I.
Upon the Chofre stood the dauntless Graham,
And marked the slaughter with determined eye,
Sad yet unshrinking--poured then forth of flame
A torrent hissing red athwart the sky.
Close o’er the stormers’ heads the missiles fly,
The stone-ribbed curtain into fragments hurled--
Full fifty cannon streaming death on high.
Unmoved they stand--no flag of fear unfurled--
A scene unmatched before since dawning of the world!
II.
Even as at Niagára’s thundering fall,
Where leaps the torrent with gigantic stride,
Beneath the watery volume Cyclop wall
Of rocks huge-piléd spans the river wide,
Where dares the venturous voyager abide,
And while his ears terrific clamour stuns,
Flies free o’erhead the cataract’s foaming tide,
And scarce crystálline globule o’er him runs:
Thus stand ’neath Death o’erarched Britannia’s dauntless sons!
III.
“Retire!” was first the cry. “A traitorous foe!
Our batteries’ fire is ’gainst the stormers turned;”
And struck a straggling shot the ranks below;
But Nial and his men the counsel spurned.
To win, whate’er the cost, their bosoms burned;
And ’mid the fiercest of the cannonade,
While San Sebastian for his bulwarks mourned,
Within the rampart solid ground they made--
First step in victory’s march, whose laurels ne’er will fade.
IV.
What were thy triumphs, Greece, on Elis’ plain,
Olympian dust Alphéus’ margin strewing,
The Agora’s grand inspiring shouts, the train
Of statues for the Altis sculptors hewing,
Fame-thirst the prince’ and peasant’s soul imbuing?
Unreal glories to the trampled fear,
Which England with her million eyes is viewing.
First Erin’s sons to encounter peril here.
No rebel wisdom yet impairs that lusty cheer!
Tricorpor Geryon.
1.
Mark where Valour’s triple crown,
Marring every despot’s frown,
Gives to evergreen renown
Britain’s dauntless sons.
Albion, Erin, Scotia join
Strength of shoulder, heart, and loin,
Men as sterling as their coin,
Faithful as their guns!
2.
Albion firm as Erin brave,
Scotia strong as angry wave.
Who could such a land enslave?
Who her spirit quell?
Albion sturdy, Scotia grim,
Erin dashing o’er the brim--
True till death, though for a whim
Wordy Knaves rebel!
3.
Albion steady, Erin bold,
Scotia gallant as of old;
Britain’s men are Britain’s gold,
Hardy sons of toil.
Albion dauntless, Scotia true,
Erin fervid--loyal, too,
Spite of Spleen’s seditious crew
Banded o’er her soil.
4.
Glorious Nations, three in one,
Long be warmed by Victory’s sun,
Ne’er by factious hate undone,
Ne’er the bond untied.
Ne’er be shorn of either gem
Britain’s noble diadem.
Shamrock, rose, and thistle’s stem
Ne’er let men divide!
V.
Nor one the breach nor one the fierce assault;
Three several columns mount the broken wall;
’Mid deadliest havoc each is forced to halt,
And rush the living where their brothers fall,
Strewn on the crest of that Pyracmon tall;
While heaps of slain a slippery footing yield
To men whose hearts not _this_ e’en can appal.
Still brandish the besieged their fiery shield,
Till thicker strew the dead than live possess the field!
VI.
Nor yet Graham’s thunder ceases. Volleying rolls
The red artillery, on each lightning-flash
Dismay is borne to the defenders’ souls,
Destruction’s bolts against the ramparts dash,
And ruin strews the battlements. As lash
The stormy billows Achill’s rock-bound shore
With all the Atlantic’s force, thus many a gash
That fiery torrent opes the bulwarks o’er,
And still at verge of death they madly strain the more!
VII.
And they are mad, or more than madness seems
Thy glow, enthusiast Courage! Many a boy
Sees Valour’s guerdon shine with starry beams,
And Danger, made a mockery, seems a joy!
Yet swiftly hostile fires their ranks destroy,
Nor yet to San Sebastian entrance gained.
Already grief their glory ’gins to alloy,
Lest ’neath that wall their glittering arms be stained.
Ere comes defeat be, Graham, thy death-fire two-fold rained!
VIII.
Resistance chafes their spirits, stirs their blood.
