<br /> +Approach, draw near,<br /> +Proud cuirassier!<br /> + Room for the men of steel!<br /> +Through crest and plate<br /> +The broadsword’s weight<br /> + Both head and heart shall feel.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VI.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wheel the wild dance<br /> +While lightnings glance,<br /> + And thunders rattle loud,<br /> +And call the brave<br /> +To bloody grave,<br /> + To sleep without a shroud.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sons of the spear!<br /> +You feel us near<br /> + In many a ghastly dream;<br /> +With fancy’s eye<br /> +Our forms you spy,<br /> + And hear our fatal scream.<br /> +With clearer sight<br /> +Ere falls the night,<br /> + Just when to weal or woe<br /> +Your disembodied souls take flight<br /> +On trembling wing—each startled sprite<br /> + Our choir of death shall know.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wheel the wild dance<br /> +While lightnings glance,<br /> + And thunders rattle loud,<br /> +<a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>And call +the brave<br /> +To bloody grave,<br /> + To sleep without a shroud.</p> +<p class="poetry">Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,<br /> +Redder rain shall soon be ours—<br /> + See the east grows wan—<br /> +Yield we place to sterner game,<br /> +Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame<br /> +Shall the welkin’s thunders shame,<br /> +Elemental rage is tame<br /> + To the wrath of man.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VIII.</p> +<p class="poetry">At morn, grey Allan’s mates with awe<br +/> +Heard of the visioned sights he saw,<br /> + The legend heard him say;<br /> +But the Seer’s gifted eye was dim,<br /> +Deafened his ear, and stark his limb,<br /> + Ere closed that bloody day.<br /> +He sleeps far from his Highland heath,<br /> +But often of the Dance of Death<br /> + His comrades tell the tale<br /> +On picquet-post, when ebbs the night,<br /> +And waning watch-fires glow less bright,<br /> + And dawn is glimmering pale.</p> +<h2><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +189</span>ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">FROM THE FRENCH.</span><br /> +[1815.]</h2> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> was Dunois, the +young and brave, was bound for Palestine,<br /> +But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary’s +shrine:<br /> +“And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,” was still the +Soldier’s prayer;<br /> +“That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest +fair.”</p> +<p class="poetry">His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it +with his sword,<br /> +And followed to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;<br /> +Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry filled the air,<br +/> +“Be honoured aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest +fair.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his +Liege-Lord said,<br /> +“The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be +repaid.—<br /> +My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,<br /> +For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the +fair.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And then they bound the holy knot before Saint +Mary’s shrine,<br /> +That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine;<br +/> +And every lord and lady bright that were in chapel there<br /> +Cried, “Honoured be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest +fair!”</p> +<h2>THE TROUBADOUR.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">FROM THE SAME COLLECTION.</span><br /> +[1815.]</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Glowing</span> with love, +on fire for fame<br /> + A Troubadour that hated sorrow<br /> +Beneath his lady’s window came,<br /> + And thus he sung his last good-morrow:<br /> +“My arm it is my country’s right,<br /> + My heart is in my true-love’s bower;<br /> +Gaily for love and fame to fight<br /> + Befits the gallant Troubadour.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And while he marched with helm on head<br /> + And harp in hand, the descant rung,<br /> +As faithful to his favourite maid,<br /> + The minstrel-burden still he sung:<br /> +“My arm it is my country’s right,<br /> + My heart is in my lady’s bower;<br /> +Resolved for love and fame to fight<br /> + I come, a gallant Troubadour.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span>Even when the battle-roar was deep,<br /> + With dauntless heart he hewed his way,<br /> +’Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,<br /> + And still was heard his warrior-lay:<br /> +“My life it is my country’s right,<br /> + My heart is in my lady’s bower;<br /> +For love to die, for fame to fight,<br /> + Becomes the valiant Troubadour.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! upon the bloody field<br /> + He fell beneath the foeman’s glaive,<br /> +But still reclining on his shield,<br /> + Expiring sung the exulting stave:—<br /> +“My life it is my country’s right,<br /> + My heart is in my lady’s bower;<br /> +For love and fame to fall in fight<br /> + Becomes the valiant Troubadour.”</p> +<h2>PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.</h2> +<p>[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:—</p> +<p class="poetry">Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd +Dhonuil;<br /> +Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;<br /> +Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;<br /> +Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.<br /> +The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,<br /> +The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,<br /> +The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-place at +Inverlochy.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Pibroch</span> of Donuil +Dhu,<br /> + Pibroch of Donuil,<br /> +Wake thy wild voice anew,<br /> + Summon Clan Conuil.<br /> +Come away, come away,<br /> + Hark to the summons!<br /> +<a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>Come in +your war array,<br /> + Gentles and commons.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come from deep glen, and<br /> + From mountain so rocky,<br /> +The war-pipe and pennon<br /> + Are at Inverlochy.<br /> +Come every hill-plaid, and<br /> + True heart that wears one,<br /> +Come every steel blade, and<br /> + Strong hand that bears one.</p> +<p class="poetry">Leave untended the herd,<br /> + The flock without shelter;<br /> +Leave the corpse uninterr’d,<br /> + The bride at the altar;<br /> +Leave the deer, leave the steer,<br /> + Leave nets and barges:<br /> +Come with your fighting gear,<br /> + Broadswords and targes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come as the winds come, when<br /> + Forests are rended;<br /> +Come as the waves come, when<br /> + Navies are stranded:<br /> +Faster come, faster come,<br /> + Faster and faster,<br /> +Chief, vassal, page and groom,<br /> + Tenant and master.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fast they come, fast they come;<br /> + See how they gather!<br /> +Wide waves the eagle plume,<br /> + Blended with heather.<br /> +Cast your plaids, draw your blades,<br /> + Forward each man set!<br /> +Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,<br /> + Knell for the onset!</p> +<h2><span class="smcap">Footnotes</span>.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote9"></a><a href="#citation9" +class="footnote">[9]</a> This eText comes from a book +(<i>Pike Country Ballads and Other Poems</i>, 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.</p> +<p><a name="footnote164"></a><a href="#citation164" +class="footnote">[164]</a> The literal translation of +<i>Fuentes d’Honoro</i>.</p> +<pre> + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME POEMS BY SIR WALTER SCOTT*** + + +***** This file should be named 6061-h.htm or 6061-h.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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