Or when stern Austria stretched her lawless reign
And spent in northern fights the flower of Spain;
Or war's hoarse furies yelled on Y sell's shore,
And Alva's ruffian sword was drunk with gore.
Yet dared not then Tlascala's chiefs withstand
The lofty daring of Castilia's band;
Apd weeping France her captive king deplored,
And cursed the deathful point of Ebro's sword.
Now, nerved with hope, their night of slavery

past,
Each heart beats high in freedom's buxom blast;
Lo, Conquest calls, and beckoning from afar,
Uplifts his laurel wreath, and waves them on to

war.

„Wo to th' usurper then, who dares defy The sturdy wrath of rustic loyalty. Wo to the hireling bands, foredoomed to feel How strong in labor's horny hand the steel. Behold e'en now, beneath yon Bætic skies Another Pavia bids her trophies rise. E'en now in base disguise and friendly night Their robber-monarch speeds his secret flight; And with new zeal the fiery Lusians rear, (Roused by their neighbor's worth,) the long

neglected spear.

So when stern winter chills the April showers, And iron frost forbids the timely flowers,

0, deem not thou the vigorous herb below
Is crushed and dead beneath the incumbent snow.
Such tardy suns shall wealthier harvests bring
Than all the early smiles of flattering spring.'

Sweet as the martial trumpet's silver swell,
On my charmed sense th' unearthly accents fell;
Me wonder held, and joy chastised by fear,
As one who wished, yet hardly hoped to hear.
• Spirit,' I cried, dread teacher, yet declare,
Jo that good fight, shall Albion's arm be there?
Can Albion, brave, and wise, and proud, refrain
To hail a kindred soul, and link her fate with

Spain? Too long her sons, estranged from war and toil, Have loathed the safety of the sea-girt isle ; And chid the waves which pent their fire within, As the stalled war-horse woes the battle's din. 0, by this throbbing heart, this patriot glow, Which, well I feel, each English breast shall

know, Say,shall my country, roused from deadly sleep, Crowd with her hardy sons yon western steep ; And shall once more the star of France grow pale, And dim its beams in Roncesvalles' vale ? Or shall foul sloth and timid doubt conspire To mar our zeal, and waste our manly fire ?

Still as I gazed, his lowering features spread,

High rose his forin,and darkness veiled his head. Fast from his eyes the ruddy lightning broke, To heaven he reared his arm, and thus he spoke:

•Wo, trebly wo to their slow zeal who bore
Delusive comfort to Iberia's shore.
Who in mid conquest, vaunting, yet dismayed,
Now gave and now withdrew their laggard aid;
Who, when each bosom glowed, each heart beat

high,
Chilled the pure stream of England's energy,
And lost in courtly forms and blind delay
The loitered hours of glory's short-lived day.

• O peerless island, generous, bold, and free, Lost, ruined Albion, Europe mourns for thee. Hadst thou but known the hour in mercy given To stay thy doom, and ward the ire of heaven; Bared in the cause of man thy warrior breast, And crushed on yonder hills the approaching pest, Then had not murder sacked thy smiling plain, And wealth and worth,and wisdom all been vain.

• Yet, yet awake, while fear and wonder wait, On the poised balance, trembling still with fate. If aught their worth can plead, in battle tried, Who tinged 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, doled in scanty bands afar,
Waged without hope the disproportioned 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 his seaward way;
As bare, and shrinking from th' inclement sky,
The languid soldier bends him down 10 die;
As o'er those helpless limbs, by murder gored,
The base pursuer waves his weaker sword,
And,trod to earth,by trampling thousands pressed,
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.

• 0, if such hope can plead, or his, whose bier Drew from his conquering host their latest tear, Whose skill,whose matchless valor, gilded Night, Entornbed in foreign dust,a hasty soldier's rite ;0, 1ouse thee yet to conquer and to save, And Wisdom guide the sword which Justice gave.

*And yet the end is not: from yonder towers, While one Saguntum nocks the victor's powers, Wbile 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 tensold 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