Iberia Won 32

Iberia Won 32

XXXIV. “Thus swarm i’ the summer ray o’er parchéd ground

Unnumbered emmets toiling onward straight.”

 

This image will not be condemned as vulgar by those who are

familiar with Homer; and it is further justified by the use of one

of our most elegant poets, Thomson, who commences his _Castle of

Indolence_ thus:

 

O mortal man, who livest here by toil,

Do not complain of this thy hard estate;

That like an emmet thou must ever moil,

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date.

 

 

XXXVI. “With blood-red arms see Carnage, screaming hag.”

 

Todo es muerte y horror: vense hacinados

En torno suyo cuerpos espirantes,

Cadáveres y miembros destroncados.

Campo-redondo.

_Las Armas de Aragon en Oriente._

 

 

 

 

IBERIA WON.

 

Canto VI.

 

 

I.

 

Upon the Chofre stood the dauntless Graham,

And marked the slaughter with determined eye,

Sad yet unshrinking--poured then forth of flame

A torrent hissing red athwart the sky.

Close o’er the stormers’ heads the missiles fly,

The stone-ribbed curtain into fragments hurled--

Full fifty cannon streaming death on high.

Unmoved they stand--no flag of fear unfurled--

A scene unmatched before since dawning of the world!

 

 

II.

 

Even as at Niagára’s thundering fall,

Where leaps the torrent with gigantic stride,

Beneath the watery volume Cyclop wall

Of rocks huge-piléd spans the river wide,

Where dares the venturous voyager abide,

And while his ears terrific clamour stuns,

Flies free o’erhead the cataract’s foaming tide,

And scarce crystálline globule o’er him runs:

Thus stand ’neath Death o’erarched Britannia’s dauntless sons!

 

 

III.

 

“Retire!” was first the cry. “A traitorous foe!

Our batteries’ fire is ’gainst the stormers turned;”

And struck a straggling shot the ranks below;

But Nial and his men the counsel spurned.

To win, whate’er the cost, their bosoms burned;

And ’mid the fiercest of the cannonade,

While San Sebastian for his bulwarks mourned,

Within the rampart solid ground they made--

First step in victory’s march, whose laurels ne’er will fade.

 

 

IV.

 

What were thy triumphs, Greece, on Elis’ plain,

Olympian dust Alphéus’ margin strewing,

The Agora’s grand inspiring shouts, the train

Of statues for the Altis sculptors hewing,

Fame-thirst the prince’ and peasant’s soul imbuing?

Unreal glories to the trampled fear,

Which England with her million eyes is viewing.

First Erin’s sons to encounter peril here.

No rebel wisdom yet impairs that lusty cheer!

 

 

Tricorpor Geryon.

 

 

1.

 

Mark where Valour’s triple crown,

Marring every despot’s frown,

Gives to evergreen renown

Britain’s dauntless sons.

Albion, Erin, Scotia join

Strength of shoulder, heart, and loin,

Men as sterling as their coin,

Faithful as their guns!

 

 

2.

 

Albion firm as Erin brave,

Scotia strong as angry wave.

Who could such a land enslave?

Who her spirit quell?

Albion sturdy, Scotia grim,

Erin dashing o’er the brim--

True till death, though for a whim

Wordy Knaves rebel!

 

 

3.

 

Albion steady, Erin bold,

Scotia gallant as of old;

Britain’s men are Britain’s gold,

Hardy sons of toil.

Albion dauntless, Scotia true,

Erin fervid--loyal, too,

Spite of Spleen’s seditious crew

Banded o’er her soil.

 

 

4.

 

Glorious Nations, three in one,

Long be warmed by Victory’s sun,

Ne’er by factious hate undone,

Ne’er the bond untied.

Ne’er be shorn of either gem

Britain’s noble diadem.

Shamrock, rose, and thistle’s stem

Ne’er let men divide!

 

 

V.

 

Nor one the breach nor one the fierce assault;

Three several columns mount the broken wall;

’Mid deadliest havoc each is forced to halt,

And rush the living where their brothers fall,

Strewn on the crest of that Pyracmon tall;

While heaps of slain a slippery footing yield

To men whose hearts not _this_ e’en can appal.

Still brandish the besieged their fiery shield,

Till thicker strew the dead than live possess the field!

 

 

VI.

 

Nor yet Graham’s thunder ceases. Volleying rolls

The red artillery, on each lightning-flash

Dismay is borne to the defenders’ souls,

Destruction’s bolts against the ramparts dash,

And ruin strews the battlements. As lash

The stormy billows Achill’s rock-bound shore

With all the Atlantic’s force, thus many a gash

That fiery torrent opes the bulwarks o’er,

And still at verge of death they madly strain the more!

 

 

VII.

 

And they are mad, or more than madness seems

Thy glow, enthusiast Courage! Many a boy

Sees Valour’s guerdon shine with starry beams,

And Danger, made a mockery, seems a joy!

Yet swiftly hostile fires their ranks destroy,

Nor yet to San Sebastian entrance gained.

Already grief their glory ’gins to alloy,

Lest ’neath that wall their glittering arms be stained.

Ere comes defeat be, Graham, thy death-fire two-fold rained!

 

 

VIII.

 

Resistance chafes their spirits, stirs their blood.

Excitement fires their minds beyond controul;

Till lightning runs through all the arterial flood,

And lion-daring grows the warrior-soul.

Full many a gentle bosom ’neath that roll

Of musketry and cannon feels transformed--

Spurred like a race-horse bounding to the goal,

Till death’s a sport to venturers conflict-warmed,

And not by men but fiends seems San Sebastian stormed.