« 上一頁繼續 »
Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift
To date th' epistolary sheet, The blest occasion of the gift
Shall make its recollection sweet; Sent when the star that rules
fates Hath reached its influence most benignWhen every heart congratulates,
And none more cordially than mine
So speed my song-marked with the crest
That erst th' advent'rous Norman* wore,
Who won the Lady of the West,
The daughter of Macaillain Mor.
Crest of my sires ! whose blood it sealed
With glory in the strife of swords, Ne'er may
the scroll that bears it yield Degenerate thoughts or faithless words ! Yet little might I prize the stone,
If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence, a scattered leaf, I'm blown
In Fortune's mutability.
No! but it tells me of a heart,
Allied by friendship’s living tie; A prize beyond the herald's art
Our soul-sprung consanguinity! Katherine ! to many an hour of mine
Light wings and sunshine you have lent; And so adieu, and still be thine
To the memory of the Spanish Patriots latest killed in re
sisting the Regency and the Duke of Angouleme. Brave men who at the Trocadero fellBeside your cannons conquered not, though slain, There is a Victory in dying well For Freedom,--and ye have not died in vain ; For come what may there shall be hearts in Spain To honour, ay embrace your martyred lot. Cursing the Bigot’s and the Bourbon's chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the
spot! What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast In dungeons-dragged to death, or forced to flee; Hope is not withered in affliction's blastThe patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree; And short your orgies of revenge shall be, Cowled demons of the Inquisitorial cell Earth shudders at your victory,--for ye Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung Autochthones of hell! Go to your bloody rites again-bring back The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen, Recording answers shrieked upon the rack; Smile o’er the gaspings of spine-broken men ;Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ;Then let your altars, ye blasphemers ! peal With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, To practise deeds, with torturing fire and steel No eye may search-no tongue may challenge orreveal !
Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors !--Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her crime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty ;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn!
Glory to them that die in this great cause !
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:
No !-manglers of the martyr's earthly frame !
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.
INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY
Which has been erected by the widow of Admiral Sir G.
Campbell, K. C. B. to the memory of her husband.
To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart
Fulfilled the hero's and the patriot's part,-
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoin'd,
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,
This stone is reared to public duty true,
The seaman's friend, the father of his crew,
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command,
He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band,
And led each arm to act, each heart to feel,
What British valour owes to Britain's weal.
These were his public virtues :—but to trace
His private life's fair purity and grace,
To paint the traits that drew affection strong
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng,
And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name
O’ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief,
O’ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief,
Save in religion's high and holy trust,
Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust.
Again to the battle, Achaians !
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance
Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree-
It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers'graves.
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,
And the sword shall to glory restore us
Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances
Are stretched in our aid-be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone :
For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That living, we shall be victorious,
Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.
A breath of submission we breathe not;
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
hide-waves engulf-fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us :
If they rule, it shall be o’er our ashes and graves ;
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us.
To the charge!-Heaven's þanner is o'er us.
This day shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory?
Our women, Oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken [worth
Till we've trampled the turban and shown ourselves
Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home, and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.
Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean;
Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring :