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.