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soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude,

       Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.

       Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive

       Where Desolation plants her famished brood

       Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive,

      And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.

      XLVI.

      But all unconscious of the coming doom,

       The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;

       Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,

       Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds;

       Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds;

       Here Folly still his votaries enthralls,

       And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:

       Girt with the silent crimes of capitals,

      Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls.

      XLVII.

      Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate

       He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,

       Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,

       Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.

       No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star

       Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:

       Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,

       Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;

      The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet.

      XLVIII.

      How carols now the lusty muleteer?

       Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,

       As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,

       His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?

       No! as he speeds, he chants 'Viva el Rey!'

       And checks his song to execrate Godoy,

       The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day

       When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy,

      And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.

      XLIX.

      On yon long level plain, at distance crowned

       With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,

       Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;

       And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest

       Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:

       Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,

       Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon's nest;

       Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,

      And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.

      L.

      And whomsoe'er along the path you meet

       Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,

       Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:

       Woe to the man that walks in public view

       Without of loyalty this token true:

       Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;

       And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue,

       If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak,

      Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.

      LI.

      At every turn Morena's dusky height

       Sustains aloft the battery's iron load;

       And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,

       The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,

       The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed,

       The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch,

       The magazine in rocky durance stowed,

       The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch,

      The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,

      LII.

      Portend the deeds to come:—but he whose nod

       Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,

       A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;

       A little moment deigneth to delay:

       Soon will his legions sweep through these the way;

       The West must own the Scourger of the world.

       Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day,

       When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled,

      And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.

      LIII.

      And must they fall—the young, the proud, the brave—

       To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign?

       No step between submission and a grave?

       The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?

       And doth the Power that man adores ordain

       Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal?

       Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?

       And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,

      The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of steel?

      LIV.

      Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,

       Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,

       And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,

       Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?

       And she, whom once the semblance of a scar

       Appalled, an owlet's larum chilled with dread,

       Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar,

       The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead

      Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.

      LV.

      Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,

       Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,

       Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,

       Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower,

       Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,

       Her fairy form, with more than female grace,

       Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower

       Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,

      Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.

      LVI.

      Her lover sinks—she sheds no ill-timed tear;

       Her chief is slain—she fills his fatal post;

       Her fellows flee—she checks their base career;

       The foe retires—she heads the sallying host:

       Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?

       Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?

       What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost?

       Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,

      Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered wall?

      LVII.

      Yet

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