Excitement fires their minds beyond controul;
Till lightning runs through all the arterial flood,
And lion-daring grows the warrior-soul.
Full many a gentle bosom ’neath that roll
Of musketry and cannon feels transformed--
Spurred like a race-horse bounding to the goal,
Till death’s a sport to venturers conflict-warmed,
And not by men but fiends seems San Sebastian stormed.
IX.
Oh, sleepless eyes and aching foreheads tell
In homes far distant how those lives are prized,
Which now are diced away, though loved so well--
On Glory’s shadowy altar sacrificed!
The heart-wrung sob at parting undisguised,
The silent hall and the deserted bower,
The tender charge of Beauty idolized,
And curléd babes, forgot in this wild hour,--
To Gorgons grim consigned is Manhood’s chosen flower!
X.
What terrible explosion rends the sky?
What fierce combustion wraps in flame the air?
Traverse and curtain tall to ruin fly,
And sulphurous fires the bastioned bulwarks tear
Like rags asunder! Cries of deep despair
Burst from the pale defenders; grenadiers,
Unmoved as rocks till then, in hundreds share
The ramparts’ doom which form their blackened biers;
And rush the stormers in with lustiest British cheers.
XI.
Of volumed smoke at length the eddying wave
Falls o’er the battlement and clears the ground.
Still would the sons of France the fortress save,
Amazed amid the ruin spread around;
But onward to their breasts the assailants bound,
And momently the baffled foemen scare.
They rally--I ween none there hath quarter found;
They stand--and desperate valour all doth dare.
In vain--the stormers rush like lightning to their lair.
XII.
Red as the slaughter which their hands achieved,
The British garb doth smite the foe with awe;
And as our sturdy bowmen Creçy grieved
O’er Gaul’s full-mailéd Knights triumphant saw,
So the strong bayonet deals resistless law;
And fly before that conflict hand to hand
Of bone and muscle, ere a breath they draw,
The sons of France, a wrongful Tyrant’s band,
Who fight not heaven-inspired for Freedom in the land.
XIII.
Unconquered yeomen, England’s strength and pride!
Who ne’er have yet been wanting at her call
Against the world to stand, or dashing ride
’Gainst odds that all but Britons would appal!
For where, brave hearts, doth rise your serried wall
Of adamant, in vain the thunder-scar.
Upon that conquering ground ye stand or fall.
Oh, strenuous arms alike for toil and war,
May ne’er be seen the day when Wrong your might shall mar!
XIV.
Oh, Rank and Dignity! I saw too flies
Spawned in the self-same chamber, sporting gay.
With equal force, on equal wing, they rise
Through the short sunshine of a summer day.
Yet one the other buzzed to keep away,
And flouted oft--intensest scorn revealing,
As telling him below the Knave should stay,
Too far beneath him born for kindly feeling--
One hatched upon the floor, the other on the ceiling!
XV.
Five deadly hours that conflict fell endured;
But onward now the tide of Valour flowing,
Chafed by the long restraint all foaming poured,
The seeds of Death with every wavelet sowing,
And, ah, on Mercy scarce a thought bestowing!
As destrier strong whose mouth with curbing bleeds,
When loosed the rein, doth plunge with eye-ball glowing,
Mad snort, and trampling hoof which Fury speeds,
So dash the stormers in like spurred and panting steeds.
XVI.
A standard floats upon the cavalier.
It is the far-renownéd tricolor,
Whose folds more proudly ne’er have waved than here,
Though many a victor field they’ve fluttered o’er.
Up Nial springs with hand still dripping gore,
And stoutly tears that tyrant-standard down.
Three loud huzzas resound from sky to shore--
Floats in its stead the flag of Leon’s crown.
’Tis ours! And Spain once more is mistress of her town.
XVII.
Thus strove Peleides with the King of Men
For fair Briseïs many a stubborn hour,
And hung War’s chances on the wistful ken
Of her ’mongst all Lyrnessian spoil the flower,
Whose charms drew eyes from Ilion’s loftiest tower.
Thus to Achilles’ arms the maid restored
Was stript o’ the robes that swept Atrides’ bower,
And decked anew in livery of her lord,
To show no tyrant folds should float o’er his adored.
XVIII.
