LIV.

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scattering bay'net 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,

Mark'd 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.

Her chief is slain
Her fellows flee

LVI.

she sheds no ill-timed tear;

she fills his fatal post;

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 flush'd hope is lost?

Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,

Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall? (1)

LVII.

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons,
But form'd 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,

(1) Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. When the author was at Seville she walked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of the Junta.