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O, deem not thou the vigorous herb below
Sweet as the martial trumpet's silver swell,
Spirit,' I cried, dread teacher, yet declare, In that good fight, shall Albion's arm be there? Can Albion, brave, and wise, and proud, refrain To hail a kindred soul, and link her fate with
Spain? Too long her sons, estranged from war and toil, Have loathed the safety of the sea-girt isle ; And chid the waves which pent their fire within, As the stalled war-horse woes the battle's din. 0, by this throbbing heart, this patriot glow, Which, well I feel, each English breast shall
know, Say,shall my country, roused from deadly sleep, Crowd with her hardy sons yon western steep ; And shall once more the star of France grow pale, And dim its beams in Roncesvalles' vale ? Or shall foul sloth and timid doubt conspire To mar our zeal, and waste our manly fire ?!
Still as I gazed, his lowering features spread,
High rose his forin,and darkness veiled his head. Fast froin his eyes the ruddy lightning broke, To heaven he reared his arm, and thus he spoke:
• Wo, trebly wo to their slow zeal who bore
• O peerless island, generous, bold, and free, Lost, ruined Albion, Europe mourns for thee. Hadst thou but known the hour in mercy given To stay thy doom, and ward the ire of heaven; Bared in the cause of man thy warrior breast, And crushed on yonder hills the approaching pest, Then had not murder sacked thy smiling plain, And wealth,and worth,and wisdom all been vain.
• Yet, yet awake, while fear and wonder wait, On the poised balance, trembling still with fate. If aught their worth can plead, in battle tried, Who tinged with slaughter Tajo's curdling tide ; (What time base truce the wheels of war could
stay, And the weak victor flung his wreath away)
Or theirs, who, doled in scanty bands afar,
• Yes, through the march of niany a weary day,
0, if such hope can plead, or bis, whose bier Drew from his conquering host their latest tear, Whose skill,whose matchless valor, gilded flight, Entoinbed in foreign dust,a hasty soldier's rite ;0, rouse thee yet to conquer and to save, And Wisdom guide the sword which Justice gave.
“And yet the end is not: from yonder towers, While one Saguntum nocks the victor's powers, While one brave heart defies a servile chain, And one true soldier wields a lance for Spain; Trust not, vain tyrant, though thy spoiler band In tenfold myriads darken half the land; (Vast as that power, against whose impious lord
Bethulia's matron shook the nightly sword ;)
• No, by His viewless arm whose righteous
Defends the orphan's tear, the poor man's prayer; Who, Lord of nature, o’er this changeful ball Decrees the rise of empires, and the fall : Wondrous in all his ways, unseen, unknown, Who treads the wine-press of the world alone : And robed in darkness, and surrounding fears, Speeds on their destined road the march of
years. No :-shall yon eagle, from the snare set free, Stoop to thy wrist, or cower his wing for thee ? And shall it tame despair, thy strong control, Or quench a nation's still reviving soulGo, bid the force of countless bands conspire To curb the wandering wind, or grasp the fire ; Cast thy vain fetters on the troublous sea ! But Spain, the brave, the virtuous,shall be free."