And well too fought thy warriors, Lusitain,
Who, led by Britons, clomb the further breach,
Resolved to strike a vigorous blow for Spain,
And, how their iron fathers strove, to teach:
Afonso, Avíz, Nun’ Alvares--heroes each--
Castro and Albuquerque not quite forgot
By their descendants, dauntless here who reach
And pluck the wreath to wear might be their lot,
If were not all their fire as fitful even as hot.
XIX.
Not thy Fidalgos, withered boughs, I ween,
Nor yet thy Royalty as much despised,
Who fled like hinds when danger crost the scene,
Their cumbrous rank like Manhood ne’er disguised,
Their scutcheoned pomp like carrion fitly prized!
Henceforth shall men for an opprobrium know
The names by chroniclers most idolized,
And choose strong blood Plebeian’s healthier flow,
That scaled Sebastian’s towers while nobles quaked below.
XX.
And Spain her Guerrilleros--Dorian race--
Sent to the conflict with unconquered hearts,
And eyes that Tyranny could ne’er abase,
Unerringly to guide their fiery darts,
Where Vengeance winged with every shot departs.
And hasting to the War, whose sacred cry
Was “Death to the Invader!”, warm while starts
The big round tear from fair Pastora’s eye,
The peasant-soldier thus with Heaven made an ally:--
The Guerrillero to his Mistress.
1.
While spin the amber beads
Beneath thy rosy finger,
And nought thy spirit heeds
Save thoughts that Heav’nward linger;
At Isidoro’s shrine,
Upon the floor of marble,
While move thy lips divine,
For me an Ave warble!
2.
And while, the Virgin’s Hours
In softest tones reciting,
You bend the Heav’nly Powers,
Their blessed aid inviting;
Breathe then for me a prayer,
That, moved amidst her splendour,
Our Lady of Vejer
May crown my wishes tender.
3.
If spirits pure as thine
Weave idly their petition,
What talisman for mine,
To shield it from perdition?
Oh, Mary, thou alone
Canst ope the path before me,
Canst give my heart a tone,
Canst shed a blessing o’er me!
4.
The Seraph forms are fair,
In Heav’nly chorus swelling,
But thine as well in prayer
Becomes its earthly dwelling.
Thou look’st a clouded Moon,
When veiled for solemn duty;
If thou’rt refused a boon,
Why give thee so much beauty?
XXI.
Oh glorious race, indomitably fierce!
Earth’s peasant-lords, triumphant o’er each shock;
No, not more vain Antæus’ self to pierce,
For sprung, too, from thy soil new strength to mock
Thy foes, like Afric’s giant whom enlock
The arms of Hercules; or liker him,
The Achaian marsh heaved upward like a rock,
Whose hissing heads struck off, still heads more grim
Rose terrible to tear the Invader limb from limb!
XXII.
Five deadly hours that conflict fell did last,
And o’er the scarp now streams the flood of War;
But many a barricade must still be past,
Where dauntless Rey disputes ’gainst Victory’s star,
With feeble garrison that yields each bar,
O’erpowered by numbers though they battled well.
And, vanquished soon by Fate, entrenched they are
In Mont’ Orgullo, where both shot and shell
Pours on the brave resolved their lives to dearly sell.
XXIII.
Now Slaughter stalks triumphantly alone,
And silent is the fierce artillery’s roar;
But shriek and shout and yell, cry, curse, and groan,
Make music dire to rend the bosom’s core,
And louder than Man’s thunder rolled before
Comes Heaven’s artillery from the mountains down,
Dark, stormy, terrible: leap lightnings o’er
The murky cope to mark the Almighty’s frown
For deeds of carnage done in that devoted town.
XXIV.
What careth Man red-handed for His wrath?
What bellowing beast so terrible as he,
When boundless passions master him? His path
Is more destructive than the stormy sea.
His nostril is a furnace. Ominously
Doth glare his bloodshot eye. Nor Beauty saves
The virgin, nor grey hairs and tottering knee
The reverend sire. Lust, rapine, murder waves
A pirate flag o’er all, and hearths are turned to graves!
XXV.
Oh, meek-eyed Pity! Tenderness of Soul!
Oh, sacred source of sympathetic tears!
Say, hast thou fled the Earth, whose tottering pole
Can ill sustain its weight of grief and fears?
Is dried your fountain, choked by crimson biers?
