’Twas thus the Basque barqueras, happiest race, Like their Cantabrian mothers rowed along; A nymph-republic from whose dwelling-place Both man and dame excludes the Nereid throng, True to their Ocean-sire, as Dian strong. Two row each bark, and one Dorina steers ’Neath fluttering banderoles, and oft with song They tune their oars, or dance with merry cheers Zorcícos, while Basque drum and timbrel greet the ears. XXIV. And oft, through summertide, some sheltered cove On fair Biscaya’s coast these Nereids sought To cool their lovely limbs, while far above A sister-sentinel their safety wrought, With eyes whose jealousy was still uncaught. And through the crystal waters joyously Spinning, like ivory, charms surpassing thought, They plunged and sported, laughing wild with glee, And swam with matchless skill--their element the sea. XXV. And, robed again, full oft the Nymphs advanced ’Neath dewy eve in beauteous double file, And boundingly the gay Zorcíco danced, With shouldered oars and frolic feet, the while Basque drum and tamborine and Ocean’s smile Make mirthful holiday. Now high they leap, With mazy figure now the sense beguile, Now cross their clattering blades as in the deep, And laugh, dance, sing--methinks, ’tis better thus than weep. XXVI. Nor vigilance secures that lovely coast, Nor danger’s tremulous excitements flee, For Gaul her cruisers and her arméd host From fair Santona pours along the sea; And even Columbian rovers, far too free To curb the lust of plunder, hovering there-- Indifferent whether Spain’s or England’s be The rifled flag--like vultures foul prepare On battle’s skirt to fall, and aidless stragglers tear. XXVII. For years had past since great Britannia’s hand Made Earth and Ocean feel her trident stroke; And Trafalgár and San Vicente, fanned By Victory’s wing, no present terrors woke; Nor o’er the Deep her voice in thunder spoke, Since feeble councils numbed at home the arms, Which even thus paralysed Gaul’s legions broke; And but that patriot zeal the virgin warms, Had Famine crushed our men more dire than War’s alarms. XXVIII. Yet nought could baffle England’s Chieftain-shield, Who drove the Invader to Pyrene’s foot, With thunder-shock on many a battle-field, While Spain with aidful arm the foeman smote. Oh, glorious rivalship! where late each throat Was hostile grasped, now rank with rank contending, Now side by side,--the Armada’s strife forgot, Gibraltar’s griefs, Saint Vincent’s memory rending-- Against the general foe in War’s proud union blending. XXIX.