1 :wtiil'!i[t^ijinsM SHBBBll HHHHifl 
 
 
 
 
 
 W< ''''HiiHiJ* 
 
 
 
 81 ":,'!' V^HKhI 
 
 
 
 
 
 [HilHJ ' . ': 
 
 ihhJI!
 
 ,.>> v. 
 
 
 \tiE UNIVERSE 
 
 
 V/ATOHIH^ 7 %13DNVS01^ %a3MNfl3WV^ 
 ^lOSANCElfj> ^l-LIBRARYfl/ - ' ^LIBRARY^ 
 
 ^OJITVDJO^ %0J!W3 -JO 7 
 
 CAUFOfi
 
 s> ^ 
 
 33 
 
 ^fOJITVD-JO 
 
 >^ I^W 
 
 ^J133NV-S01^ "%aiM 
 
 ^OF-CALIFOfito 
 
 V y .\\U-(jNlVbKV/y ^LOVA 
 
 1s> ir 
 
 ^/ahyhhih^ ^honv-soi^ '*4wa 
 
 '%, .^LOSANGEIij^ ^l-LIBRARYQ/^ 
 
 ^ %^AIN03WV > 
 
 MOJITO-JO' 

 
 PORTUGAL. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 IN TWO PARTS. 
 
 
 
 BY LORD GEORGE GRENFILLE. 
 
 F.XCIPITE, O NVTt, BF.I.LCM, NEC UNQCAM, 
 
 DUM TERRIS ALIQ.I IS NOSTRA 1)E STIRPF MANEBIT, 
 
 CESARIBUS RECNARE VACET. 
 
 I.UCAN. PI1ARSALIA. L. IX. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, RE!:*, OI1ME, AND BROWN, 
 PATERNOSTER \WW : 
 
 Hil '1'homns Davison, It hitefriars. 
 
 SI'
 
 TO 
 
 PR 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 > 
 
 ARTHUR,EARL OF WELLINGTON, K.B. 
 
 Sfc. Sf-c. 8fc. 
 
 COMMANDER IN CHIEF 
 OF 
 
 THE BRITISH FORCES 
 
 IN THE PENINSULA OF SPAIN AND PORTUGAL, 
 
 AS A TESTIMONY OF 
 
 ADMIRATION AND REGARD, 
 
 THIS POEM 
 
 IS INSCRIBED.
 
 The outline of the following Poem was 
 suggested by an Evening's excursion, 
 during the Autumn of 1810, upon the hills 
 of Cintra, in which spot indeed many of 
 the Lines themselves were written. The 
 effect produced by the last Beams of Day, 
 setting over the extensive and lovely pros- 
 pect which is presented from those heights, 
 was truly striking, and was not a little cal-
 
 VI 
 
 culated to produce the chain of Feelings 
 attempted to be described. 
 
 The Convent of N. S. da Penha is si- 
 tuated on one of the highest points of the 
 Cintra Mountains. The Tagus is seen 
 to the eastward, almost as on a Map, in 
 its course towards the ocean. Lisbon is 
 dimly traced on its Bank, and the Mind is 
 naturally led to the contemplation of the 
 great men to whom that City had once 
 given Birth, contrasted with that of the 
 melancholy degeneracy which but too
 
 Vll 
 
 generally has become the characteristic 
 of it's richer inhabitants of the present 
 day. 
 
 And, if, in the course of the Lines which 
 refer to this part of my subject, the edu- 
 cated Sloth which has so long disgraced 
 the Portugueze Character, and cramped 
 its Energies, appear to have been too se- 
 verely commented upon, let it be remem- 
 bered that it is to those who yet remain 
 amidst the Ease and unmanly Dissipation 
 of Lisbon, not to those who are bravely
 
 Vlll 
 
 fighting their Country's Battles on the 
 Frontier, that these Lines allude. 
 
 No one can, I hope, more warmly ap- 
 plaud the Resolution which has originated, 
 and few, I believe, more sanguinely antici- 
 pate the prosperous Event which, it is to be 
 trusted, awaits the virtuous struggle of Por- 
 tugal for her Independence, than I do ; and, 
 with this assurance, I may perhaps be al- 
 lowed to feel a little strongly, when I see so 
 gallant a Spirit in some Instances paralyzed, 
 by the partial Remains of a despotick Go-
 
 IX 
 
 vernment, a debased Aristocracy, and a 
 corrupt Church Establishment. 
 
 I cannot, moreover, but consider it to be 
 a Position at once founded on Reason, and 
 confirmed by historical Authority, that the 
 Principles which operate towards the esta- 
 blishing the National Greatness of any State, 
 must originate in its own National Charac- 
 ter, and that the Causes which may have 
 impaired the former can never be removed, 
 but by previously restoring the Purity, and 
 reanimating the Energies, of the latter.
 
