And Nial wept his faithful comrade dead, Like woman wept--nor blame his hero-soul, For many a fervid kindness done and said Rushed o’er his mind, and swept to memory’s goal, Till tears in torrents gushed beyond controul. Oh, tears are generous, noble! Tears became Achilles’ cheek, when Death Patroclus stole; His frame sharp anguish shook who shook the frame Of Troy--nor, Nial, blush that thou didst weep the same! XXXIII. Three days, three nights, Sebastian’s sack went on; And as in fire the earth will sink at last, And fire avenge the deeds that then were done, Through fiery scourge so San Sebastian past. Raged o’er the town, urged by the Atlantic blast, The red relentless flame, and to and fro Swept like a desert courser, lurid cast Its glare o’er Ocean, flashed above--below, Till all was smouldering heaps of desolation, wo! XXXIV. Biscayan Nereids! fill your urns with tears; With scent of gore the bloodhound’s on the trail. Mourn, Uruméan Naiads, plunged in fears, For shrieks portentous load the sighing gale From virgins all dishevelled, lorn, and pale; And stab and death-shot end what leers begin, And strong men fall o’erpowered, and seniors frail Are slaughtered with the babes of all their kin, And vilest passions loosed--the Carnival of Sin! XXXV. Oh, spectral portent of Calamity! Oh, ghost of violated Beauty smeared With blood and fiery blackness. See it, see Where War’s wild wave hath swept o’er homes endeared-- All, all by Havoc’s burning ploughshare seared! An awful silence reigns, more horrid than The late artillery’s roar--a trophy reared To ruin in each street, that crimson ran. A plague infects the air from piled, putrescent man! XXXVI. Ay, thousand corses, shroudless, graveless lie, And flout Heaven’s nostril with their carrion hue. The iron hail is scattered far and nigh, And earth unnumbered fragments sadly strew: Wrecked lares--torn apparel--arms that slew Till butchery broke them, headgear, shell, and shot, But ah! no living thing--yes, one I view-- A haggard maniac, crouched in loneliest spot. The sole survivor he where slaughtered thousands rot! XXXVII. Nor war’s dread engines yet have done their worst, For Mont’ Orgullo still by Rey is held; And o’er that stronghold falls a doom accurst, For ere he leave the Castle must be shelled. Nine days of horror by our cannon knelled Bring death to our own captives--on the tenth When Honour, grisly demon’s voice is quelled By glut of gore, he proudly yields at length, Walks forth to beat of drum, and owns Britannia’s strength. XXXVIII.