Oh, human anguish! Yet, by man’s accord,
The day shall come, when he who as in years
Gone by shall dare produce thee--King or Lord--
A Pariah-brand shall wear, than Demons more abhorred!
XXVI.
Still havoc, plunder reigns. Where is thy sword,
Sebastian, Warrior-Saint, that now should wheel
Like the Archangel’s, Eden who restored
To Solitude? Dost thou less horror feel
That thine own City ’neath the shock should reel
Of ruffian violence? Prætorian brave,
The Imperial Boar withstanding in thy zeal,
Thou whom nor Roman shafts subdued nor glaive,
Thy consecrated town arise, great Saint, and save!
XXVII.
Oh, arrow-pierced for Christ! whose mighty ban
Against the arrowy shower of pestilence
In aid Divine is still invoked by Man,
And potent still, this plague send howling hence.
By that great voice, whose eloquence intense,
When Marcus trembled, made him firm to win
The Martyr-crown, and Christian turned the dense
Blood-thirsting crowd--guard, judges--all within
Its mighty compass, rise, and stay the steps of sin!
XXVIII.
Nazrene Apollo, beautiful as bold,
Whose worship whirls the enthusiast Southern maid
To passion oft and madness, to behold
Thee limned so blooming fair--give, give thine aid!
Oh, by Irene’s love who undismayed
Unbound thee, pouring balm into each wound
The archers left--against the pillar laid--
When dead they thought thee who had only swooned;
By her who healed thee, raise that voice to mercy tuned!
XXIX.
By that majestic Faith, whose dauntless power
Confronted Cæsar at his palace gate,
When to the Capitol in glory’s hour
The Tyrant proud ascended, lording fate;
And dared reproach him with his cruel hate
For God’s elect; and by the Martyr-crown
Thy zeal soon won, oh leave not desolate
The walls that bear thy name. Forbear to frown.
The patron gives no sign. Alas, devoted town!
XXX.
High on the greater breach where hours before
Had swept the wave of battle, ’neath the black
And murky cope, which flashed red lightnings o’er,
A maiden stood alone in murder’s track,
A white-robed angel seemed ’mid general wrack,
And to and fro amid the heaps of slain,
And round and round and forward then and back,
Peered in each pallid face War’s iron rain
Had shattered there, and passed like Judgment in Death’s train.
XXXI.
’Twas Blanca! she had heard too soon, too soon
Of William’s fall, and sought his corse, I ween.
As girt with thunder-clouds the silver Moon,
So shone the maiden in that direful scene.
But, ah, her cheek had lost its rosy sheen,
Glared wild her eye, her tresses loosely fell.
With frantic haste and Pythonissa’s mien,
She tears away the corses where they dwell
In gory heaps that prove they stood the tempest well.
XXXII.
She halts--she starts--on Morton’s corse she lights.
Too true the mournful tidings! One shrill cry--
She falls upon his breast, more dull than Night’s,
His cold lips kisses in her agony,
And clasps again--again--till no reply
Convinces even _her_ fond heart the source
Of Life is frozen--then, without a sigh,
Takes from his hand the sword, nor feels remorse,
Her heart transpierces, falls, and dies upon his corse.
XXXIII.
Oh noblest maiden, though of low estate,
With every proud and generous impulse rife;
Born to demonstrate to the meanly great,
How vain the pageant of a worthless life!
Sprung from thy heart like wild-flowers all that wife
Could bring of purity to Kingliest throne,
With highest attributes to soothe the strife
Of human passion, for the fall atone,
And show our angel-part preserved in thee alone!
XXXIV.
Yet noble as thou wert, thy hand was armed
’Gainst thine own life. ’Neath that terrific shock
Thy great heart broke! The eye that Morton charmed
Burst with its grief-flood like the Prophet’s rock.
Cold, callous wordlings, do not Blanca mock.
Her fault was generous--that she loved too much.
Not long did Anguish at her bosom knock.
Like Indian brides when Death their lords doth clutch,
She died in the same hour. Grief killed her with a touch!
XXXV.
Cantabrian maidens, sisters of the oar,
Mourn, mourn for her your Cynosure and pride.
Her star-like eye shall guide your chase no more,
Your glory fled from earth when Blanca died!
