The Vision of Don Roderick, XLIX–LXIII

Nor unatoned, where Freedom’s foes prevail, Remained their savage waste. With blade and brand By day the Invaders ravaged hill and dale, But, with the darkness, the Guerilla band Came like night’s tempest, and avenged the land, And claimed for blood the retribution due, Probed the hard heart, and lopped the murd’rous hand; And Dawn, when o’er the scene her beams she threw ’Midst ruins they had made, the spoilers’ corpses knew.

What minstrel verse may sing, or tongue may tell, Amid the visioned strife from sea to sea, How oft the Patriot banners rose or fell, Still honoured in defeat as victory! For that sad pageant of events to be Showed every form of fight by field and flood; Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their glee, Beheld, while riding on the tempest scud, The waters choked with slain, the earth bedrenched with blood!

Then Zaragoza—blighted be the tongue That names thy name without the honour due! For never hath the harp of Minstrel rung, Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true! Mine, sap, and bomb thy shattered ruins knew, Each art of war’s extremity had room, Twice from thy half-sacked streets the foe withdrew, And when at length stern fate decreed thy doom, They won not Zaragoza, but her children’s bloody tomb.

Yet raise thy head, sad city! Though in chains, Enthralled thou canst not be! Arise, and claim Reverence from every heart where Freedom reigns, For what thou worshippest!—thy sainted dame, She of the Column, honoured be her name By all, whate’er their creed, who honour love! And like the sacred relics of the flame, That gave some martyr to the blessed above, To every loyal heart may thy sad embers prove!

Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona fair! Faithful to death thy heroes shall be sung, Manning the towers, while o’er their heads the air Swart as the smoke from raging furnace hung; Now thicker darkening where the mine was sprung, Now briefly lightened by the cannon’s flare, Now arched with fire-sparks as the bomb was flung, And reddening now with conflagration’s glare, While by the fatal light the foes for storm prepare.

While all around was danger, strife, and fear, While the earth shook, and darkened was the sky, And wide Destruction stunned the listening ear, Appalled the heart, and stupefied the eye,— Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry, In which old Albion’s heart and tongue unite, Whene’er her soul is up, and pulse beats high, Whether it hail the wine-cup or the fight, And bid each arm be strong, or bid each heart be light.

Don Roderick turned him as the shout grew loud— A varied scene the changeful vision showed, For, where the ocean mingled with the cloud, A gallant navy stemmed the billows broad. From mast and stern St. George’s symbol flowed, Blent with the silver cross to Scotland dear; Mottling the sea their landward barges rowed, And flashed the sun on bayonet, brand, and spear, And the wild beach returned the seamen’s jovial cheer.

It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight! The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars, Fast as they land the red-cross ranks unite, Legions on legions bright’ning all the shores. Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars, Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum, Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours, And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb, For, bold in Freedom’s cause, the bands of Ocean come!

A various host they came—whose ranks display Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight, The deep battalion locks its firm array, And meditates his aim the marksman light; Far glance the light of sabres flashing bright Where mounted squadrons shake the echoing mead, Lacks not artillery breathing flame and night, Nor the fleet ordnance whirled by rapid steed, That rivals lightning’s flash in ruin and in speed.

A various host—from kindred realms they came, Brethren in arms, but rivals in renown— For yon fair bands shall merry England claim, And with their deeds of valour deck her crown. Hers their bold port, and hers their martial frown, And hers their scorn of death in freedom’s cause, Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown, And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause, And free-born thoughts which league the Soldier with the Laws.

And, oh! loved warriors of the Minstrel’s land! Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave! The rugged form may mark the mountain band, And harsher features, and a mien more grave; But ne’er in battlefield throbbed heart so brave As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid; And when the pibroch bids the battle rave, And level for the charge your arms are laid, Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset stayed!

Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, Mingling wild mirth with war’s stern minstrelsy, His jest while each blithe comrade round him flings, And moves to death with military glee: Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free, In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known, Rough Nature’s children, humorous as she: And HE, yon Chieftain—strike the proudest tone Of thy bold harp, green Isle!—the Hero is thine own.

Now on the scene Vimeira should be shown, On Talavera’s fight should Roderick gaze, And hear Corunna wail her battle won, And see Busaco’s crest with lightning blaze:— But shall fond fable mix with heroes’ praise? Hath Fiction’s stage for Truth’s long triumphs room? And dare her wild flowers mingle with the bays That claim a long eternity to bloom Around the warrior’s crest, and o’er the warrior’s tomb!

Or may I give adventurous Fancy scope, And stretch a bold hand to the awful veil That hides futurity from anxious hope, Bidding beyond it scenes of glory hail, And painting Europe rousing at the tale Of Spain’s invaders from her confines hurled, While kindling nations buckle on their mail, And Fame, with clarion-blast and wings unfurled, To Freedom and Revenge awakes an injured World!

O vain, though anxious, is the glance I cast, Since Fate has marked futurity her own: Yet Fate resigns to worth the glorious past, The deeds recorded, and the laurels won. Then, though the Vault of Destiny be gone, King, Prelate, all the phantasms of my brain, Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun, Yet grant for faith, for valour, and for Spain, One note of pride and fire, a Patriot’s parting strain!