 The reappearance of the King Sebastian, 
 alluded to in the commencement of the 
 Second Part of the Poem, is a Belief 
 much too religiously and fondly clung to 
 by the Sect of Sebastianists, of whom 
 there yet remain many in Portugal, not 
 to deserve mention ; and, at a moment like 
 the present, the unfolding of his divine 
 Mission, for the deliverance of his Country 
 from a foreign Yoke, affords rather tempt- 
 ing matter for Episode. 
 
 To the northward, the Chain of Moun-
 
 XI 
 
 tains, which fence the Prospect, and ex- 
 tend towards the Estrella, leads the Mind 
 to the contemplation of the Scene which, 
 at the period when the Poem was com- 
 menced, was acting on the frontier. And, 
 from that partiality with which, I trust, an 
 Englishman will never be ashamed to own 
 that he turns to the Scenes where the Gal- 
 lantry of his Countrymen has been dis- 
 played, I have hazarded a few Lines, in 
 deviation from the immediate Subject of 
 the Poem, upon the Action of Busaco. 
 
 The allusion, in the passage which de-
 
 Xll 
 
 scribes the Night after the Action, to the 
 dead body of a French Officer, is not a 
 fancied one, and is accompanied by Recol- 
 lections which can never be effaced from 
 my mind ; and still less probable is it that 
 the subject of the Lines which immediately 
 follow can ever be forgotten by Me, con- 
 nected as it is with the Memory of One 
 whom I loved and honoured from my 
 Childhood. 
 
 The short, but meritorious, Military Life 
 of the late Lieutenant-Colonel Talbot 
 was an honour to his Profession, and the
 
 X11L 
 
 gallant, but lamented, circumstances of his 
 Death will be ever held in the Remem- 
 brance of his Friends, as well as of the rest 
 of his Countrymen, as worthy a brave and 
 a good Soldier. 
 
 And, lastly, to close the Scene, I turn 
 Westward, and, while gazing on the setting 
 Sun, as my Eye rests on the Ocean, my 
 Mind is naturally directed homeward, to 
 England. 
 
 After contemplating then the horrors to
 
 XIV 
 
 be witnessed in those countries which have 
 been invaded by the unprincipled Am- 
 bition of France, it is with no small plea- 
 sure that I reflect upon the comparative, 
 and real, Blessings enjoyed by my own. 
 
 Such a train of Thoughts should not, 
 however, produce Feelings of Selfishness, 
 and still less of Indifference, for the Suffer- 
 ings of those Nations which surround us. 
 
 Virtue, and a lively Sympathy for the 
 Miseries of others, can alone secure to our-
 
 XV 
 
 selves our Independence, our Happiness, 
 and our National Respectability, because 
 they alone can render us worthy Divine 
 Protection.
 
 ERRATUM. 
 
 Page 50, line 2, for ' light,' read ' lights.'
 
 PORTUGAL. 
 
 Part I.
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST PART. 
 
 Address to Portugal. Our Feelings of Enthusiasm, animated 
 by the contemplation of the Cause in which She is now 
 engaged, should not indispose us towards the consideration 
 of that Cause in all it's bearings, the Character of its As- 
 sertors with Reference to it's worse, as well as to it's better, 
 Properties. Description of the Hills of Cintra, and of the 
 surrounding Scenery, which have given rise to the fore- 
 going Reflections. The Convent And Meditations na- 
 turally suggested by it. The performance of the Duties 
 of Religion by no means necessarily, or inseparably, con- 
 nected with the artificial Gloom inspired by the Seclusion 
 of the Cloister. The Divine Being perhaps to be wor- 
 shipped with feelings of a more exalted Devotion in His 
 Works, as displayed in an extensive Prospect. Address 
 to an Atheist Lisbon Present degraded character of it's 
 richer Inhabitants Exhortation to them to emulate, in the 
 impending Struggle for the Liberties, and almost Exist- 
 ence, of Portugal, the example of their Forefathers Illus- 
 trated by characteristic Anecdotes of some of the Ancient 
 Portugueze Worthies Origin of the Spirit of Maritime 
 Discovery among them A Hope that a Spark of such 
 Emulation may be yet partially rekindling in the Breasts 
 of their Descendants of the Present Dav.
 