In vain your barks shall o’er the billows ride;
Her beauty gave the sunshine most ye miss.
So graceful ne’er again your fleet shall glide;
Nor waves your prows so joyously shall kiss.
For Nereus ne’er surveyed a daughter fair as this!
XXXVI.
Mourn, San Sebastian, for the beauty blighted
Of her your angel-child in by-gone years.
Your eyes no more shall by her charms delighted
Recal celestial dreams to chase your fears.
And, Isidora too, be shed thy tears,
Or hoarded for thyself whom danger girds.
Thy foster-sister memory now endears
Alone, with thought of gentle deeds and words.
For ye were severed long, poor caged and sundered birds!
XXXVII.
And, England, mourn for him the youthful Chief,
Whose noble promise Death hath there struck down,
Survived by Blanca for a moment brief,
And followed soon beneath the rampart’s frown.
Oh, perished there young Love and young Renown,
And budding Glory in the path of arms.
Mourn for the brave who fell before the town,
Nor least for Morton, first ’mid War’s alarms
To prove the patriot glow the Briton’s heart that warms.
XXXVIII.
Still roars the thunder-storm--Day wears the gloom
Of Night’s black canopy, and wears it well.
That pall o’erspreads more horrors than the tomb;
Beneath its folds are done the deeds of Hell!
And chiefs who seek the demon strife to quell
Are slaughtered by their men. Drunk volunteers,
Mad soldiers, vile camp-followers, knaves who swell
The array of War, and know nor shame nor fears,
A plundering pathway hew thro’ havoc, blood, and tears.
XXXIX.
Still roars the volleying thunder. Dost not feel
Appalled, thou villain, by that lightning-flash,
Nor dream when brandishing thy dripping steel,
That crimes like thine the Eternal arm will lash?
Doth not that thunder-clap thine eye abash?
For not more fell was Attila than thou;
Not Alaric’s self, whose Visigothic clash
Made Spain and Rome, beneath Honorius, bow,
Led monsters to the assault of much more shameless brow.
XL.
Such are War’s lessons--such the hideous brood
Spawned by the Passions in the hour of strife;
Such the dire Madness fed by scent of blood,
Where plunder tempts and sullying gold is rife,
Wine fires each appetite and whets the knife;
Dissolved the bands of Discipline, the mould
Of duty broke, restored barbarian life;
Honour and Valour both to Rapine sold.
Look here, Ambition, here: thy handiwork behold!
HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES TO CANTO VI.
The incidents of the first part of this Canto are derived in common
from Napier, Jones, and Gleig. The tearing down of the Tricolor,
which I have assigned to Nial, must be historically attributed to
the real performer of this bold exploit.
“The French colours on the cavalier were torn away by Lieutenant
Gethin of the eleventh regiment.”--Napier, _Hist._ book xxii. chap.
2.
The magnificent achievement of maintaining for a considerable
period a fire from our whole artillery, against the curtain wall,
over the heads of the storming party, is thus coldly, but (on the
whole) accurately, described by General Jones:--“From the superior
height of the curtain, the artillery in the batteries on the right
of the Urumea, were able to keep up a fire on that part during the
assault, without injury to the troops at the foot of the breach,
and being extremely well served, it occasioned a severe loss to the
enemy, and probably caused the explosion which led to the final
success of the assault.” The General’s coldness is owing to the
departure from the rules of art, and to the contempt of the maxims
of “Marshal Vauban, who had served and directed at fifty sieges,”
as he triumphantly describes him. Vauban’s maxim was certainly
not British: “At a siege never attempt any thing by open force,
which can be obtained by labour and art.” Gen. Jones is incorrect
in stating that the fire on the curtain was “without injury to
the troops.” Napier says: “A sergeant of the ninth regiment was
killed by the batteries close to his commanding officer, and it is
probable that other casualties also had place.” _Hist._ book xxii.
chap. 2.
The impassable chasm beyond the breach is thus described by
Jones: “At the back of the whole of the rest of the breach was a
perpendicular wall, from fifteen to twenty-five feet in depth.”
