As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 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: Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, LII. Portend the deeds to come :-but he whose nod "Viva el Rey Fernando !" Long live King Ferdinand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They are chiefly in dispraise of the old King Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of them: some of the airs are beautiful. Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish guards, till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c. &c. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country. The red cockade, with "Fernando VII." in the centre. All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyramidal form in which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through which I passed in my way to Seville. Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear; "Childe Harold." canto i, 56 A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; LIII. And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, 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 unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scatt'ring bay'net 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, Mark'd 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, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. LVI. Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear; What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost! Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall?* Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by her valour elevated herself to the highest rank of heroines. When the author was at Seville, she walked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of the Junta. LVII. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, LVIII. chance as great. The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak: LIX. Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow With Spain's dark-glancing daughters-deign to know, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. LX. Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, What marvel if I thus essay to sing? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing LXI. Oft have I dream'd of thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore "Sigilla in mento imprensa Amoris digitulo |