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be the sons of Spain, and strange her Fate!

       They fight for Freedom who were never free,

      LXXXVII.

      Flows there a tear of Pity for the dead?

       Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain;

       Look on the hands with female slaughter red;

       Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,

       Then to the vulture let each corse remain,

       Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw;

       Let their bleached bones, and blood's unbleaching stain,

       Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:

       Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!

      LXXXIX.

      Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done;

       Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees:

       It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,

       Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.

       Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees

       More than her fell Pizarros once enchained:

       Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease

      XC.

      Not all the blood at Talavera shed,

       Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,

       Not Albuera lavish of the dead,

       Have won for Spain her well asserted right.

       When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?

       When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?

       How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,

       Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,

      XCI.

      XCII.

      XCIII.

      FOOTNOTES:

      See Dallas Transcript, p. 1. Mus. Brit. Bibl. Egerton, 2027. Press 526. H. T.]

      "The cheerless thing, the man without a friend,"

       at least, till death had deprived him of his nearest connections.

       I crave pardon for this Egotism, which proceeds from my wish to discard any probable imputation of it to the text.—[MS. B.M.]

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