Hath Xeres any Pounder now, When other weapons fail, With club to thrash invaders rash, Like barley with a flail? Hath Seville any Perez still, To lay his clusters low, And ride with seven turbans green Around his saddle-bow? No! never more shall Europe see Such Heroes brave and bold, Such Valor, Faith and Loyalty, As used to shine of old! No longer to one battle cry United Spaniards run, And with their thronging spears uphold The Virgin and her Son! From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay Internal discord dwells, And Barcelona bears the scars Of Spanish shot and shells. The fleets decline, the merchants pine For want of foreign trade; And gold is scant; and Alicante Is seal'd by strict blockade! The loyal fly, and Valor falls, Opposed by court intrigue; But treachery and traitors thrive, Upheld by foreign league; While factions seeking private ends By turns usurping reign-- Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor Exulting point to Spain! Well may he cleanse the rusty Key With Afric sand and oil, And hope an Andalusian home Shall recompense the toil! Well may he swear the Moorish spear Through wild Castile shall sweep, And where the Catalonian sowed The Saracen shall reap! Well may he vow to spurn the Cross Beneath the Arab hoof, And plant the Crescent yet again Above th' Alhambra's roof-- When those from whom St. Jago's name In chorus once arose, Are shouting Faction's battle-cries, And Spain forgets to "Close!" Well may he swear his ataghan Shall rout the traitor swarm, And carve them into Arabesques That show no human form-- The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds Invite the savage Moor, And tempt him with the ancient Key To seek the ancient door! THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK. AN ALLEGORY. There's a murmur in the air, And noise in every street-- The murmur of many tongues, The noise of numerous feet-- While round the Workhouse door The Laboring Classes flock, For why? the Overseer of the Poor Is setting the Workhouse Clock. Who does not hear the tramp Of thousands speeding along Of either sex and various stamp, Sickly, cripple, or strong, Walking, limping, creeping From court and alley, and lane, But all in one direction sweeping Like rivers that seek the main? Who does not see them sally From mill, and garret, and room, In lane, and court and alley, From homes in poverty's lowest valley, Furnished with shuttle and loom-- Poor slaves of Civilization's galley-- And in the road and footways rally, As if for the Day of Doom? Some, of hardly human form, Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil; Dingy with smoke and dust and oil, And smirch'd besides with vicious soil, Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm. Father, mother, and careful child, Looking as if it had never smiled-- The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan, With only the ghosts of garments on-- The Weaver, her sallow neighbor, The grim and sooty Artisan; Every soul--child, woman, or man, Who lives--or dies--by labor.