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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 crown'd
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:

Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,
Here the bold peasant storm'd 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 foeman rue,

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
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'erflow'd,
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch,
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd,

The holster'd 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,

"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.

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Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain-she fills his fatal post.-

"Childe Harold." canto i, 56

A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;
A little moment deigneth to delay:

Soon will his legions sweep through these their 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 unfurl'd,
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd.

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 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,
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 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,
But form'd for all the 'witching arts of love :
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
"Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate:
In softness as in firmness far above
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms

LVIII.

chance as great.

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:*
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,

Bid man be valiant ere he merit such :

Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much
Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek,

Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!
Who round the North for paler dames would seek?

How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak:

LIX.

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
Match me, ye harams of the land! where now
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow!

Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,

With Spain's dark-glancing daughters-deign to know,
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find,

His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.

LX.

Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye,

Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,

But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!

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
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame
That I in feeblest accents must adore.
When I recount thy worshippers of yore,
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;

"Sigilla in mento imprensa Amoris digitulo
Vestigio demonstrant mollitudinem."-AUL, Gra

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