Iberia Won 34

Iberia Won 34

Now Slaughter stalks triumphantly alone,

And silent is the fierce artillery’s roar;

But shriek and shout and yell, cry, curse, and groan,

Make music dire to rend the bosom’s core,

And louder than Man’s thunder rolled before

Comes Heaven’s artillery from the mountains down,

Dark, stormy, terrible: leap lightnings o’er

The murky cope to mark the Almighty’s frown

For deeds of carnage done in that devoted town.

 

 

XXIV.

 

What careth Man red-handed for His wrath?

What bellowing beast so terrible as he,

When boundless passions master him? His path

Is more destructive than the stormy sea.

His nostril is a furnace. Ominously

Doth glare his bloodshot eye. Nor Beauty saves

The virgin, nor grey hairs and tottering knee

The reverend sire. Lust, rapine, murder waves

A pirate flag o’er all, and hearths are turned to graves!

 

 

XXV.

 

Oh, meek-eyed Pity! Tenderness of Soul!

Oh, sacred source of sympathetic tears!

Say, hast thou fled the Earth, whose tottering pole

Can ill sustain its weight of grief and fears?

Is dried your fountain, choked by crimson biers?

Oh, human anguish! Yet, by man’s accord,

The day shall come, when he who as in years

Gone by shall dare produce thee--King or Lord--

A Pariah-brand shall wear, than Demons more abhorred!

 

 

XXVI.

 

Still havoc, plunder reigns. Where is thy sword,

Sebastian, Warrior-Saint, that now should wheel

Like the Archangel’s, Eden who restored

To Solitude? Dost thou less horror feel

That thine own City ’neath the shock should reel

Of ruffian violence? Prætorian brave,

The Imperial Boar withstanding in thy zeal,

Thou whom nor Roman shafts subdued nor glaive,

Thy consecrated town arise, great Saint, and save!

 

 

XXVII.

 

Oh, arrow-pierced for Christ! whose mighty ban

Against the arrowy shower of pestilence

In aid Divine is still invoked by Man,

And potent still, this plague send howling hence.

By that great voice, whose eloquence intense,

When Marcus trembled, made him firm to win

The Martyr-crown, and Christian turned the dense

Blood-thirsting crowd--guard, judges--all within

Its mighty compass, rise, and stay the steps of sin!

 

 

XXVIII.

 

Nazrene Apollo, beautiful as bold,

Whose worship whirls the enthusiast Southern maid

To passion oft and madness, to behold

Thee limned so blooming fair--give, give thine aid!

Oh, by Irene’s love who undismayed

Unbound thee, pouring balm into each wound

The archers left--against the pillar laid--

When dead they thought thee who had only swooned;

By her who healed thee, raise that voice to mercy tuned!

 

 

XXIX.

 

By that majestic Faith, whose dauntless power

Confronted Cæsar at his palace gate,

When to the Capitol in glory’s hour

The Tyrant proud ascended, lording fate;

And dared reproach him with his cruel hate

For God’s elect; and by the Martyr-crown

Thy zeal soon won, oh leave not desolate

The walls that bear thy name. Forbear to frown.

The patron gives no sign. Alas, devoted town!

 

 

XXX.

 

High on the greater breach where hours before

Had swept the wave of battle, ’neath the black

And murky cope, which flashed red lightnings o’er,

A maiden stood alone in murder’s track,

A white-robed angel seemed ’mid general wrack,

And to and fro amid the heaps of slain,

And round and round and forward then and back,

Peered in each pallid face War’s iron rain

Had shattered there, and passed like Judgment in Death’s train.

 

 

XXXI.

 

’Twas Blanca! she had heard too soon, too soon

Of William’s fall, and sought his corse, I ween.

As girt with thunder-clouds the silver Moon,

So shone the maiden in that direful scene.

But, ah, her cheek had lost its rosy sheen,

Glared wild her eye, her tresses loosely fell.

With frantic haste and Pythonissa’s mien,

She tears away the corses where they dwell

In gory heaps that prove they stood the tempest well.

 

 

XXXII.

 

She halts--she starts--on Morton’s corse she lights.

Too true the mournful tidings! One shrill cry--

She falls upon his breast, more dull than Night’s,

His cold lips kisses in her agony,

And clasps again--again--till no reply

Convinces even _her_ fond heart the source

Of Life is frozen--then, without a sigh,

Takes from his hand the sword, nor feels remorse,

Her heart transpierces, falls, and dies upon his corse.

 

 

XXXIII.

 

Oh noblest maiden, though of low estate,

With every proud and generous impulse rife;

Born to demonstrate to the meanly great,

How vain the pageant of a worthless life!

Sprung from thy heart like wild-flowers all that wife

Could bring of purity to Kingliest throne,

With highest attributes to soothe the strife

Of human passion, for the fall atone,

And show our angel-part preserved in thee alone!

 

 

XXXIV.

 

Yet noble as thou wert, thy hand was armed

’Gainst thine own life. ’Neath that terrific shock

Thy great heart broke! The eye that Morton charmed

Burst with its grief-flood like the Prophet’s rock.

Cold, callous wordlings, do not Blanca mock.

Her fault was generous--that she loved too much.

Not long did Anguish at her bosom knock.

Like Indian brides when Death their lords doth clutch,

She died in the same hour. Grief killed her with a touch!

 

 

XXXV.

 

Cantabrian maidens, sisters of the oar,

Mourn, mourn for her your Cynosure and pride.

Her star-like eye shall guide your chase no more,

Your glory fled from earth when Blanca died!

In vain your barks shall o’er the billows ride;

Her beauty gave the sunshine most ye miss.

So graceful ne’er again your fleet shall glide;

Nor waves your prows so joyously shall kiss.

For Nereus ne’er surveyed a daughter fair as this!

 

 

XXXVI.

 

Mourn, San Sebastian, for the beauty blighted

Of her your angel-child in by-gone years.

Your eyes no more shall by her charms delighted

Recal celestial dreams to chase your fears.

And, Isidora too, be shed thy tears,

Or hoarded for thyself whom danger girds.

Thy foster-sister memory now endears

Alone, with thought of gentle deeds and words.

For ye were severed long, poor caged and sundered birds!