Iberia Won 45
“Hark to the footfall fierce and measured tread
Of Britain’s legions o’er the affrighted ground,
While martial music’s stirring voice is shed,
Enthusiast Valour waking at the sound.
Trombone and cornet make the heart to bound,
The deep bassoon and clarion shrill afar
Their echoes send--the mellow horn around
Gives softer notes, ring fifes their merry bar,
And rolls the doubling drum to stimulate the War.
XXXVIII.
“Roriça, hail! Vimièiro, blest thy sod!
For there the might of France is hurled to dust.
The robber-host is victory-smote by God.
Junot retires with all his spoils unjust,
But sated once for aye his gory lust!
And other fields by England’s might are tried,
In Heaven and in her arm reposing trust.
Corunna’s heights see crushed the Gaulish pride,
But sad the victory gained where Moore heroic died.
XXXIX.
“And rushed great Arthur to the field again,
And conquest o’er his helm unceasing played.
On many a dire, tremendous battle plain
The eagle-crest of Gallia low he laid,
The arms allied in all triumphant made.
My soul doth grow more tranquil--blame him not,
If ruffian-soldiers’ deeds his laurels shade;
Too oft in Victory justice is forgot,
Too oft are arméd men like fiends when passion’s hot.
XL.
“Oh Death in battle! Glory thou art called,
When stirred the fervent blood to seething strife;
But Man prefers thee peaceful coffined, palled,
And shudders unprepared to yield The Life;
For, oh, with terror the dark shore is rife!
Who in precipitate Death would choose to miss
The pillow tended by the loving wife,
The dying hand stretched forth to her to kiss,
The last words whispered low, surviving Memory’s bliss!
XLI.
“That word recalls, my girls, your mother dead,
And brings to these weak eyes a sacred tear.
Belov’d Juana! round thy honoured head
Celestial glory beams, yet, oh, look here,
And shed protection o’er thy children dear!”
Salustian ceased--he kist the foreheads pure
Of both his weeping daughters, Carlos near
Impatient stood, his eyes with ceaseless lure
Tow’rds the lance-casement drawn, where Morn’s first glimmerings
pour.
XLII.
A day of terror to a night of gloom
Succeedeth; light reveals no glimpse of joy.
But rends the Sun the veil from living tomb,
To show how swift can ruffians armed destroy.
Thy treasures, San Sebastian, a decoy,
Thy household gods are shivered into dust!
Nor yet upon thy fell invaders cloy
Barbarian violence and Rapine’s lust.
The thunder-storm hath ceased--but, Heaven, thy arm is just!
XLIII.
“Thou wilt not go--thou wilt not, Carlos, leave
“Thy Isidora’s side--thy life expose.
“What boots their plunder? ’Tis for thee I grieve,
“Alone--unaided, amongst ruffian foes.
“Father, I dread the worst if Carlos goes.”
But Carlos kist her tenderly, and said:
“No danger fear, _mi alma_, blushful rose!
“I will be careful for thy sake--this head
“Bright Heaven is sure to shield--an Angel I would wed!”
XLIV.
Don Carlos wended to Salustian’s home;--
A smouldering heap of ruins met his gaze!
And rifled remnants of that noble dome
Drunk grenadiers transported through the blaze.
Oh, who shall paint his horror and amaze!
He took by the throat the first who crost his path.
Red bayonets flashed beneath the autumnal rays;
But buckled to his side a sword he hath,
And many a victim falls a prey to Carlos’ wrath.
XLV.
Now thronged the soldiery, and Carlos prest
By numbers fought full long with valour rare;
Till faint and bleeding from his wounded breast,
He gained once more the mute Cathedral square.
But, ah, the bloodhounds tracked him to his lair,
And forced an entrance to the sacred pile.
His blood doth guide them up the belfry stair.
They reach the door--they burst it in--the while
Young Isidora screams, and laugh those demons vile.
XLVI.
Grey-haired Salustian feebly snatched a sword,
And Carlos strove to lift--but falls his hand.
Clasped to her breast the maiden her adored,
And wildly shrieking Isabel doth stand,
Nor for her clamour cared the ruthless band.
They charged impetuous, as the breach were still
Before them--fell that chieftain in the land,
Salustian, piercéd--Carlos they did kill
In Isidora’s arms, where spouts a crimson rill!
XLVII.
Fell to the ground his corse--the maiden stood,
Like Horror’s statue, chained unto the floor.
Flowed round her lovely feet a stream of blood,
New reeking monsters reeled in at the door.
Hell glared i’ their drunken glance. An instant more,
And Honour’s soul had perished. In their eyes
She reads her doom. A fiend through slippery gore
Advanced--in front the casement open lies.
She leaps--Archangels weep at Virtue’s sacrifice!
HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES TO CANTO VIII.
For the long series of historical incidents, of which this Canto
records only as much as appears to come within the province of
poetry, the reader is referred to the Histories of Napier and
Southey, and to Thiers’s _Histoire du Consulat et de l’Empire_, as
well as to the work of Foy, which will bear comparison with any of
those mentioned.
With regard to Godoy’s character and conduct, I have read most
carefully his _Mémoires_ published some years back in Paris; but
to many of the statements in that book it is impossible to give
credit, and to the view which I have taken of his career in this
and the last Canto I cannot but strongly adhere.
Foy thus describes him and the Royal family of Spain:--
“On vit Godoy s’élancer de la couche adultère de la reine aux
premiers grades de la milice, à la présidence des conseils,
au gouvernement absolu de la paix et de la guerre. * * Le roi
d’Espagne n’avait pas quarante mils soldats en Europe. Ses arsenaux
étaient dégarnis, son trésor était vide. Les dons patriotiques
arrivèrent de toutes part. La Catalogne demanda à se lever en
masse. Les provinces de Biscaye et de Navarre firent des appels
à la population. Les grands seigneurs accoururent à la tête de
leurs vassaux. Les moines arrivèrent enrégimentés. Des bandes
de contrebandiers, oubliant leurs démêlés habituels avec le
gouvernement, demandèrent à combattre les ennemis du trône et de
l’autel. Tous les états, tous les rangs voulurent vaincre ou mourir
pour la patrie. Quel parti tira le gouvernement espagnol de tant de
dévouement? * * Le général des Franciscains offrit de marcher à la
tête de dix mille moines. Le duc d’Albe et deux autres seigneurs
voulurent lever dix mille hommes à leurs frais. Le chapitre de
Toléde offrit vingt-cinq millions de réaux. Le clergé parcourait
les villages le crucifix à la main.” (Foy, _Hist. Guerre.
Pénin._ liv. iv.) All was useless. “Aucun exploit, aucune vertu,
n’honorèrent sa jeunesse, il n’avait pas tiré l’épée pendant la
guerre. Il ne montra pendant la paix ni talent dans les conseils,
ni détermination dans le gouvernement.” (_Ibid._)
A curious parallel for the fortune of Godoy, and for the popular
hatred which he excited, is to be found in Horace:--
_Ibericis_ peruste funibus latus,
Licèt superbus ambules pecuniâ,
Fortuna non mutat genus.
Videsne, sacram metiente te viam,
Cum bis ter ulnarum togâ,
Ut ora vertat huc et huc euntium
Liberrima indignatio?
“Arat Falerni mille fundi jugera,
“Et Appiam mannis terit;
“Sedilibusque magnus in primis eques,
“Othone contempto, sedet!”
_Epod._ iv.
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