“And, gallant Palafox, let bright-eyed Fame Thy praise resound, whom nought could turn or bend; For when no mandate but the word of shame ‘Capitulation!’ France would deign to send, ‘War to the knife!’ thy answer straight was penned. Worthy was all the heroic times of old. And monks were seen a warlike arm to lend, And cloistered sisters the cartouche to mould. Though History rend each page, this, this shall be enrolled! XXIX. “Her tercios Aragon, the Catalan His bold Somátenés equipped for war. Spain’s arméd peasants all her fields o’erran, But strife amongst the chiefs too oft a bar, And Valour weak indiscipline doth mar. At Rio Seco see the furious charge Of France’s chivalry like Aias’ car Mow thousands down beside the streamlet’s marge, While o’er the affrighted plain their broken lines enlarge. XXX. “But Vengeance comes! Beneath Morena’s shade, At Baylen see on Andaluzan plains Where sinks Dupont by olive-circled glade And deep ravine where blood like water rains, And wears his mighty host dishonouring chains. Castaños, Reding, bright your laurels shine, While prostrate ’neath your arm the Gaul remains; But, ah, perfidious snares your glory mine, And butchery stains the steel which Conquest lit divine, XXXI. “See--see, the Intrusive King o’er Ebro flies, In pale affright by Baylen’s victory driven; But tall Pyrene’s bulwarks o’er him rise, A shield impregnable to despots given. Dissolve, dissolve that towering rampart, Heaven! And aid our vengeful spear to hurl him back. By Spain’s right arm be Spain’s rude fetters riven. Our warriors move--of zeal there is no lack. The Invaders feel their ire, like gathering thunder black. XXXII. “And hangs upon their skirt with fierce annoy The mountain Guerrillero tiger-springing, The Chapelchurri burning to destroy, From heights around Bilbaö vengeance winging, The Chapelgorri with his musket ringing, A dearer Chacolin--the Frenchman’s blood-- Thirsting to pour, the rich libation flinging O’er crag and spray--their dainty flesh the food Of vulture screaming fierce, and kite, and raven’s brood. XXXIII. “But weak the impulse, uncombined the assault; Divisions, jealousies, our councils blight. Too oft on Victory’s field our leaders halt, And leave unplucked the fruit that gleams in sight: Oh, that our men had Chiefs to lead them right. In vain! France rallies through the land once more. Our peasant warriors gather to the fight, But compact serried legions gall them sore. The soiled Escorial holds the Usurper as before! XXXIV.