For never hath the harp of minstrel rung,
Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true!

Mine, sap, and bomb, thy shattered ruins knew,
Each art of war's extremity had room,

Twice from thy half-sacked streets the foe withdrew,

And when at length stern Fate decreed thy doom,

They won not Zaragoza, but her children's bloody

tomb.

LII.

Yet raise thy head, sad City!
Enthralled thou canst not be!

Though in chains,
Arise and claim

Reverence from every heart where Freedom reigns,

For what thou worshippest!-thy sainted Dame, She of the Column, honoured be her name,

By all, whate'er their creed, who honour love! And like the sacred reliques of the flame,

That gave some martyr to the blessed above, To every loyal heart may thy sad embers prove!

LIII.

Nor thine alone such wreck.

Gerona fair!

Faithful to death thy heroes should be sung, Manning the towers while o'er their heads the air,

Swart as the smoke from raging furnace hung;

Now thicker darkening where the mine was

sprung,

Now briefly lightened by the cannon's flare, Now arched with fire-sparks as the bomb was flung,

And reddening now with conflagration's glare, While by the fatal light the foes for storm prepare.

LIV.

While all around was danger, strife, and fear, While the earth shook, and darkened was the

sky,

And wide Destruction stunned the listening ear, Appalled the heart, and stupified the eye,Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry,

In which old Albion's heart and tongue unite, Whene'er her soul is up and pulse beats high, Whether it hail the wine-cup or the fight,

And bid each arm be strong, or bid each heart be light.

LV.

Don Roderick turned him as the shout grew loudA varied scene the changeful vision showed, For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud,

A gallant navy stemmed the billows broad. From mast and stern St. George's symbol flowed,

Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear;

Mottling the sea their landward barges rowed, And flashed the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear,

And the wild beach returned the seamen's jovial

cheer.

LVI.

It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!

The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars, Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite, Legions on legions brightening all the shores. Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars,

Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum, Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours, And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb, For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of Ocean come!

LVII.

A various host they came-whose ranks display Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight,

The deep battalion locks its firm array,

And meditates his aim the marksman light; Far glance the lines of sabres flashing bright, Where mountain squadrons shake the echoing mead,

Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night,

Nor the fleet ordnance whirled by rapid steed, That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in speed.

LVIII.

A various host-from kindred realms they came,
Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown-
For yon fair bands shall merry England claim,

And with their deeds of valour deck her crown. Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown, And hers their scorn of death in Freedom's

cause,

Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown, And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause,

And freeborn thoughts, which league the Soldier with the Laws.

LIX.

And O! loved warriors of the Minstrel's land! Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave! The rugged form may mark the mountain band, And harsher features, and a mien more grave; But ne'er in battle-field throbbed heart so brave As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid, And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,

And level for the charge your arms are laid, Where lives the desperate foe, that for such onset staid!

LX.

Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy,

His jest while each blithe comrade round him Alings,

And moves to death with military glee:

Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free, In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known, Rough Nature's children, humorous as she:

And HE, yon chieftain-strike the proudest

tone

Of thy bold harp, green Isle!—the hero is thine own.

LXI.

Now on the scene Vimeira should be shown,
On Talavera's fight should Roderick gaze,
And hear Corunna wail her battle won,

And see Busaco's crest with lightning blaze:— But shall fond fable mix with heroes' praise? Hath Fiction's stage for truth's long triumphs

room?

And dare her wild-flowers-mingle with the bays, That claim a long eternity to bloom

Around the warrior's crest, and o'er the warrior's tomb?

LXII.

Or may I give adventurous Fancy scope,
And stretch a bold hand to the awful veil
That hides futurity from anxious hope,
Bidding beyond it scenes of glory hail,
And painting Europe rousing at the tale

Of Spain's invaders from her confines hurled,