Busaco, which was now to become fa"mous in British history, had long been a " venerable name in Portugal. It is the only

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place in that kingdom where the barefooted "Carmelites possessed what, in their language, "is called a desert, an establishment where "those brethren whose devotion flies to the highest pitch, may at once enjoy the ad

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vantage of the eremite, with the security of "the cenobite life; one of those places where "man has converted an earthly paradise into

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a purgatory for himself, but where super"stition almost seems sanctified by every

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thing around it. The solitude and silence "of Busaco were now to be broken by events, "in which its hermits, dead as they were to "the world, might be permitted to feel all the agitation of worldly hope and fear. The "British and Portuguese army was posted

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along the ridge, extending nearly eight

miles, and forming the segment of a circle, "whose extreme points embraced every part "of the enemy's position, and from whence every movement of the enemy below could "be immediately observed. On the 26th Sept. 1810, the light troops on both sides

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"were engaged throughout the line; at six "on the following morning, the French made "two desperate attacks upon Lord Welling"ton's position; one on the right, the other "on the left of the highest point of the sierra: "this spot is remarkable, as commanding one "of the most extensive views in Portugal; "and on the very summit stands a cross, planted upon a basis of masonry of such magnitude, that it is said three thousand "carts of stone were used in the work. One "division of French infantry gained the top "of the ridge, and was driven back with the bayonet; another division, farther on the right, was repulsed before it could reach the

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top. On the left they made their attack "with three divisions, only one of which "made any progress towards the summit, and

this was charged with the bayonet, and "driven down with immense loss. Some of "the Portuguese charging a superior force,

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got so wedged in among them, that they "had not room to use their bayonets; they "turned up the but-ends of their muskets, "and plied them with such vigour, as completely to clear the way."

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BATTLE OF BUSACO; DELIVERANCE OF

PORTUGAL.

The breeze sigh'd sadly o'er the midnight flood;
On Lisbon's towers Don Henry's spirit stood:
He wore not helm, he wore not casque; his hair
Stream'd like a funeral banner in the air:
In mournful attitude, with aspect drear,
He held reversed his country's guardian spear;
Dark was his eye, and gloomy was his brow,
He gazed with sternness on the wave below;
Then thrice aloft the deathful spear he shook,
While sorrow's torrent from his bosom broke :—
Fiends may the angel of destruction shed
This blood-red cup of horrors on your head!
Throughout your camp may hell-born demons play,
Grin ruin to your host, and howl dismay !
Was it for this, dear, desolated shore !

I taught proud Commerce here her gifts to pour,
Allured from fairer Italy the maid,

And here the ground-works of the empire laid ?
Is there a bolt to mortal guidance given ?—
Where are the thund'ring delegates of Heaven?—
Through Europe's plains the tyrant's voice is heard,
And blood-red anarchy her flag has rear'd,
Roll'd round her gorgon-eyes from native France,
And petrified the nations with a glance;

Affrighted Italy her blasted vines

Has dropp'd, and Spain let fall her orange lines,

And tough Teutonic forests, though they broke Awhile her force, yet yielded to the stroke.

Where shall I turn, where find the free, the brave, A heart to pity, and an arm to save?

To Britain, glorious Britain, will I call,

Her bulwark, valour, and the sea, her wall.
Around her crest, Gaul's javelins idly play,
And glance with baffled impotence away;
Her hands the reddening bolts of vengeance bear,
Fate 's on her helm, and death upon her spear;
She scorns at Victory's shrine her vows to pay,
She grasps the laurel, she commands the day.
England, what! ho!-as thus the spectre spoke,
All Lisbon's turrets to their bases shook :-
England, what! ho!-again the spectre cried,
And trembling Tagus heaved with all his tide,
England, to arms!-at this dread call advance!
Assist, defend, protect!-now tremble, France!—
He spoke, then plunged into the river's breast,
And Tagus wrapt him in his billowy vest.
O'er seas, o'er shores the solemn summons pass'd,
It rode upon the pinions of the blast:
The midnight shades are gone, the glooms are fled,
See! the dawn broke as Britain rear'd her head!
With Albion's spear upon her shield she smote;
Through every island rung the inspiring note.
Roused at the sound, the English lion rose,
And burnt to meet hereditary foes;

From Highland rocks came every Scottish clan;
Forward rush'd Erin's sons, and led the van:
The Usurper shook,-then sent each chief of name,
Partners of victory, sharers of his fame,

Who bore Gaul's standard through the hostile throng,
While Lodi trembled as they rush'd along;

Who traversed Egypt's plains and Syria's waste,
And left a red memorial where they pass'd;

Who bathed, midst French and Austrian heaps of slain,
Their gory footsteps on Marengo's plain :
And those who laid the Prussian glories low,
Yet felt a Brunswick's last expiring blow;
Who on Vimeira's heights were taught to feel
The vengeful fury of a freeman's steel;
Who hung on British Moore in his retreat,
And purchased dear experience by defeat.
Such were the chiefs that Gaul's battalia led ;--
Yet England came, they met her, and they fled.
At dark Busaco's foot stood France's might,
The hopes of Britain occupied the height.
Gaul's mantling terrors to the summit tend,-
Hold, Britain, charge not,-the attack suspend ;-
Hush'd be the British whirlwind,-not a breath
Be heard within thy host,-be still as death!-
With gathering gloom comes France's dark array,-
Rest, Britain, on thy arms,-thy march delay-
See! France has gain'd the summit of the hill!
See! she advances! Soldier, yet be still-