Und wenn du ganz in dem gefühle selig bist, Nenn es dann wie du willst, Nenn’s glück! herz! liebe! Gott! Ich habe keinen namen Dafür! Gefühl ist alles. Goethe, _Faust_. “And when thou art perfectly blissful in that feeling, call it what thou wilt--call it joy--heart--love--God! I have no name for it--feeling is all!” XLIII. “And pluck the golden apple from the bough.” Vel cùm decorum mitibus pomis caput Autumnus arvis extulit, Ut gaudet ... decerpens pyra, Certantem et uvam purpuræ. Hor. _Epod._ ii. XLVII. “Even the dread Cathedral leap Chose the maid before dishonour.” ----Θυσίας Παρθενίου θ’ αἵματος ὀρ- γᾷ περιόργως ἐπιθυ- μεῖν Θέμις. Æschyl. _Agamem._ 216. “Of the sacrifice of virgin blood Diana is vehemently desirous.” IBERIA WON. Canto X. I. Heavy the Morn, and sullenly and fierce A thunder-storm o’ergathers Haya’s crest. His rocky diadem red lightnings pierce, Leap o’er each crag, and smite the eagle’s nest; And volleying thunder rolls from East to West. Now rain in gushing torrents drowns the sky; Anon a fiery bolt on Mandal’s breast Leaves its black scar;--anon the storm from high O’er Bidasóa falls while winds like spirits cry! II. Great Arthur seized the tempest as a boon, His columns lit by glory to advance Tow’rds Commissari, Bayonnette, and Rhune, And entering tame the pride of haughty France. Daring his mighty plan, whose toils enhance The Fuéntarábian waters poured between. A stronger than Bernardo wields the lance, And Paladins again to quail are seen. Our conquering footsteps Spain re-echoes proud, I ween. III. For Roncesvalles is to Spain restored; Her Mina’s legions fill its storied dell. His Guerrilleros ’neath that Chief adored ’Gainst the marauding Gaul have battled well. And at Baigorri hark where grandly swell The war-notes of Castile, while rush the wild Partidas ringing many a Norman’s knell; And sweep from France the forage she hath piled On Spanish soil profaned, from stall and sheepfold mild. IV. Unconsciously the lowing herds resent Their change of masters, rudely by the horn Seized in the foray while trabúcos bent ’Gainst Gaulish bosoms vomit deathful scorn, With loud explosive sound on Echo borne. And innocent sheep in thousands piteous bleat ’Gainst hands that will restore them ere the Morn To the sweet fold, and oxen loud repeat Moan upon moan, by bayonet pricked or firelock beat. V.