Peace to the mighty dead!—our bosom thanks In sprightlier strains the living may inspire! Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia’s ranks, Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire! Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled, Dear symbol wild! on Freedom’s hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquered foes! Joy to the band[71] this day on Egypt’s coast, Whose valour tamed proud France’s tricolor, And wrenched the banner from her bravest host, Baptised Invincible in Austria’s gore! Joy for the day on red Vimeira’s strand, When, bayonet to bayonet opposed, First of Britannia’s host her Highland band Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed! Is there a son of generous England here Or fervid Erin?—he with us shall join, To pray that in eternal union dear, The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine! Types of a race who shall the invader scorn, As rocks resist the billows round their shore; Types of a race who shall to time unborn Their country leave unconquered as of yore! [71] The 42nd Regiment. STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME. Brave men who at the Trocadero fell— Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain, There is a victory in dying well For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain, For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain To honour, ay embrace your martyred lot, Cursing the Bigot’s and the Bourbon’s chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the spot! What though your cause be baffled—freemen cast In dungeons—dragged to death, or forced to flee; Hope is not withered in affliction’s blast— The patriot’s blood’s the seed of Freedom’s tree; And short your orgies of revenge shall be, Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell! Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung, _Autochthones_ of Hell! Go to your bloody rites again—bring back The hall of horrors and the assessor’s pen, Recording answers shrieked upon the rack; Smile o’er the gaspings of spine-broken men;— Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den;— Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel No eye may search—no tongue may challenge or reveal! Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime Too proudly, ye oppressors!—Spain was free, Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty; And these even parting scatter as they flee Thoughts—influences, to live in hearts unborn, Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key From Persecution—show her mask off-torn, And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.