gal. It is the only place in that kingdom where the barefooted Carmelites possessed what, in their language, is called a desart, an establishment where those brethren whose devotion flies to the highest pitch, may at once enjoy the advantage of the eremite, with the security of the cenobite life; one of those places where man has converted an earthly paradise into a purgatory for himself, but where superstition almost seems sanctified by every 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 Portuguse army was posted 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 were engaged throughout the line; at six on the following morning, the French made two desperate attacks upon Lord Wellinton'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 that 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 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, 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."

BATTLE OF BUSACO; DELIVERANCE OF PORTUGAL.

The breeze sigh'd sadly o'er the midnight flood;
On Lisbon's tow'rs Don Henry's spirit stood:
He wore not helm, he wore not casque; his hair
Streamed like a funeral banner in the air :
In mournful attitude, with aspect drear,
He held revers'd his country's guardian spear;
Dark was his eye, and gloomy was his brow,
He gaz'd 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,
Allur'd from fairer Italy the maid,

And here the gound works of the empire laid?
Is there a bolt to mortal guidance giv'n?—

Where are the thund'ring delegates of Heav'n-
Through Europe's plains the tyrant's voice is heard,
And blood-red anarchy her flag has rear'd,
Roli'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 jav'lins idly play,
And glance with baffled impotence away;
Her hands the redd'ning 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 ev'ry 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 Vimeria's heights were taught to feel
The vengeful fury of a freeman's steel;
Who hung on British Moore in his retreat,
And purchas'd dear experience by defeat.
Such were the chiefs that Gaul's batallia 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-
She's at our bayonets,-touches every gun,-
Now speed thee, England! and the work is done.-
Now where is France ?-Yon mountain heap of dead,
Yon scatter'd band will tell you how they sped;
The dying groan, the penetrating yell,

May tell how quick she sunk, how soon she fell :
Her sons are gone, her choicest blood is spilt,
Her brightest spear is shiver'd to the hilt.

Nor ceased they here; but from the mountain height,
Tempestuous Britain rolls to meet the fight,
Pours the full tide of battle o'er the plain,

And whelms beneath the waves its adverse train:
The vanquish'd squadrons dread an added loss;
They skulk behind the rampart and the fosse;-
Why lingers Wellesley? Does he fear their force ?
Dreads he their foot, or trembles at their horse?
Alas! by hands unseen, he deals the blow,
By hands unseen, he prostrates ev'ry foe.
One night--(and France still shudders at that night,
Pregnant with death, with horror, and affright ;)
One night--on plans of victory intent,

A spy into the hostile camp he sent ;

It was a wretch, decrepit, shrivel'd, wild,-

A haggard visage that had never smiled;

The miscreant's jaws were never seen to close,
The miscreant's eyes had never known repose ;--
Swift to the Gallic camp she sped her way,
And Britain's soldiers, e'er the dawn of day,
Heard through the hostile tents her footstep's tread
For Famine-raging Famine claim'd her dead;

With frantic haste they fled the fatal post,
Long boldly held-now miserably lost;
Dismay, confusion through the rout appear,
Victorious Britain hangs upon their rear.
No, sweet Humanity! I dare not tell

How infants bled, how mothers, husbands fell;
I dare not paint the agonizing look

The mother gave, when Gaul her infant took,---
Took, and while yet the cherub's smile was fresh,
Pierced its fair limbs and tore its baby-flesh-
I dare not paint the wife's transporting woe,
When sunk her husband by Massena's blow ;-
Hear, thou dread warrior! hear, thou man of blood!
Hear, thou, with female, infant gore imbrued!
When, sinking in the horrors of the tomb,

The avenging angel shall pronounce thy doom-
When war's loud yell grows faint, the drum's dead roll
Strikes languid, and more languid on the soul-
When Britain's cannons may unheeded roar,

And Wellesley's name has power to fright no more,

Yon widow's shrieks shall pierce thee till thou rave,

And form a dread artillery in the grave!

Heard ye that burst of joy? From Beira's coast

To Algarve's southern boundaries it crost;

It pass'd from undulating Tagus' source,

And burst where Guadiana holds his course.

Farewell! proud France! (they cried) thy power is broke ;

Farewell forever to thy iron yoke!

But blest for ever be old Ocean's queen,

Still on his bosom may she reign serene.

When on these plains our future offspring gaze,
To them our grateful heart shall sound thy praise.
To Britain's generous aid these plains we owe,
For us she drew the sword, and bent the bow.
We sunk, we crouch'd beneath a tyrant's hand-
Victorious Britain loosed the usurper's band.
We bow'd to France, obey'd each stern decree,-~
Majestic Britain rose-and all was free.