Back to the source, when tempest-chafed, to hie?

Who, when Gascogne's vex'd gulph is raging wide,

Shall hush it as a nurse her infant's cry?

His magic power let such vain boaster try,

And when the torrent shall his voice obey,

And Biscay's whirlwinds list his lullaby,

Let him stand forth and bar mine eagles' way,

And they shall heed his voice, and at his bidding stay.

II.

"Else ne'er to stoop, till high on Lisbon's towers

They close their wings, the symbol of our yoke,

And their own sea hath whelm'd yon red-cross Pow

ers!"

Thus, on the summit of Alverca's rock,

To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul's Leader spoke.
While downward on the land his legions press,

Before them it was rich with vine and flock,

And smiled like Eden in her summer dress ;

Behind their wasteful march, a reeking wilderness.

III.

And shall the boastful Chief maintain his word,

Though Heaven hath heard the wailings of the land,

Though Lusitania whet her vengeful sword,

Though Britons arm, and WELLINGTON command!

No! grim Busaco's iron ridge shall stand

An adamantine barrier to his force!

And from its base shall wheel his shatter'd band,

As from the unshaken rock the torrent hoarse

Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a devious course.

IV.

Yet not because Alcoba's mountain-hawk

Hath on his best and bravest made her food,

In numbers confident, yon Chief shall baulk

His Lord's imperial thirst for spoil and blood: For full in view the promised conquest stood,

And Lisbon's matrons, from their walls, might

sum

The myriads that had half the world subdued,

And hear the distant thunders of the drum,

That bids the bands of France to storm and havoc

come.

V.

Four moons have heard these thunders idly roll'd,

Have seen these wistful myriads eye their prey,

As famish'd wolves survey a guarded fold

But in the middle path, a Lion lay!

At length they move-but not to battle-fray,

Nor blaze yon fires where meets the manly

fight;

Beacons of infamy they light the way,

Where cowardice and cruelty unite,

To damn with double shame their ignominious flight!

VI.

O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and Wrath!

Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be forgot,

What wanton horrors mark'd their wrackful path!

The

peasant butcher'd in his ruin'd cot,

The hoary priest even at the altar shot,

Childhood and age given o'er to sword and flame,

Woman to infamy;-no crime forgot,

By which inventive dæmons might proclaim Immortal hate to Man, and scorn of God's great

name !

VII.

The rudest centinel, in Britain born,

With horror paused to view the havoc done, Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch forlorn, Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer grasp'd his gun. Nor with less zeal shall Britain's peaceful son

Exult the debt of sympathy to pay;

Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun,

Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor the gay,

Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's more worth

less lay.