“To Albion now Hesperia turns her eyes; Though bloodshot all and weeping, proud her gaze; For still her spirit doth unconquered rise, And still she struggles to the world’s amaze. Swift Albion answers to the call we raise, And sends to aid our arms a gallant host. Around her swords the light triumphant plays Of many a field where perished Gallia’s boast, And see her fleet descend on Lusitania’s coast. XXXV. “For vain, too, there hath Gaul her efforts found. Our kinsmen scorn to wear a foreign chain. Indignantly they rise their Tyrants round, And bear the Freeman’s threatening port, like Spain. But feeble, too, the bands of Lusitain ’Gainst veteran cohorts battling all through life. Great Arthur comes from England to maintain Thy contest, Liberty. With ardour rife His warriors reach the shore, and gird them for the strife. XXXVI. “Upon thy beauteous banks, Mondégo, where The cry of murdered Iñez lingers still, And faithful Pedro’s grief the breeze doth bear In many a sigh from fair Coimbra’s hill, There Albion’s heroes land. Rude blasts and chill Blow from the Atlantic. On Boarcos’ crags Full many a soldier perisheth. But will Indomitable their’s--nor Lusia lags; Priest, student, peasant, crowd ’neath azure-crimson flags. XXXVII. “Hark to the footfall fierce and measured tread Of Britain’s legions o’er the affrighted ground, While martial music’s stirring voice is shed, Enthusiast Valour waking at the sound. Trombone and cornet make the heart to bound, The deep bassoon and clarion shrill afar Their echoes send--the mellow horn around Gives softer notes, ring fifes their merry bar, And rolls the doubling drum to stimulate the War. XXXVIII. “Roriça, hail! Vimièiro, blest thy sod! For there the might of France is hurled to dust. The robber-host is victory-smote by God. Junot retires with all his spoils unjust, But sated once for aye his gory lust! And other fields by England’s might are tried, In Heaven and in her arm reposing trust. Corunna’s heights see crushed the Gaulish pride, But sad the victory gained where Moore heroic died. XXXIX. “And rushed great Arthur to the field again, And conquest o’er his helm unceasing played. On many a dire, tremendous battle plain The eagle-crest of Gallia low he laid, The arms allied in all triumphant made. My soul doth grow more tranquil--blame him not, If ruffian-soldiers’ deeds his laurels shade; Too oft in Victory justice is forgot, Too oft are arméd men like fiends when passion’s hot. XL.