(_Journals of Sieges_, Sup. Chap.) He thus describes the advance
of the Portuguese column: “Five hundred Portuguese, in two
detachments, forded the river Urumea near its mouth, in a very
handsome style, under a heavy fire of grape and musketry.” (Jones,
_Journals of Sieges_, Sup. Chap.) This does not quite do justice to
the gallantry of the party. “When the soldiers reached the middle
of the stream,” says Napier, “a heavy gun struck on the head of
the column with a shower of grape; the havoc was fearful, but the
survivors closed and moved on. A second discharge from the same
piece tore the ranks from front to rear, still the regiment moved
on.”--_Hist._ book xxii. c. 2.
The following account is from Gleig’s _Subaltern_:--
“Things had continued in this state for nearly a quarter of
an hour, when Major Snodgrass, at the head of the thirteenth
Portuguese regiment, dashed across the river by his own ford, and
assaulted the lesser breach. This attack was made in the most cool
and determined manner, but here, too, the obstacles were almost
insurmountable; nor is it probable that the place would have been
carried at all but for a measure adopted by General Graham, such
as has never perhaps been adopted before. Perceiving that matters
were almost desperate, he had recourse to a desperate remedy, and
ordered our own artillery to fire upon the breach. Nothing could be
more exact or beautiful than this practice. Though our men stood
only about two feet below the breach, scarcely a single ball from
the guns of our batteries struck amongst them, whilst all told
with fearful exactness among the enemy. The fire had been kept
up only a few minutes, when all at once an explosion took place
such as drowned every other noise, and apparently confounded, for
an instant, the combatants on both sides. A shell from one of
our mortars had exploded near the train which communicated with
a quantity of gunpowder placed under the breach. This mine the
French had intended to spring as soon as our troops should have
made good their footing or established themselves on the summit,
but the fortunate accident just mentioned anticipated them. It
exploded whilst 300 grenadiers, the élite of the garrison, stood
over it; and instead of sweeping the storming party into eternity,
it only cleared a way for their advance. It was a spectacle as
appalling and grand as the imagination can conceive, the sight of
that explosion. The noise was more awful than any which I have ever
heard before or since, whilst a bright flash, instantly succeeded
by a smoke so dense as to obscure all vision, produced an effect
upon those who witnessed it such as no powers of language are
adequate to describe. Such, indeed, was the effect of the whole
occurrence, that for perhaps half a minute after not a shot was
fired on either side. Both parties stood still to gaze upon the
havoc which had been produced! insomuch, that a whisper might
have caught your ear for a distance of several yards. The state
of stupefaction into which they were at first thrown did not,
however, last long with the British troops. As the smoke and dust
of the ruins cleared away, they beheld before them a space empty
of defenders, and they instantly rushed forward to occupy it.
Uttering an appalling shout, the troops sprang over the dilapidated
parapet, and the rampart was their own. Now then began all those
maddening scenes which are witnessed only in a storm, of flight and
slaughter, and parties rallying only to be broken and dispersed,
till finally, having cleared the works to the right and left, the
soldiers poured down into the town.”
It is nearly incredible, and certainly not very creditable, that
General Jones in his detailed account of the siege and storming of
San Sebastian, says not one word of the horrible excesses which
our soldiers there committed. Some men’s notions of history do not
differ very widely from the concoction of a political pamphlet.
Napier’s history abounds with frank admission and reprobation
of these horrors. I find a distinct allusion to them almost at
its very commencement: “No wild horde of Tartars ever fell with
more license upon their rich effeminate neighbours, than did the
English troops upon the Spanish towns taken by storm.”--_Hist. War
Penins._ i. 5.
The part which the Portuguese took in this assault was sufficiently
creditable to make quite unnecessary the boasting spirit which
disfigures their national literature. It abounds in the great work
of their greatest poet. Thus, for instance:--
Que os muitos por ser poucos não temamos;
O que despois mil vezes amostramos.
Camóens, _Lus._ viii. 36.
“We don’t fear many because we are few, which we have shown a
thousand times!” And in the previous stanza he relates that
“seventeen Lusitanians, being attacked by 400 Castilians (desasete
Lusitanos subidos de quatro centos Castelhanos), not only defended
themselves, but offended their adversaries!!”
Que não só se defendem, mas offendem!