 PORTUGAL. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 ijuif fjiaXXoy, I iVtv St xaj Tri; ictVrS ajj.a h TV if^n /J-ayji fxevo;' too-w'tu; Jt xc*\ 
 io'tiaXfO'TiPov, oVtu 7rooJ(!^ , 3'apfXva l/x, i^cov it ^v (Xfjutyjiy tfjJ, %u.\ bx fjifAo; 
 ayiuvmTtu. Thucydides, Book VI. Speech of Hermocrates. 
 
 " Lusia, while musing on the wayward Fate 
 
 " Which rules the Scale of Europe's doubtful State, 
 
 " Whilst Freedom's trembling Hopes yet pause, to know 
 
 " The event that waits her last impending Blow, 
 
 " Say, can an ardent Heart, which long has sighed 
 
 " For ancient Honour's dimmed and fallen Pride, 
 
 " Touched by thy kindred Spark, refuse to twine 
 
 " Its fondest Dreams, it's warmest Prayers, with thine ?
 
 " On Lusia's kindling Ear no longer vain 
 " Shall fall the Patriot's Voice, the Poet's Strain, 
 " O'er every classic Scene, that once could fire 
 " For Her the throbbing Breast, or echoing Lyre, 
 " Shall prophet Fancy weave the fairest Wreathe 
 " That ever bloomed to Victory's flattering Breath, 
 " And Valour teach her glowing steps to steer 
 " In Freedom's holy cause, to Glory's bright career. 
 
 " Yes, in that generous cause for ever high 
 " Shall beat the pulse of Native Energy ! 
 " For Thee the teeming Cot it's Tenant yield 
 " And Sun-brown Labour quit it's favourite Field, 
 " For Thee each antique Fort, or mouldering Tower, 
 " (Trophy erewhile of Glory's short-lived hour,)
 
 " The aery Rock, the Mountain's topmost pride, 
 
 " The fleecy Tract that decks it's glimmering Side, 
 
 " Vocal once more, shall rouse, at thy Command, 
 
 " The patriot terrors of it's Rustic Band, 
 
 " Whilst, proudly wakening to the call of Heaven, 
 
 " Valour shall claim the rights by Nature given, 
 
 " In every Bard a new Tyrtams spring, 
 
 " And Spartan ardour strike the Lusiau String ! 
 
 " Yet sweet it is, when faery Hands have 
 wrought 
 " Those ruddiest hues by poet Fancy taught, 
 " When Fiction's reign is past, and o'er the soul 
 " Untricked Reflection holds her calm controul, 
 " To mark, with steadier Ken, each slow degree 
 " By wakening Justice trod, by Valour, Liberty,
 
 6 
 
 " To thread each wildering Maze, and scan, the while, 
 " As their mild Influence cheers the Patriot's Toil, 
 " Each transient Mist, that dims the bright Array 
 " Of Glory's handmaid Forms, and stays their destined 
 Way. 
 
 " Too often Hope betrays a flattering Gaze, 
 " ^\nd basks, and revels, in the pictured rays, 
 " Hangs o'er each livelier touch, in Light pourtra}ed, 
 " Nor deigns to cast one Glance upon the Shade, 
 " Clings to the witching Scene, though half untrue, 
 " Nor blends the gloomier, with the brighter View. 
 " But shall her graver Mood in Terror shun 
 " To search the unfinished Work her hand begun, 
 " Or manly Courage droop, though Truth be shewn 
 " In Tints less pure, less vivid, than it's own ?
 
 " No ! let the chastened glance of Hopes like thine 
 " Not idly gild young Freedom's opening Shiine, 
 " Nor shrink, though Heaven's Blast o'er the offering 
 
 plays 
 u With Breath too potent for the kindling Blaze. 
 
 " By such Reflections led, I sought this Glen, 
 " Far from the Tumult, and the Haunts, of Men, 
 " For sweet, in sober Contemplation's Hour, 
 " The pensive quiet of some lonely Bower ; 
 " And oh permit, beneath yon verdant Shade, 
 " By thine own Olive, and the Cork Tree, made, 
 " Worn by thy Steep, at balmy Evening's close, 
 " A Stranger's weary foot to find repose." 
 
 For, as I spoke, on Cintra's topmost head 
 The ruddy Beam it's latest Influence shed,
 
 The tranquil Breast of Ocean, far away, 
 Caught, but to lose, the Smiles of parting Day, 
 With silent course the Shadow's length'ning Train 
 Swept down the Steep, and sought the distant Plain, 
 In midway Air the twilight's blue Mist curled, 
 And, far below me, lay a lessened World ! 
 
