While kindling Nations buckle on their mail,

And Fame, with clarion-blast and wings un

furled,

To freedom and revenge awakes an injured World!

LXIII.

O vain, though anxious, is the glance I cast,
Since Fate has marked futurity her own:-
Yet Fate resigns to Worth the glorious past,

The deeds recorded and the laurels won.
Then though the Vault of Destiny be gone,

King, Prelate, all the phantasms of my brain, Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun,

Yet grant for faith, for valour, and for Spain, One note of pride and fire, a Patriot's parting strain!

CONCLUSION.

I.

WHO shall command Estrella's mountain-tide

Back to the source, when tempest-chafed, to
hie?

Who, when Gascogne's vexed gulf is raging wide,
Shall hush it as a nurse her infant's cry?
His magic power let such vain boaster try,
And when the torrent shall his voice obey,
And Biscay's whirlwinds list his lullaby,

Let him stand forth and bar mine Eagles' way, And they shall heed his voice, and at his bidding stay.

II.

"Else, ne'er to stoop, till high on Lisbon's towers They close their wings, the symbol of our yoke, And their own sea hath whelmed yon red-cross Powers!"

Thus, on the summit of Alverca's rock,

To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul's Leader spoke. While downward on the land his legions press, Before them it was rich with vine and flock,

And smiled like Eden in her summer dress;Behind their wasteful march, a reeking wilderness.

III.

And shall the boastful Chief maintain his word, Though Heaven hath heard the wailings of the land,

Though Lusitania whet her vengeful sword, Though Britons arm, and WELLINGTON Command?

No! grim Busaco's iron ridge shall stand

An adamantine barrier to his force!

And from its base shall wheel his shattered band, As from the unshaken rock the torrent hoarse Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a devious

course.

IV.

Yet not because Alcoba's mountain-hawk
Hath on his best and bravest made her food,
In numbers confident, yon Chief shall balk
His Lord's imperial thirst for spoil and blood:
For full in view the promised conquest stood,
And Lisbon's matrons, from their walls, might

sum

The myriads that had half the world subdued, And hear the distant thunders of the drum, That bids the band of France to storm and havoc come.

V.

Four moons have heard these thunders idly rolled, Have seen these wistful myriads eye their prey,

As famished wolves survey a guarded fold-
But in the middle path a Lion lay!

At length they move-but not to battle-fray, Nor blaze yon fires where meets the manly fight:

Beacons of infamy, they light the way,

Where cowardice and cruelty unite,

To damn with double shame their ignominious flight!

VI.

Oh triumph for the Fiends of Lust and Wrath!
Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be forgot,
What wanton horrors marked their wrackful
path!

The peasant butchered in his ruined cot,
The hoary priest even at the altar shot,
Childhood and age given o'er to sword and
flame,

Woman to infamy;—no crime forgot,

By which inventive demons might proclaim Immortal hate to Man, and scorn of God's great

name!

VII.

The rudest sentinel, in Britain born,

With horror paused to view the havoc done, Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch forlorn, Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer grasped his gun.

Nor with less zeal shall Britain's peaceful son

Exult the debt of sympathy to pay; Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun,

Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor the gay, Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's more worth

less lay.

VIII.

But thou-unfoughten wilt thou yield to Fate, Minion of Fortune, now miscalled in vain! Can vantage-ground no confidence create, Marcella's pass, nor Guarda's mountain-chain? Vain-glorious Fugitive! yet turn again!

Behold, where, named by some prophetic Seer, Flows Honour's Fountain,* as fore-doomed the stain

From thy dishonoured name and arms to clear

Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her favour

here!

IX.

Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each distant aid; Those chief that never heard the Lion roar! Within whose souls lives not a trace portrayed, Of Talavera, or Mondego's shore!

Marshal each band thou hast, and summon more; Of war's fell stratagems exhaust the whole;

* The literal translation of Fuentes d'Honoro.