Iberia Won 15
Where is the joy
Like the oar feathering?
Where’s the alloy
Tempests in weathering?
Lash the spray, scattering
Many a beam;
While our oars clattering
Flash through the stream!
XXVII.
Upon thy buckler, Gaul, terrific rang
Vittoria’s powerful stroke, and reeling back
Thy phantom-King to tall Pyrene sprang;
Thy shattered Army, sorrowing deep for lack
Of conquest or of guiding, fell to wrack,
By the great arm of Arthur paralyzed,
Till rapid Soult, when loured the sky most black,
From Dresden rushed and chaos methodized:
No Marshal-Chief, be sure, Napoléon higher prized.
XXVIII.
Yet wise by experience, taught a cautious dread,
And rocking still from England’s vigorous blows,
A hissing serpent’s more than lion’s head
That earth-struck host presented when it rose,
And watched the hour to spring upon its foes.
First San Sebastian to relieve its aim,
Next to redeem lost glory and oppose
Our strong advance, upon Pyrene tame
The pride that dares its crags, and France preserve from shame.
XXIX.
See where the couchant giant bristling lies,
Pyrene with his mountain sides and hair
Of forests dense. His crest doth pierce the skies,
His limbs are precipices poised in air,
His rugged spine full many a peak doth bear;
His ribs, huge ridges, part on either hand,
His mouths are deep ravines where torrents tear
Through rocks a course to Man that seemeth banned.
Yet there our heroes march, their brows by Victory fanned.
XXX.
At Zabaldíca now with gathering ire
The rival armies stand on fearful steeps,
Where rocks on rocks are piled like bastions dire,
And savage Solitude sublimely sleeps,
And Cristovál’s and Lanz’s torrent leaps
Adown the valley where Sauróren smiles.
The pass to San Sebastian England keeps.
There Morton brave and Nial lead their files;
And hardy veterans climb those cloudy mountain piles.
XXXI.
What clattering steed doth gallop fleet as air
Through the Lanz valley, making earth to shake
’Neath his hoofs’ thunder? With that horseman dare
None ride save one, the noblest, for his sake
Light valuing life or limb. Thought-swift they make
Sauróren. O’er the mountain crest they see
Clausel’s brigades from Zabaldíca take
The glen. Leaps from his horse that rider free
To the bridge-parapet, and writes full rapidly.
XXXII.
It is great Arthur, who the varying chance
Of mountain-warfare spirit-like doth seize.
Cole eagle-eyed and gallant Picton France
Would fain cut off; but now our Chief with ease
Averts the danger. Rapid as the breeze,
Somerset’s charger gallops carrying far
His fresh instructions. Dashes through the trees
The French light horse--in vain his course they mar,
And Arthur tranquil rides, the ascent to him no bar.
XXXIII.
The Lusitan battalions first descried
The advancing Chief, and raised a shout of joy.
Uneasy they while distant he doth ride;
Their treasure-trove, their gold without alloy!
The British legions swift caught up the cry,
Which swelled along the line till stern it rose
To Battle’s shout appalling fierce the sky--
The shout that tells the breast to Victory goes,
The shout that ne’er was heard unmoved by Britain’s foes!
XXXIV.
An instant stopt great Arthur on the brow
Of that steep mountain. Both the Armies saw
The Hero at that moment. Soult was now
So near, each rival Chief could plainly draw
The lineaments of each that strike with awe
Their several hosts: “Now strong,” thought Arthur, “is he,
“But cautious. Of that shout he will, some flaw
“Suspecting, much inquire; and thus will free
“My scattered host, till all combined resistless be.”
XXXV.
And Soult, indeed, the battle’s shock withheld,
Till rose next morning’s sun. But forth he pushed
His skirmishers whose fire was keen repelled,
Yet not till night was o’er the mountain hushed.
For rode the Marshal where Lanz’ torrent gushed,
Our whole position cautiously surveying:
By deep defile to far Villalba rushed
The infant Arga, all around displaying
Our troops on every height, for battle fast arraying.
XXXVI.
Upon a rugged mountain’s craggy crest,
A shrine of spotless Mary clustered round
The Lusitan battalion. Soult possest
With thought of weakness there, where cannon frowned
At Zabaldíca, raised Destruction’s sound;
But vain its poise ’gainst that enormous height,
His shot from lower crags doth back rebound.
Powerless his ordnance for Titanian fight,
’Tis Nature’s storm-artillery ushers in the Night!
XXXVII.
Dumb be your voices while the thunder-chime
Peals from Pyrene’s turrets, echoing far.
While roar the elements with rage sublime,
Hushed be your strife, Pygmæan men of war!
See, see, ye tremble at the lightning-scar.
Your brands are sheath’d--ye feel as feathers, dust.
Away! nor God’s designs profanely mar,
Wreaking on brother-forms your gory lust.
In vain! France tempts her doom, and England holds her trust!
XXXVIII.
Next morn the absent corps our army join.
Joy to our Chieftain for his guidance true!
Sir Pack’s not yet hath come--but Marcaloin
Shakes with its onward tramp--though from the view
Of hawk-eyed Soult ’tis hid. To battle flew
His host, assailing Cole in front and rear.
Clausel from the Lanz valley poureth too
His skirmishers--the mountain-side they clear;
Cole’s left is rapid turned--defeat we now may fear.
XXXIX.
But sudden rises o’er the mountain’s crest--
What is’t? An army new of warriors dread--
Pack’s corps, whose swift approach by Soult unguest
Great Arthur’s eagle-eye to battle led,
In place and time where best our ranks are fed.
Instant their clattering fire is hostile blended.
Cole smites the foeman’s right, whose left too bled
From Lusia’s arms; their front, by Pack offended,
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기