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XXVII.

INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD.

1810.

WE can endure that he should waste our lands,
Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame
Return us to the dust from which we came ;
Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands:

And we can brook the thought that by his hands
Spain may be overpowered, and he possess,
For his delight, a solemn wilderness

Where all the brave lie dead. But when of bands
Which he will break for us he dares to speak,
Of benefits, and of a future day

When our enlightened minds shall bless his sway; . Then, the strained heart of fortitude proves weak; Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks, declare That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear.

XXVIII.

AVAUNT all specious pliancy of mind
In men of low degree, all smooth pretence!
I better like a blunt indifference,

And self-respecting slowness, disinclined

To win me at first sight: and be there joined Patience and temperance with this high reserve,

Honor that knows the path and will not swerve,
Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind,
And piety towards God. Such men of old

Were England's native growth; and, throughout
Spain,

(Thanks to high God!) forests of such remain: Then for that Country let our hopes be bold; For matched with these shall Policy prove vain, Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold.

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O'ERWEENING Statesmen have full long relied
On fleets and armies, and external wealth:
But from within proceeds a Nation's health;
Which shall not fail, though poor men cleave with
pride

To the paternal floor; or turn aside,

In the thronged city, from the walks of gain,
As being all unworthy to detain

A Soul by contemplation sanctified.

There are who cannot languish in this strife
Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good
Of such high course was felt and understood;
Who to their Country's cause have bound a life
Erewhile, by solemn consecration, given
To labor and to prayer, to nature and to heaven.*

*See Laborde's character of the Spanish people; from him 'he sentiment of these last two lines is taken.

XXX.

THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GUERILLAS.

HUNGER, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height,—
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past,
The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last,
Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,

So these,

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– and, heard of once again, are chased With combinations of long-practised art And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled,Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead :

Where now? - Their sword is at the Foeman's

heart!

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And thus from year to year his walk they thwart, And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.

XXXI.

SPANISH GUERILLAS.

1811.

THEY seek, are sought; to daily battle led,
Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes,
For they have learnt to open and to close
The ridges of grim war; and at their head
Are captairs such as erst their country bred

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like those

Dr fostered, self-supported chiefs,
Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose;
Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled.
In one who lived unknown a shepherd's life
Redoubted Viriatus breathes again;

And Mina, nourished in the studious shade,
With that great Leader* vies, who, sick of strife
And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid
In some green island of the western main.

XXXII

1811.

THE power of Armies is a visible thing,
Formal, and circumscribed in time and space;
But who the limits of that power shall trace
Which a brave people into light can bring
Or hide, at will, for freedom combating
By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,
No eye can follow, to a fatal place

That power, that spirit, whether on the wing

Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind Within its awful caves.

- From year to year

Springs this indigenous produce far and near;
No craft this subtle element can bind,
Rising like water from the soil, to find
In every nook a lip that it may cheer.

* Sertorius

XXXIII.

1811.

HERE pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;
From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays,
For its own honor, on man's suffering heart.
Never from our souls one truth depart, —
That an accursed thing it is to gaze

may

On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;

Nor

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touched with due abhorrence of their guilt For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, And justice labors in extremity

Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!

XXXIV.

THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA.

1812-13.

HUMANITY, delighting to behold

A fond reflection of her own decay,

Hath painted Winter like a traveller old,

Propped on a staff, and, through the sullen day,

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