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Alas! what boots the long, laborious quest
And is it among rude untutored Dales,
There, and there only, that the heart is true?
And, rising to repel or to subdue,
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails?
Ah, no! — though Nature's dread protection fails
There is a bulwark in the soul.— This knew
Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales
Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt
By Palafox, and many a brave Compeer,
Like him of noble birth and noble mind;
By Ladies, meek-eyed Women without fear;
And Wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt
The bread which without industry they find.
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, Dwells in the affections and the soul of man A Godhead, like the universal Pan, But more exalted, with a brighter train. And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, Showered equally on City and on Field, And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield In these usurping times of fear and pain?Such doom awaits us. — Nay, forbid it Heaven!We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws To which the triumph of all good is given, High sacrifice, and labour without pause, Even to the death: — else wherefore should the eye Of man converse with immortality?
ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THI TTROLESK.
It was a moral end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought?
Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought;
For in their magnanimity and fame
Powers have they left — an impulse — and a claim
Which neither can be overturned nor bought.
Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose!
We know that ye, beneath the stern controul
Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul.
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes
Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies.
Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye