Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50) (197 page)

XXXIX.

 
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
 
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
 
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
 
Flashing afar, - and at his iron feet
 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;
 
For on this morn three potent nations meet,
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

XL.

 
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
 
Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,
 
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share:
 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array.

XLI.

 
Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.
 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
 
Are met - as if at home they could not die -
 
To feed the crow on Talavera’s plain,
And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.

XLII.

 
There shall they rot - Ambition’s honoured fools!
 
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
 
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
 
With human hearts - to what? - a dream alone.
 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

XLIII.

 
O Albuera, glorious field of grief!
 
As o’er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,
 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed.
 
Peace to the perished! may the warrior’s meed
 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.

XLIV.

 
Enough of Battle’s minions! let them play
 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:
 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay,
 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
 
In sooth, ‘twere sad to thwart their noble aim
 
Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country’s good,
 
And die, that living might have proved her shame;
 
Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud,
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine’s path pursued.

XLV.

 
Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way
 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:
 
Yet is she free - the spoiler’s wished-for prey!
 
Soon, soon shall Conquest’s fiery foot intrude,
 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.
 
Inevitable hour! ‘Gainst fate to strive
 
Where Desolation plants her famished brood
 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive,
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.

XLVI.

 
But all unconscious of the coming doom,
 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;
 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,
 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country’s wounds;
 
Nor here War’s clarion, but Love’s rebeck sounds;
 
Here Folly still his votaries enthralls,
 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:
 
Girt with the silent crimes of capitals,
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls.

XLVII.

 
Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate
 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,
 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,
 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.
 
No more beneath soft Eve’s consenting star
 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:
 
Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,
 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet.

XLVIII.

 
How carols now the lusty muleteer?
 
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,
 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,
 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?
 
No! as he speeds, he chants ‘Viva el Rey!’
 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy,
 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day
 
When first Spain’s queen beheld the black-eyed boy,
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.

XLIX.

 
On yon long level plain, at distance crowned
 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
 
Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward’s darkened vest
 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia’s guest:
 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,
 
Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon’s nest;
 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.

L.

 
And whomsoe’er along the path you meet
 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,
 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:
 
Woe to the man that walks in public view
 
Without of loyalty this token true:
 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;
 
And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue,
 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak,
Could blunt the sabre’s edge, or clear the cannon’s smoke.

LI.

 
At every turn Morena’s dusky height
 
Sustains aloft the battery’s iron load;
 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,
 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,
 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o’erflowed,
 
The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch,
 
The magazine in rocky durance stowed,
 
The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch,
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,

LII.

 
Portend the deeds to come: - but he whose nod
 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,
 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;
 
A little moment deigneth to delay:
 
Soon will his legions sweep through these the way;
 
The West must own the Scourger of the world.
 
Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day,
 
When soars Gaul’s Vulture, with his wings unfurled,
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.

LIII.

 
And must they fall - the young, the proud, the brave -
 
To swell one bloated chief’s unwholesome reign?
 
No step between submission and a grave?
 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?
 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain
 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant’s appeal?
 
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?
 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,
The veteran’s skill, youth’s fire, and manhood’s heart of steel?

LIV.

 
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
 
And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,
 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?
 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
 
Appalled, an owlet’s larum chilled with dread,
 
Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar,
 
The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead
Stalks with Minerva’s step where Mars might quake to tread.

LV.

 
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
 
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
 
Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
 
Heard her light, lively tones in lady’s bower,
 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power,
 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza’s tower
 
Beheld her smile in Danger’s Gorgon face,
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.

LVI.

 
Her lover sinks - she sheds no ill-timed tear;
 
Her chief is slain - she fills his fatal post;
 
Her fellows flee - she checks their base career;
 
The foe retires - she heads the sallying host:
 
Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?
 
Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall?
 
What maid retrieve when man’s flushed hope is lost?
 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
Foiled by a woman’s hand, before a battered wall?

LVII.

 
Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons,
 
But formed for all the witching arts of love:
 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
 
’Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
 
Pecking the hand that hovers o’er her mate:
 
In softness as in firmness far above
 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.

LVIII.

 
The seal Love’s dimpling finger hath impressed
 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:
 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,
 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:
 
Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much
 
Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek
 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!
 
Who round the North for paler dames would seek?
How poor their forms appear? how languid, wan, and weak!

LIX.

 
Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
 
Match me, ye harems! of the land where now
 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud
 
Beauties that even a cynic must avow!
 
Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow
 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,
 
With Spain’s dark-glancing daughters - deign to know,
 
There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find,
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.

LX.

 
O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey,
 
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer’s eye,
 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!
 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing?
 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by
 
Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string,
Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing.