God of eternal justice! the false monarch Has broke his plighted vow! Enter PIERS wounded. PIERS. Fly, fly, my father-the perjured King-fly! fly! JOHN BALL. Nay, nay, my child-I dare abide my fate, Let me bind up thy wounds. PIERS. "T is useless succour : They seek thy life; fly, fly, my honour'd father. I shall soon join thee, Tyler!—they are murdering They were dispersing :-the streets swim with blood. Enter Soldiers. SOLDIER. This is that old seditious heretic. SECOND SOLDIER. Enter Guards with JOHN BALL. GUARD. We 've brought the old villain. SECOND GUARD. An old mischief-maker Why there's fifteen hundred of the mob are kill'd, SIR JOHN TRESILIAN. Prisoner! are you the arch-rebel, John Ball? JOHN BALL. I am John Ball; but I am not a rebel. SIR JOHN TRESILIAN. John Ball, you are accused of stirring up That kings have not a right from heaven to govern; (Seizes JOHN BALL.) And the distinctions of society, Did you not tell the mob they were oppress'd, JOHN BALL. Why, be it so. I can smile at your vengeance, With his French neighbours?-Charles and Richard Fade in its strong effulgence. Flattery's incense And preaching to them strange and dangerous doctrines, That the law may take vengeance on the rebels. Thy hope in Heaven and in thine own right hand. III. Dread was the strife, for mighty was the foe Britain stood firm and braved his power! IV. O virtue which above all former fame, Exalts her venerable name! O joy of joys for every British breast! That with that mighty peril full in view, The Queen of Ocean to herself was true! That no weak heart, no abject mind possess'd Her counsels, to abase her lofty crest,— (Then had she sunk in everlasting shame,) But ready still to succour the oppress'd, Her Red-Cross floated on the waves unfurl'd, Offering Redemption to the groaning world. V. First from his trance the heroic Spaniard woke; And casting off his neck the treacherous yoke, VI. Say from thy trophied field how well, And thou, Busaco, on whose sacred height While those unwonted thunders shook his cell, Join'd with his prayers the fervour of the fight!" Bear witness those Old Towers,3 where many a day Waiting with foresight calm the fitting hour, The Wellesley, gathering strength in wise delay, Defied the Tyrant's undivided power. Swore not the boastful Frenchman in his might, Into the sea to drive his Island-foe? Tagus and Zezere, in the secret night, Ye saw that host of ruffians take their flight!4 And in the Sun's broad light Onoro's Springs beheld their overthrow! VII. Patient of loss, profuse of life, What though the Tyrant, drunk with power, VIII. Therefore no thought of fear debased Her judgment, nor her acts disgraced. To every ill, but not to shame resign'd, All sufferings, all calamities she bore. She bade the people call to mind Their heroes of the days of yore, Pelayo and the Campeador,8 With all who, once in battle strong, Lived still in story and in song. Against the Moor, age after age, Their stubborn warfare did they wage; Age after age, from sire to son, The hallowed sword was handed down; Nor did they from that warfare cease, And sheathe that hallowed sword in peace, Until the work was done. IX. Thus in the famous days of yore, They gloried in his overthrow, But touch'd not with reproach his gallant name; For fairly, and with hostile aim profest, The Moor had rear'd his haughty crest; An open, honourable foe; But as a friend the treacherous Frenchman came, X. Strains such as these from Spain's three seas, Rung through the region. Vengeance was the word;9 XI. Alone the noble Nation stood, And well in sight of Earth and Heaven, XII. Lord of Conquest, heir of Fame, In vain thy bulwarks, Badajoz ; Spain felt through all her realms the electric blow; XIII. What now shall check the Wellesley, when at length Retire; amid the heights which overhang Dark Ebro's bed, they think to make their stand. He reads their purpose, and prevents their speed; And still as they recede, Impetuously he presses on their way; XIV. Vain their array, their valour vain : There did the practised Frenchman find A master arm, a master mind! Behold the veteran army driven Like dust before the breath of Heaven, Like leaves before the autumnal wind! Now, Britain, now thy brow with laurels bind; Raise now the song of joy for rescued Spain! And Europe, take thou up the awakening strainGlory to God! Deliverance for Mankind! XV. From Spain the living spark went forth : Behold! the awaken'd Moscovite XVI. Open thy gates, O Hanover! display Receive thy old illustrious line once more! That line, whose fostering and paternal sway So many an age thy grateful children blest. The yoke is broken now!-A mightier hand Hath dash'd,—in pieces dash'd,-the iron rod. To meet her Princes, the delivered land Pours her rejoicing multitudes abroad; The happy bells from every town and tower, Roll their glad peals upon the joyful wind; And from all hearts and tongues, with one consent, The high thanksgiving strain to Heaven is sent,Glory to God! Deliverance for Mankind! XVII Egmont and Horn, heard ye that holy cry, Martyrs of Freedom, from your seats in Heaven? And William the Deliverer, doth thine eye Regard from yon empyreal realm the land For which thy blood was given! What ills hath that poor Country suffered long! Deceived, despised, and plunder'd, and oppress'd, Mockery and insult aggravating wrong! Severely she her errors hath atoned, And long in anguish groan'd, Wearing the patient semblance of despair, While fervent curses rose with every prayer! In mercy Heaven at length its ear inclined; The avenging armies of the North draw nigh, Joy for the injured Hollander,—the cry Of Orange rends the sky! All hearts are now in one good cause combined,Once more that flag triumphant floats on high,Glory to God! Deliverance for Mankind! XVIII. When shall the Dove go forth? Oh when Shall Peace return among the Sons of Men? Hasten, benignant Heaven, the blessed day! Justice must go before, And Retribution must make plain the way; Force must be crushed by Force, The power of Evil by the power of Good, Ere Order bless the suffering world once more Or Peace return again. Hold then right on in your auspicious course, Ye Princes, and ye People, hold right on! Your task not yet is done : Pursue the blow,-ye know your foe,Complete the happy work so well begun: Hold on and be your aim with all your strength Loudly proclaim'd and steadily pursued! So shall this fatal Tyranny at length Before the arms of Freedom fall subdued. Then when the waters of the flood abate, The Dove her resting-place secure may find : And France restored, and shaking off her chain, Shall join the Avengers in the joyful strain, Glory to God! Deliverance for Mankind! «does any plain, unaffected man, above the level of a drivelling courtier or a feeble fanatic, dare to say he can look at this impending contest, without trembling every inch of him, for the result?»-No. XXIV, p. 441. With all proper deference to so eminent a critic, I would venture to observe, that trembling has been usually supposed to be a symptom of feebleness, and that the case in point has certainly not belied the received opinion. Note 2, page 498, col. 1. And thou, Busaco, on whose sacred height While those unwonted thunders shook his cell, Of Busaco, which is now as memorable in the military, as it has long been in the monastic history of Portugal, I have given an account in the second volume of Omniana. Dona Bernarda Ferreira's poem upon this venerable place, contains much interesting and some beautiful description. The first intelligence of the battle which reached England was in a letter written from this Convent by a Portuguese Commissary. «I have the happiness to acquaint you,» said the writer, « that this night the French lost nine thousand men near the Convent of Busaco.-I beg you not to consider this news as a fiction,-for I, from where I am, saw them fall. This place appears like the ante-chamber of Hell.»--What a contrast to the images which the following extracts present! Es pequeña aquella Iglesia, Mas para pobres bastante; Con que el rico suele ornarse. No ay alli plata, ni oro, Telas y sedas no valen Asperando a los del Cielo Los demas tiene por males, El soberano estandarte, La tabla donde se salva El misero naufragante Del piélago de la culpa, Ya puerto glorioso sale. Con perfecion y concierto Se aderezan los altares (por manos de aquellos santos) De bellas flores suaves. En toscos vasos de corcho Lustran texidos con arte La florida rama verde Que en aquellos bosques nace, Da colgaduras al templo, Y los brocados abate. En dias de mayor fiesta Esto con excessos hacen, Y al suelo por alcatifas Diversas flores reparten. Huele el divino aposento Hurtando sutil el ayre A las rosas y boninas Mil olores que derrame. Humildes estan las celdas De aquellos bumildes padres, Cercando al sacro edificio Do tienen su caro amante. Cada celda muy pequeña Que en competencia sus dueño; Tambien de pobreza imágen, Son mas bellas en sus ojos Do apenas tendidos caben, Una Cruz, y calavera Que tienen siempre delante, Y en aquellas soledades Suelen tal vez aliviarse; Tanto los libros aplacen, Tiene cada qual en huerto (porque en él pueda ocuparse) De árboles de espino, y flores Siempre de olor liberales. Libres ansi del tumulto Que embaraza los mortales, Sus devotos exercicios No se los perturba nadie, Tan duras como diamantes, Aspérrimas, intractables, Aquel divino desierto Que Busaco denomina, Y es tambien denominado Del árbol de nuestra vida, Se muestra sembrado à trechos De solitarias Ermitas, Que en espacios desiguales Unas de las otras distan. Parece tocan las nubes, Para servirles de sillas, De las rocas escondida, Las bellas márgenes pisa, |