Or shall foul sloth and timid doubt conspire

To mar our zeal, and waste our manly fire?"

Still as I gaz'd, his low'ring features spread,
High rose his form, and darkness veil'd his head;
Fast from his eyes the ruddy lightning broke,
To heaven he rear'd his arm, and thus he spoke :

"Woe, trebly woe to their slow zeal who bore Delusive comfort to Iberia's shore!

Who in mid conquest, vaunting, yet dismay'd,

Now gave, and now withdrew their laggard aid;

Who, when each bosom glow'd, each heart beat high, Chill'd the pure stream of England's energy,

And lost in courtly forms and blind delay

The loiter'd hours of glory's short-liv'd day.

"O peerless island, generous, bold, and free,

Lost, ruin'd Albion, Europe mourns for thee!
Hadst thou but known the hour in mercy given
To stay thy doom, and ward the ire of Heaven;
Bar'd in the cause of man thy warrior breast,

And crush'd on yonder hills th' approaching pest,

Then had not murder sack'd thy smiling plain,

And wealth, and worth, and wisdom all been vain;

"Yet, yet awake! while fear and wonder wait

On the pois'd balance, trembling still with fate!

If aught their worth can plead, in battle tried,
Who ting'd 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, dol'd in scanty bands afar,

Wag'd without hope the disproportion'd 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 its 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 gor'd,
The base pursuer waves his weaker sword,
And, trod to earth, by trampling thousands press'd,
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.

"Oh! if such hope can plead, or his, whose bier Drew from his conquering host their latest tear; Whose skill, whose matchless valour, gilded flight; Entomb'd in foreign dust, a hasty soldier's rite;Oh! rouse thee yet to conquer and to save, And Wisdom guide the sword which Justice gave! "And yet the end is not! from yonder tow'rs

While one Saguntum mocks the victor's pow'rs;
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.

"No! by His viewless arm whose righteous care

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 rob'd in darkness, and surrounding fears,
Speeds on their destin'd 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 controul,
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."

TO LIEUTENANT-GENERAL,

SIR ROWLAND HILL, K.B.

HILL! whose high daring with renew'd success

Hath cheer'd our tardy war, what time the cloud
Of expectation, dark and comfortless,

Hung on the mountains; and yon factious crowd
Blasphem'd their country's valour, babbling loud!
Then was thine arm reveal'd, to whose young might,
By Toulon's leaguer'd wall, the fiercest bow'd;
Whom Egypt honour'd, and the dubious fight
Of sad Corunna's winter, and more bright

Douro, and Talavera's gory bays;

E