The Vision of Don Roderick, XXXIII–XLVIII

Preluding light, were strains of music heard, As once again revolved that measured sand; Such sounds as when, for silvan dance prepared, Gay Xeres summons forth her vintage band; When for the light bolero ready stand The mozo blithe, with gay muchacha met, He conscious of his broidered cap and band, She of her netted locks and light corsette, Each tiptoe perched to spring, and shake the castanet.

And well such strains the opening scene became; For VALOUR had relaxed his ardent look, And at a lady’s feet, like lion tame, Lay stretched, full loath the weight of arms to brook; And softened BIGOTRY, upon his book, Pattered a task of little good or ill: But the blithe peasant plied his pruning-hook, Whistled the muleteer o’er vale and hill, And rung from village-green the merry seguidille.

Grey Royalty, grown impotent of toil, Let the grave sceptre slip his lazy hold; And, careless, saw his rule become the spoil Of a loose Female and her minion bold. But peace was on the cottage and the fold, From Court intrigue, from bickering faction far; Beneath the chestnut-tree Love’s tale was told, And to the tinkling of the light guitar, Sweet stooped the western sun, sweet rose the evening star.

As that sea-cloud, in size like human hand, When first from Carmel by the Tishbite seen, Came slowly overshadowing Israel’s land, A while, perchance, bedecked with colours sheen, While yet the sunbeams on its skirts had been, Limning with purple and with gold its shroud, Till darker folds obscured the blue serene And blotted heaven with one broad sable cloud, Then sheeted rain burst down, and whirlwinds howled aloud:—

Even so, upon that peaceful scene was poured, Like gathering clouds, full many a foreign band, And HE, their Leader, wore in sheath his sword, And offered peaceful front and open hand, Veiling the perjured treachery he planned, By friendship’s zeal and honour’s specious guise, Until he won the passes of the land; Then burst were honour’s oath and friendship’s ties! He clutched his vulture grasp, and called fair Spain his prize.

An iron crown his anxious forehead bore; And well such diadem his heart became, Who ne’er his purpose for remorse gave o’er, Or checked his course for piety or shame; Who, trained a soldier, deemed a soldier’s fame Might flourish in the wreath of battles won, Though neither truth nor honour decked his name; Who, placed by fortune on a Monarch’s throne, Recked not of Monarch’s faith, or Mercy’s kingly tone.

From a rude isle his ruder lineage came, The spark, that, from a suburb-hovel’s hearth Ascending, wraps some capital in flame, Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth. And for the soul that bade him waste the earth— The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth, And by destruction bids its fame endure, Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.

Before that Leader strode a shadowy Form; Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor showed, With which she beckoned him through fight and storm, And all he crushed that crossed his desperate road, Nor thought, nor feared, nor looked on what he trode. Realms could not glut his pride, blood could not slake, So oft as e’er she shook her torch abroad— It was AMBITION bade her terrors wake, Nor deigned she, as of yore, a milder form to take.

No longer now she spurned at mean revenge, Or stayed her hand for conquered foeman’s moan; As when, the fates of aged Rome to change, By Cæsar’s side she crossed the Rubicon. Nor joyed she to bestow the spoils she won, As when the banded powers of Greece were tasked To war beneath the Youth of Macedon: No seemly veil her modern minion asked, He saw her hideous face, and loved the fiend unmasked.

That Prelate marked his march—On banners blazed With battles won in many a distant land, On eagle-standards and on arms he gazed; “And hopest thou, then,” he said, “thy power shall stand? Oh! thou hast builded on the shifting sand, And thou hast tempered it with slaughter’s flood; And know, fell scourge in the Almighty’s hand, Gore-moistened trees shall perish in the bud, And by a bloody death shall die the Man of Blood!”

The ruthless Leader beckoned from his train A wan fraternal Shade, and bade him kneel, And paled his temples with the crown of Spain, While trumpets rang, and heralds cried “Castile!” Not that he loved him—No!—In no man’s weal, Scarce in his own, e’er joyed that sullen heart; Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel, That the poor puppet might perform his part, And be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck to start.

But on the Natives of that Land misused, Not long the silence of amazement hung, Nor brooked they long their friendly faith abused; For, with a common shriek, the general tongue Exclaimed, “To arms!”—and fast to arms they sprung. And VALOUR woke, that Genius of the Land! Pleasure, and ease, and sloth aside he flung, As burst the awakening Nazarite his band, When ’gainst his treacherous foes he clenched his dreadful hand.

That Mimic Monarch now cast anxious eye Upon the Satraps that begirt him round, Now doffed his royal robe in act to fly, And from his brow the diadem unbound. So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound, From Tarik’s walls to Bilboa’s mountains blown, These martial satellites hard labour found To guard awhile his substituted throne— Light recking of his cause, but battling for their own.

From Alpuhara’s peak that bugle rung, And it was echoed from Corunna’s wall; Stately Seville responsive war-shot flung, Grenada caught it in her Moorish hall; Galicia bade her children fight or fall, Wild Biscay shook his mountain-coronet, Valencia roused her at the battle-call, And, foremost still where Valour’s sons are met, First started to his gun each fiery Miquelet.

But unappalled, and burning for the fight, The Invaders march, of victory secure; Skilful their force to sever or unite, And trained alike to vanquish or endure. Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to ensure, Discord to breathe, and jealousy to sow, To quell by boasting, and by bribes to lure; While nought against them bring the unpractised foe, Save hearts for Freedom’s cause, and hands for Freedom’s blow.

Proudly they march—but, oh! they march not forth By one hot field to crown a brief campaign, As when their Eagles, sweeping through the North, Destroyed at every stoop an ancient reign! Far other fate had Heaven decreed for Spain; In vain the steel, in vain the torch was plied, New Patriot armies started from the slain, High blazed the war, and long, and far, and wide, And oft the God of Battles blest the righteous side.