This ridiculous boasting and inane swagger, which was a vice in
the Portuguese blood in the days of Camóens, exists unchanged to
the present hour, and has been disgustingly manifested in a piece
called “Magriço” lately selected for the opening of the National
Theatre at Lisbon, in which Spaniards and Englishmen are alike
insulted. “We are not accustomed to count numbers!” was a sentiment
vehemently applauded in this piece. Let the Portuguese not deceive
themselves by an imagined resemblance to their forefathers; and if
their historical recollections are glorious, let them endeavour
practically to revive them. They should remember that it is little
more than a century since their entire army ran away from the
Spaniards and French at Almanza, and left their English, Dutch, and
German auxiliaries in the lurch.
I. “Upon the Chofre stood the dauntless Graham,
And marked the slaughter with determined eye.”
Mas luego que los fija en el cercano
Altisimo torreon, bramando en ira
Jura rendir el enemigo muro
En general asalto y choque duro.
Campo-redondo, _Las Armas de Aragon en Oriente_.
“Full fifty cannon streaming death on high.”
----Le macchine ...
A cui non abbia la città riparo.
Tasso, Ger. _Lib._ iii. 74.
IV. “What were thy triumphs, Greece, on Elis’ plain?”
Sunt quibus Elææ concurrit palma quadrigæ.
Propert. l. iii. Eleg. 9.
ἐμὲ δ’ ἐπὶ ταχυτά-
των πόρευσον ἁρμάτων
ἐς Ἆλιν, κράτει δὲ πέλασον.
Pind. _Olymp._ i.
“Carry me on swiftest chariots to Elis, and bear me to Victory!”
“Olympian dust Alpheus’ margin strewing.”
μηκέθ’ ἁλίου σκόπει
ἄλλο θαλπνότερον
ἐν ἁμέρᾳ φαεινὸν ἄστρον
μήδ’ Ὀλυμπίας ἀγῶνα
φέρτερον αὐδάσομεν:
Pind. _Olymp._ i.
“Deem no shining star greater than the Sun, nor contest more
excellent than the Olympian games.”
“Of statues for the Altis sculptors hewing.”
Διὸς ἄλκιμος
υἱὸς, σταθμᾶτο ζάθεον ἄλσος
πατρὶ μεγίστω· περὶ δὲ πάξας,
Ἄλτιν μὲν ὅγ’ ἐν καθαρῷ
διέκρινε.
Pind. _Olymp._ x.
“The stalwart son of Jove measured out a grove divine to the
mightiest Father, and hedged it round, and the Altis he set apart
in that sacred place.” Pindar thus attributes the foundation of
the Olympic games to Hercules, who was more popular than Jupiter
himself amongst his Heraclidan audience; and a few lines before
he alludes to his conquest of Elis, on whose plain these games
were subsequently celebrated, “μυχοῖς ἅμμενον Ἄλιδος;” Hercules
having led thither an army from Tiryns, the first walled city upon
record. The sacred grove to which Pindar above refers contained the
temple of Olympian Jove, and the statues erected to the conquerors
in the games. The τρισολυμπιονῖκαι, or those who had been thrice
victorious, had their εἰκόνες in marble thus set, and copied
exactly from their members, which were thus in some degree deified.
(Plin. lib. 34, cap. 3.) And Aristotle, in his _Ethics_, lib. 7, c.
6, says that the Olympian conquerors were called “ἀνθρώπους” κατ’
ἐξοχὴν, as if they alone were worthy of the name!
X. “And sulphurous fires the bastioned bulwarks tear
Like rags asunder!”
--Καὶ στεφάνωμα πύργων
Πευκάενθ’ Ἥφαιστον ἑλεῖν.
Τοῖος ἀμφὶ νῶτ’ ἐτάθη
Πάταγος Ἄρεος.
Soph. _Antig._ 122.
“And pitchy Vulcan seized our loftiest towers; dire was the din of
Mars that rose from behind.”
“And rush the stormers in with lustiest British cheers.”
“In the Peninsula, the sudden deafening shout, rolling over a field
of battle, more full and terrible than that of any other nation,
and followed by the strong unwavering charge, often startled and
appalled a French column, before whose fierce and vehement assault
any other troops would have given way.”--Napier, _Hist. War in the
Penins._ book xxiv. c. 6.
