High rose his form,and darkness veiled his head. Fast from his eyes the ruddy lightning broke, To heaven he reared his arm, and thus he spoke: 'Wo, trebly wo to their slow zeal who bore Delusive comfort to Iberia's shore.

Who in mid conquest, vaunting, yet dismayed,
Now gave and now withdrew their laggard aid;
Who, when each bosom glowed, each heart beat
high,

Chilled the pure stream of England's energy,
And lost in courtly forms and blind delay
The loitered hours of glory's short-lived day.

'O peerless island, generous, bold, and free, Lost, ruined Albion, Europe mourns for thee. Hadst thou but known the hour in mercy given To stay thy doom, and ward the ire of heaven; Bared in the cause of man thy warrior breast, And crushed on yonder hills the approaching pest, Then had not murder sacked thy smiling plain, And wealth,and worth,and wisdom all been vain.

.

Yet, yet awake, while fear and wonder wait, On the poised balance, trembling still with fate. If aught their worth can plead, in battle tried, Who tinged with slaughter Tajo's curdling tide; (What time base truce the wheels of war could stay,

And the weak victor flung his wreath away)—

Or theirs, who, doled in scanty bands afar,
Waged without hope the disproportioned war,
And cheerly still, and patient of distress,
Led their forwasted files on numbers numberless.
'Yes,through the march of many a weary day,
As yon dark column toils his seaward way;
As bare, and shrinking from th' inclement sky,
The languid soldier bends him down to die;
As o'er those helpless limbs, by murder gored,
The base pursuer waves his weaker sword,
And,trod to earth,by trampling thousands pressed,
The horse-hoof glances from that mangled breast;
E'en in that hour his hope to England flies,
And fame and vengeance fire his closing eyes.

'O, if such hope can plead, or his, whose bier
Drew from his conquering host their latest tear,
Whose skill, whose matchless valor, gilded flight,
Entombed in foreign dust,a hasty soldier's rite ;-
O, 1ouse thee yet to conquer and to save,
And Wisdom guide the sword which Justice gave.

And yet the end is not: from yonder towers, While one Saguntum mocks the victor's powers, While one brave heart defies a servile chain, And one true soldier wields a lance for Spain; Trust not, vain tyrant, though thy spoiler band In tenfold myriads darken half the land;

(Vast as that power, against whose impious lord

Bethulia's matron shook the nightly sword;) Though ruth and fear thy woundless soul defy, And fatal genius fire thy martial eye;

Yet trust not here o'er yielding realms to roam, Or cheaply bear a bloodless laurel home.

Defends the orphan's tear, the poor man's prayer;
Who, Lord of nature, o'er this changeful ball
Decrees the rise of empires, and the fall:
Wondrous in all his ways, unseen, unknown,
Who treads the wine-press of the world alone :
And robed in darkness, and surrounding fears,
Speeds on their destined road the march of
years.

No-shall yon eagle, from the snare set free,
Stoop to thy wrist, or cower his wing for thee?
And shall it tame despair, thy strong control,
Or quench a nation's still reviving soul?—
Go, bid the force of countless bands conspire
To curb the wandering wind, or grasp the fire;
Cast thy vain fetters on the troublous sea!—
But Spain, the brave, the virtuous,shall be free.'

MISCELLANEOUS

PIECE S.