Iberia Won 8

Iberia Won 8

Singular approximation of nations whose struggles in the Peninsular

War were to make so famous near twenty centuries later!

 

In the Peninsula I do not expect much appreciation, where even

amongst those who palaver English, English poetry is not at all

understood, and where once a littérateur, expressing his sham

admiration of Shakspeare, spoke to me of “_Macabets_ as one progidy

of a tradegy!” I am not prepared to sacrifice to an ambition which

nothing but undue praise could conciliate, and I shall be satisfied

with the approval of my own countrymen, if I can only have the good

fortune to secure it.

 

 

_Corunna, September, 1846._

 

 

 

 

IBERIA WON.

 

A Poem.

 

IN TWELVE CANTOS.

 

 

 

 

IBERIA WON.

 

Canto I.

 

 

I.

 

On San Sebastian’s towering castle wall,

What fiery meteor crowns the brow of night?

Its gathering splendour glows majestical

’Gainst darkling skies--a diadem of light!

It grows amain upon the dazzled sight,

While to their posts the amazed besiegers run;

The eternal stars an instant beam less bright,

As startled by another burning sun,

Which now distincter bears the name “Napoléon!”

 

 

II.

 

For Gaul’s imperial master shines that flame,

And quivering flouts the Angliberian host;

Effulgent skies enthrone his mighty name--

His fortress stands impregnable, the boast!

This, this his birthday, this the fearless post

Where England’s strength shall fail again, again,

For warriors fresh have poured along the coast;

And though the siege hath cost a thousand men,

No hostile foot shall dare profane that lion’s den!

 

 

III.

 

Great Arthur smiled, and calm the work went on;

Bartolomeo’s heights were strengthened well,

The trenches deepened ere the night was gone;

Antigua’s rocks with thunder bristling tell

The bold besieged how other bosoms swell

With warlike pride that pants for battle’s hour;

And comes the ponderous train of cannon fell

To try the strength of bastion, scarp, and tower,

And bid the boastful Gaul beware Britannia’s power!

 

 

IV.

 

Say, is, not death then terrible enough,

Ye Captains fierce, but ye must point his dart?

Is man not made of perishable stuff,

But ye must wing new shafts to pierce his heart?

Say, is not famine, pestilence, the smart

Of dire disease and suffering, toil and wo

Enough, but Nature’s pangs must be by Art

Deep multiplied till tears like Ocean flow,

And shattering death-bolts fly, lest Death arrive too slow?

 

 

V.

 

Genius of Liberty, inspire my song!

For thou alone canst consecrate the strife,

That bids surcease the despot sway of Wrong,

And Man prefer thy dignity to Life

Without thee,--War proclaiming “to the knife”

’Gainst Tyrants. May the strain I feebly raise,

Like the Caÿstrian bird’s with death-notes rife,

Tune every human organ to thy praise,

And curb War’s eagles, save to blast Oppression’s gaze!

 

 

VI.

 

On Mont’ Orgullo Mota’s fortress-crown

Seems like defiant Pride from high to smile,

Poised on her lofty cone, while far adown

Blue Ocean bathes her feet and guards the while;

And southward Santa Clara’s rocky isle

Stands like a Cyclop to defend the wall.

War’s stern munitions heaped in many a pile

The ramparts strew, prepared the foe to gall--

Yet deeply now ’tis sworn, shall San Sebastian fall!

 

 

VII.

 

The Chofre hills with giant carronades

Are horror-crested. Far on either side

Swift Uruméa, while the twilight fades,

Are armed the enormous batteries deep and wide.

And opens now like thunder to deride

Yon beacon light the loud artillery’s roar,

With fire and smoke that seem to Hell allied,

Makes wall and castle reel and tremble sore,

And shakes the affrighted wave that foams along the shore!

 

 

VIII.

 

Dire straits of War! The crystal stream of Life

Is now cut off from San Sebastian’s ground;

Where water flowed, an aliment of strife

The withering Genius of Destruction found.

Oh, fatal skill! Sulphureous heaps abound

Within the tube that from Ernani’s hills

Brought Life, yet soon will scatter Death around.

Though lymph, Pyrene, all thy crags distil,

For San Sebastian vain is every mountain rill.

 

 

IX.

 

But, hark the voice of cannon from within!

’Tis raised in joy, a Royal salvo peals.

What new discovery marks that potent din,

Which speaks in thunder that the assailant feels--

Bolts with each flash? For joy the Norman kneels.

Where Mota’s rock above the wave doth frown,

A living fount its bubbling stream reveals,

More prized than diámonds on Regal crown.

The stream is hoarded well--its flow supplies the town.

 

 

X.

 

A moment pause the batteries now, while flag

Of truce and summons of surrender due

Approach the wall, nor long before it lag,

For soon in Rey a noble foeman knew

The English arms as he in England too.

No paltering there! Redoubled every post;

More resolute his wing’d defiance flew,

In fiery tempest ’gainst the leaguering host;

And scorning even to read the summons was his boast.

 

 

XI.

 

Well answered! Where the river widest swells

’Neath rapid Ocean’s amorous embrace,

And on the Siérra swung the Convent bells

For matin-lauds and vesper-song of grace,

The howitzer ascends that holy place,

And from the belfry vomits forth its fire;

From cloisters dim whose cowls the shakos chase

The stabled charger bids the monk retire,

And tell his beads apart till pass War’s tempest dire.

 

 

XII.

 

Now Mont’ Orgullo vaunting Pride doth shew

Less proudly throned, for climb Olía’s side

The straining oxen, dragging upward slow,

With starting eye-ball and hoof opening wide,

Cannon and mortar o’er the foaming tide

Terrific hung. And Man the work completes,