XIV. “Oh, Rank and Dignity! I saw two flies.”
“They wonder how any man should be so much taken with the glaring,
doubtful lustre of a jewel or stone, that can look up to a star,
or to the sun itself; or how any should value himself because his
cloth is made of a finer thread; for, how fine soever that thread
may be, it was once no better than the fleece of a sheep, and that
sheep was a sheep still for all its wearing it. They wonder much to
hear that gold, which in itself is so useless a thing, should be
every where so much esteemed that even man, for whom it was made,
and by whom it has its value, should yet be thought of less value
than it is; so that a man of lead, who has no more sense than a
log of wood, and is as bad as he is foolish, should have many wise
and good men serving him, only because he has a great heap of that
metal; and if it should so happen that by some accident, or trick
of law, which does sometimes produce as great changes as chance
itself, all this wealth should pass from the master to the meanest
varlet of his whole family, he himself would very soon become one
of his servants, as if he were a thing that belonged to his wealth,
and so were bound to follow its fortune. But they do much more
admire and detest their folly who, when they see a rich man, though
they neither owe him anything, nor are in any sort obnoxious to
him, yet merely because he is rich, they give him little less than
divine honours; even though they know him to be so covetous and
base-minded that, notwithstanding all his wealth, he will not part
with one farthing of it to them as long as he lives.”--Sir Thomas
More, _Utopia_, book ii. Bishop Burnet’s Translation.
XVII. “Thus to Achilles’ arms the maid restored.”
Untouched “quoad Agamemnona.” The epithet of Homer is ἀπροτίμαστος.
Il. xix.
XVIII. “Afonso, Avíz, Nun’ Alvares, &c.”
The exploits of all these worthies will be found recorded in my
“Ocean Flower.”
XIX. “Not thy Fidalgos--withered boughs, I ween.”
Mina never would suffer an Hidalgo to join his band--himself a
peasant by birth, and thoroughly despising the “higher orders.”
From this general censure of the Fidalgo class, the Conde de
Amarante, the Marquis de Saldanha, the present Conde de Villareal
and Duke of Terceira, who served with distinction in the Peninsular
War, are exceptions. The defence of the bridge of Amarante,
from which the first-named Conde received his title, was a most
brilliant exploit.
XXI. “No, not more vain Antæus’ self to pierce.”
See Pindar’s first Nemeonic, and Lucan, lib. iv.
“Whose hissing heads struck off, still heads more grim, &c.”
Non Hydra secto corpore firmior
Vinci dolentem crevit in Herculem.
Horat. _Carm._ iv. 4.
XXV. “Oh, sacred source of sympathetic tears!”
The “δακρυων πηγαι,” the “sacri fontes lachrymarum,” which even
amongst enlightened Heathens seem to have been more regarded than
by many modern Christians.
XXVI. “The Imperial Boar.”
Diocletian.
XXIX. “By that _majestic_ Faith, &c.”
Such is the force of the Saint’s name, Σεβαστὸς.
XXXII. “Her heart transpierces, falls, and dies upon his corse.”
--Καλὸν μοὶ τοῦτο ποιούσῃ θανεῖν.
Φίλη μετ’ αὐτοῦ κείσομαι, φίλου μέτα.
Soph. _Antig._ 72.
“It will be my glory thus to die. Loving I will lie by the side of
my beloved!”
XL. “Dissolved the bands of discipline, the mould
Of duty broke, restored barbarian life.”
Ναυτικὸν στράτευμ’, ἄναρχον, κᾴπὶ τοῖς κακοῖς θρασὺ,
Χρήσιμον δ’ ὅταν θέλωσιν.
Eurip. _Iphig. in Aul._ 914.
“An army come in ships, anarchical, and ferocious for evil deeds,
but useful when it pleases.” A very close description of our San
Sebastian heroes--written more than two thousand years since! I
stood in September last upon the Chofre hills, on the very spot
whence Graham directed the fearful cannonade, and subsequently
beneath the branch where our gallant fellows entered, and in the
recollection of their bravery could readily forget the tales of
horror which I heard from Spaniards, who retain a more vivid memory
of misdeeds, than of the most magnificent services.
I saw with little admiration the mediocre picture of San Sebastian
over the high altar in the cathedral, and when I subsequently
beheld the glorious picture of the same saint by Guido in the
museum at Madrid, I sincerely regretted that the latter is not
substituted for the former--a measure which would be well worthy an
enlightened government.
IBERIA WON.