Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free,
In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known,
Rough Nature's children, humorous as she :

And HE, yon Chieftain-strike the proudest

tone

Of thy bold harp, green Isle !-the Hero is thine

own.

61 Now on the scene Vimeira should be shown,
On Talavera's fight should Roderick gaze,
And hear Corunna wail her battle won,

And see Busaco's crest with lightning blaze :—
But shall fond fable mix with heroes' praise?
Hath Fiction's stage for Truth's long triumphs
room?

And dare her wild-flowers mingle with the bays,
That claim a long eternity to bloom

Around the warrior's crest, and o'er the warrior's tomb?

62 Or may I give adventurous Fancy scope,
And stretch a bold hand to the awful veil
That hides futurity from anxious hope,
Bidding beyond it scenes of glory hail,
And painting Europe rousing at the tale

Of Spain's invaders from her confines hurl'd,
While kindling nations buckle on their mail,

And fame with clarion-blast and wings unfurl'd, To Freedom and Revenge awakes an injured World!

63 O vain, though anxious, is the glance I cast,

Since Fate has marked futurity her own:-
Yet Fate resigns to Worth the glorious past,
The deeds recorded and the laurels won.

Then, though the Vault of Destiny' be gone,
King, Prelate, all the phantasms of my brain,
Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun,

Yet grant for faith, for valour, and for Spain, One note of pride and fire, a Patriot's parting strain!

CONCLUSION.

1 'Who shall command Estrella's mountain-tide
Back to the source, when tempest-chafed, to hie?
Who, when Gascogne's vexed gulf is raging wide,
Shall hush it as a nurse her infant's cry?
His magic power let such vain boaster try,
And when the torrent shall his voice obey,
And Biscay's whirlwinds list his lullaby,

Let him stand forth and bar mine Eagles' way, And they shall heed his voice, and at his bidding stay..

2 Else ne'er to stoop, till high on Lisbon's towers They close their wings, the symbol of our yoke, And their own sea hath whelm'd yon red-cross Powers!'

Thus, on the summit of Alverca's rock,

To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul's Leader spoke. While downward on the land his legions press, Before them it was rich with vine and flock,

And smiled like Eden in her summer dress;Behind their wasteful march, a reeking wilderness.^

3 And shall the boastful Chief maintain his word, Though Heaven hath heard the wailings of the land,

Though Lusitania whet her vengeful sword, Though Britons arm, and WELLINGTON command?

No! grim Busaco's iron ridge shall stand

An adamantine barrier to his force;

And from its base shall wheel his shattered band, As from the unshaken rock the torrent hoarse Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a devious course.

4 Yet not because Alcoba's mountain-hawk

Hath on his best and bravest made her food, In numbers confident, yon Chief shall baulk His Lord's imperial thirst for spoil and blood: For full in view the promised conquest stood,

And Lisbon's matrons, from their walls, might sum The myriads that had half the world subdued,

And hear the distant thunders of the drum, That bids the bands of France to storm and havoc

come.

5 Four moons have heard these thunders idly roll'd,
Have seen these wistful myriads eye their prey,
As famish'd wolves survey a guarded fold—
But in the middle path a Lion lay!

At length they move-but not to battle-fray,
Nor blaze yon fires where meets the manly fight;
Beacons of infamy, they light the way

Where cowardice and cruelty unite,

To damn with double shame their ignominious flight!

6 O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and Wrath! Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be forgot,

What wanton horrors marked their wrackful path! The peasant butchered in his ruined cot,

The hoary priest even at the altar shot,

Childhood and age given o'er to sword and flame, Woman to infamy;-no crime forgot,

By which inventive demons might proclaim Immortal hate to Man, and scorn of God's great name!

7 The rudest sentinel, in Britain born,

With horror paused to view the havoc done,
Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch forlorn, B
Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer grasped his gun
Nor with less zeal shall Britain's peaceful son
Exult the debt of sympathy to pay;
Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun,

Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor the gay, Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's more worth

less lay.

8 But thou-unfoughten wilt thou yield to Fate,
Minion of Fortune, now miscalled in vain!
Can vantage-ground no confidence create,
Marcella's pass, nor Guarda's mountain chain?
Vain-glorious fugitive! yet turn again!

Behold, where, named by some prophetic Seer,
Flows Honour's Fountain1 as fore-doomed the stain

From thy dishonoured name and arms to clearFallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her favour here!

9 Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each distant aid;
Those chief that never heard the lion roar!
Within whose souls lives not a trace portray'd,
Of Talavera, or Mondego's shore!

The literal translation of Fuentes d'Honoro.

1

Marshal each band thou hast, and summon more;
Of war's fell stratagems exhaust the whole;
Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron pour,
Legion on legion on thy foeman roll,

And weary out his arm-thou canst not quell his
soul.

10 O vainly gleams with steel Agueda's shore, Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava's plain, And front the flying thunders as they roar,

With frantic charge and tenfold odds, in vain!D
And what avails thee that, for Cameron slain,
Wild from his plaided ranks the yell was
given-E

Vengeance and grief gave mountain-rage the rein,
And, at the bloody spear-point headlong

driven,

Thy Despot's giant guards fled like the rack of heaven.

11 Go, baffled Boaster! teach thy haughty mood

To plead at thine imperious master's throne,
Say, thou hast left his legions in their blood,

Deceived his hopes, and frustrated thine own;
Say, that thine utmost skill and valour shown,
By British skill and valour were outvied;
Last say, thy conqueror was WELLINGTON !

And if he chafe, be his own fortune tried-
God and our cause to friend, the venture we'll abide.

12 But ye, the heroes of that well-fought day,

How shall a bard, unknowing and unknown,
His meed to each victorious leader pay,

Or bind on every brow the laurels won?