Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar! In every peal she calls-Awake! arise!' Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?

XXXVIII.

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?-the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high :-from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe:
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

XXXIX.

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon Flashing afar, and at his iron feet Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

XL.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph.share: The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array,

XLI.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies:
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally

That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met-as if at home they could not die-
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

XLII.

There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools! Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what?-a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway! Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

XLIII.

O Albuera, glorious field of grief!

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed,

nand! 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, etc. etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country.

The red cockade, with Fernando VII.' in th

LXIV

Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,

And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:

Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

LXXVI.

Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd away, Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear; Now is thy tine to perish, or display The skill that yet may check his mad career. With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes: Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.

LXXVII.

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;
Though man and man's avenging arms assail,
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.

One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse;
Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears,
His gory chest unveils life's panting source;
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he

bears.

LXXVIII.

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,
And foes disabled in the brutal fray:
And now the Matadores around him play,
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:
Once more through all he bursts his thundering
way-

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye-tis past-he sinks upon the sand!

LXXIX.

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.
He stops-he starts-disdaining to decline:

Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
The decorated car appears: on high

The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyes; Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by.

LXXX.

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain:
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain.
What private feuds the troubled village stain!
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the
foe,

Enough, alas, in humble homes remain,

To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow,

For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow,

LXXXI.

But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
His withered sentinel, Duenna sage!
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage,
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age.
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen

(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),

With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen?

LXXXII.

Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved, Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream; But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream: And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

LXXXIII.

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; Not that Philosophy on such a mind E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes: But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies; And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.

LXXXIV.

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate;
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the

song;

But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay,

To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.

TO INEZ.

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,
Alas! I cannot smile again:

Yet Heaven avert that ever thou

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. And dost thou ask what secret woe

I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang even thou must fail to soothe? It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low Ambition's honours lost,
That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I prized the most:

It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
To me no pleasure Beauty brings;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.