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.
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,- Honour that knows the path and will not swerve; Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind; And piety tow'rds God.-Such men of old
Were England's native growth; and, throughout Spain, Forests of such do at this day 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.
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 labour and to prayer, to Nature and to Heaven.*
See Laborde's character of the Spanish people; from him the sentiment of hese two last lines is taken.
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, 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! And thus from year to year his walk they thwart, And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.
THEY seek, are sought; to daily battle led, Shrink not, though far out-numbered by their foes: For they have learned to open and to close The ridges of grim war; and at their head Are captains such as erst their country bred Or fostered, self-supported chiefs,-like those 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.
THE power of Armies is a visible thing, Formal, and circumscribed in time and place; But who the limits of that power can trace Which a brave people into light can bring Or hide, at will,-for freedom combating, By just revenge inflamed? No foot can 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 subtile element can bind, Rising like water from the soil, to find In every nook a lip that it may cheer.
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 honour, on man's suffering heart. Never may from our souls one truth depart, That an accursed thing it is to gaze
On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye; Nor, touched with due abhorrence of their guilt For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, And justice labours in extremity,
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!
Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, Our aged Sovereign sits;-to the ebb and flow Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe Insensible; he sits deprived of sight, And lamentably wrapped in twofold night, Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued Through perilous war, with regal fortitude,
Peace that should claim respect from lawless might Dread king of kings, vouchsafe a ray divine To his forlorn condition! let thy grace Upon his inner soul in mercy shine; Permit his heart to kindle, and embrace
(Though were it only for a moment's space)
The triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE.
MEMORIALS OF TOURS IN SCOTLAND.
TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING THEIR FATHER'S GRAVE.
YE now are panting up life's hill!
"Tis twilight time of good and ill,
And more than common strength and skill Must ye display
If ye would give the better will
Strong-bodied if ye be to bear Intemperance with less harm, beware! But if your father's wit ye share, Then, then indeed,
Ye sons of Burns! for watchful care There will be need.
For honest men delight will take To show you favour for his sake, Will flatter you; and fool and rake Your steps pursue:
And of your father's name will make A snare for you.
Let no mean hope your souls enslave; Be independent, generous, brave! Your father such example gave,
And such revere!
But be admonished by his grave,
And think, and fear!
ELLEN IRWIN; OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE.*
FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the Braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle.
The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the
events here related took place.
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay; And there did they beguile the day With love and gentle speeches, Beneath the budding beeches.
From many knights and many squires The Bruce had been selected; And Gordon, fairest of them all, By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth, If Bruce hath loved sincerely, That Gordon loves as dearly.
But what is Gordon's beauteous face?
And what are Gordon's crosses
To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes Upon the verdant mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn Sees them and their caressing,
Beholds them blest and blessing.
Proud Gordon cannot bear the thought:
That through his brain are travelling, - And, starting up, to Bruce's heart He launched a deadly javelin !
Fair Ellen saw it when it came,
And, stepping forth to meet the same Did with her body cover
The youth, her chosen lover.
And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus from the heart of her true love The mortal spear repelling. And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; And fought, with rage incessant, Against the Moorish Crescent.
But many days, and many months, And many years ensuing,
This wretched knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing:
And, coming back across the wave, Without a groan on Ellen's grave His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.
Now ye, who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, May in Kirkonnel churchyard view The grave of lovely Ellen:
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