Iberia Won 49

Iberia Won 49

Soult from the summit of the Grand Monarque

(For sight in mountain war is baffled oft,

And loftiest points befit the leader’s mark)

Beheld the dreadful rout and mourned aloft;

Then urged his columns onward, gliding soft

To Vera’s fords, his loud artillery’s roar

Covering the stream. Our men derisive scoft

To see his shells descend destructive o’er

His own astounded troops, their ranks molesting sore.

 

 

XVIII.

 

Ill brooks the Frenchman withering laughter’s scorn:

The Lusitan brigade they swift assail,

Whose head by rapid fire is backward borne.

With wondrous fleetness mounting from the vale,

Rough Haya’s slopes the active foemen scale.

But Inglis’ columns now the skirmish join,

And soon Clausel is on the English trail.

’Mid Haya’s dells and lofty ridges shine

For many an hour their fires along each broken line.

 

 

XIX.

 

Joy! joy! the battle to the Frenchward side

Is proudly borne, and pass Kempt’s rifles keen

O’er Bidasoa’s stream, where swift they glide,

In modest garments all of darkest green--

A hue for special service chos’n, I ween,

For England loves the daring and the frank.

In brightest red her columns robed are seen,

A mark inviting like the target’s blank;

And fair her mind is spoke, and fair her battle’s rank!

 

 

XX.

 

Kempt holds Lesaca, and the chain’s complete

From Santa Barbara now to Haya’s crest.

Clausel beholds the movement of defeat,

And dreads to tempt the battle further west.

Hill threatens D’Erlon at his Chief’s behest.

Dalhousie, Colville gall the Gallic line;

Girón’s Castilians aim at Conroux’ breast;

The Lusitan battalion’s bayonets shine;

And swift the French are forced their stronghold to resign.

 

 

XXI.

 

See blaze their camp in fires terrific whirled

By rising tempest-blasts along the sky;

Tent, abatís, redoubt, and breastwork hurled

To ruin far and near--below--on high.

Red streams the fluttering canvass in the eye

Of that autumnal sun--fierce embers flare,

And strew the gale--fall blackening timbers nigh;

Pyrene’s sides reflect the lurid glare,

And myriad crackling sparks are borne upon the air.

 

 

XXII.

 

But now resounds the cannonade of Graham--

That direful torrent o’er the stormers’ heads--

And bids Soult pause. A moment grief o’ercame

The hero’s soul--almost a tear he sheds,

For ominous boding and profound he dreads

The noble city’s fall. Yet firm he stands,

And menacing the foe his phalanx treads

San Marcial’s sides, where still their blazing brands

And glittering points of steel are swayed by sturdy hands.

 

 

XXIII.

 

And now the direful storm that fell when San

Sebastian’s scarp was won the battle palls.

The tempest louder shouts than warring man;

San Marcial’s voice on Haya echoing calls,

And rattles Jaizquibel his thunder-balls,

Mocking weak mortals, far along the sky.

Terrific lightnings o’er Pyrene’s walls

Flash like the swords of mountain spirits on high;

And halts the strife of Man--his pellets cease to fly.

 

 

XXIV.

 

Louder and louder grows the tempest’s voice.

From secular oak and pine huge branches riven

Are whirled through air by winds that fierce rejoice;

And trees for playthings to the blast are given,

As howls the whirlwind breath of angry Heaven!

And pettiest streams to cataracts are swelled,

And torrents dash adown the mountain driven;

While Druid stone and cairn are instant felled,

And boulders rolled along like pebbles are compelled.

 

 

XXV.

 

Dismayed and scattered fly the rival hosts,

Full many a Gaul in Bidasoa drowned;

But, ah, no respite San Sebastian boasts--

No truce proclaimed upon that fatal ground.

Still havoc, plunder, stalk the streets around,

Still bloodhounds bathe their sides in streaming gore!

No angel-voice to plead for mercy found,

No power to quell the fierce hyæna’s roar--

Even Hope doth seem to fly from that devoted shore!

 

 

XXVI.

 

Too dire the scenes that San Sebastian stain

To leave Salustian safe within its wall;

Young Isabel doth by his side remain

In Nial’s tent, and soothe his sorrows all,

But oft her face doth Isidor recall!

Before the old man from the tower descended,

Had Nial, fearful lest the sight appal

Their eyelids, moved the shattered corse and tended

Its hurried funeral, where no tear with his was blended.

 

 

XXVII.

 

But Blanca’s corse, her foster-sister fair,

Was borne with flowrets strewn to Isaro’s isle,

While snow-white banner trembled in the air

Above the bark where cold she lay the while,

To show her virgin spirit without guile!

And while her sisters of the oar with long

And pensive strokes, and thoughts that War revile,

In mournful pageant tame the waters strong,

The Island coast they round with low funereal song.

 

 

XXVIII.

 

And now with interest deep that hourly grew

To tenderest love doth Nial oft behold

Sweet Isabel, not formally to woo,

But drink unconsciously a bliss untold

From presence that his destiny doth mould!

Her figure light and graceful as gazelle,

Her eyes’ majestic orbs like starlight rolled,

Her nature gentle yet with witching spell

Of buoyant life, upon his kindred bosom fell.

 

 

XXIX.

 

And felt the maiden boundless gratitude

To him the saviour of herself and sire.

Love when he comes doth little there intrude,

With such devoted zeal she doth admire;

’Tis only kindling an intenser fire.

Neither had noted the delicious hour,

When mutual transport as in Heavenly choir

Their souls united; but the common power

They owned with one accord--of hearts the richest dower.

 

 

XXX.

 

She loved him with a deep idolatry,

So like a god he to her eyes doth seem,

Who came from demon-hate her soul to free,

Nor shorn at times of a Hypérion beam--

The very image of her virgin dream!

Like to those angel-visitants descending

To earthly loves in Time’s primeval gleam.

And Nial joys her beauty in defending,

And deems celestial charms were ne’er so sweetly blending.

 

 

XXXI.

 

And while the father ’neath the daughter’s care

Doth gather strength and resignation’s calm,

Young Nial to the grave doth pious bear

The corse of Carlos which their tears embalm.

And Morton low reposeth ’neath the palm

Of martyr-courage in the self-same grave.

Funereal rite was none nor dirge nor psalm;

But warriors mourned for them, the true and brave--

There sleep, young soldiers, well--for gallant souls ye gave!