 In kindred grandeur to the Northern Skies 
 A giant Band, her guardian Mountains rise, 
 Till, by the Estrella's loftier mould embraced, 
 Sinks their lost greatness in the howling Waste. 
 Eastward I turned, where Tejo's glimmering Stream 
 In melting Distance owned the dubious Beam ; 
 Lisbon shone fair beneath the lively glow, 
 Spread to its parting Glance her breast of Snow, 
 And, as her faery form she forward bowed, 
 Woke the soft Slumbers of her native flood,
 
 Whilst her white summits mocked the rude command 
 Of the dark Hills that fence her distant Strand. 
 
 Bolder, and nearer yet, the embattled head 
 Of towery Belem in the radiance played, 
 From fretted minoret, or antique Spire, 
 Welcomed the farewell glance of living Fire, 
 And smiled to view it's turret's dazzling Pride 
 In pictured lustre deck the answering Tide. 
 
 Far to the South, through many a chequered 
 scene 
 Of prouder Grandeur, or of livelier green, 
 Of Towns in whiteness robed, a sun bright Train, 
 The widening River mingled with the Main.
 
 10 
 
 Seaward I stretched my view, where to the West 
 The Sun Beam lingered on the Ocean's Breast, 
 Where soft the Atlantic woo'd the dying Breeze 
 On the smooth surface of his waveless Seas, 
 On my own Land the Evening seemed to smile, 
 And, fondly tarrying, pause o'er Britain's Isle. 
 
 Each ruder Breath of Ocean's Blast was still, 
 And Echo slumbered on the noiseless Hill 
 'Twas silence all, save where from heathy Dell 
 The shrill Cicada trilled her late farewell, 
 Or Goatherd homeward wound his evening way, 
 And 'guiled the distance with some rustic Lay. 
 
 Where yon tall spires, in purling radiance bright, 
 Fling from their quivering tops a dubious light,
 
 11 
 
 Throned on that air drawn steep, whose towery head 
 Frowns o'er the plain in broader, darker, shade, 
 Where time worn Arches, rising bold and high, 
 Crown the grey stone with antique tracery, 
 My awe-struck Eye reposes, and, the while, 
 As Fancy ponders o'er the gloomy Pile, 
 Remembrance pauses here, and while it bears 
 On pictured Wing the Forms of other Years, 
 Of convent Haunts by feudal Phrenzy made, 
 Of Murder shrouded in the conscious shade, 
 The votive Tower of Regal Rapine proud, 
 With vast domains by trembling Guilt endowed, 
 Of Rites by dark remorse and terror wrought, 
 By costly gifts, and bleeding penance, bought, 
 Reflection's glance shall mutely turn, to scan 
 The mind, the motive, as the work, of Man,
 
 12 
 
 And blush to own through all this vast abode 
 What to his Crimes was raised, and what to God '. 
 
 Dread Superstition, as thy tyrant reign 
 From yon brown summits to the western Main 
 Stretches it's Influence wide, as thy full hand 
 Grasps the rich Prize, and shadows half the Land, 
 Young Genius flies afar, and the free Soul 
 Of mounting Enterprize, whose strong controul 
 Bids the pure Stream of manly daring start 
 Quick from the Rustic's as the Monarch's heart, 
 Lives now no more, and, with that Soul, has died 
 It's noblest ruling passion, Patriot Pride. 
 Beneath these cloistered Walls, no grateful Train 
 Blesses their Shadow on the subject Plain,
 
 13 
 
 For, where the Convent rears it's wealthy head, 
 It stays the Sun beam from the Peasant's Shed, 
 And Man, and Nature, are alike debased, 
 An heartless Slave, amid a cheerless Waste ! 
 Within, each livelier Virtue, wont to bless 
 The peaceful hours of social Happiness, 
 'Mid Souls estranged from all it's dearer Ties, 
 From all it's sweeter, kindlier, Sympathies, 
 Chilled by thy Touch, in languid current flows, 
 And Feeling sickens at it's own Repose. 
 
 Such is thy baneful Influence, whether shewn, 
 As here, the Tyrant of some Mountain Throne, 
 Or where thy bolder arm o'er the high Fane 
 Of peopled Lisbon spreads it's wider reign.
 
 14 
 
 E'en where the vertic Beam it's fury pours 
 With fiercest fervour o'er yon 2 Indian Shores, 
 Where the gaunt Tiger couches for his prey, 
 And shares with wilder Man the sovereign sway, 
 I trace thy bigot march ! I see thee stand 
 With mien of terror on the burning Strand, 
 There, as the tortured Savage shrieks aloud, 
 Urge, with thy Daemon Voice, the Fiends of Blood, 
 Raise thy fell Hymn of Sacrifice on high, 
 And close with pious Pomp the horrid Blasphemv !- 
 
 But gladly shall the Muse avert her view 
 From scenes like these, though too severely true, 
 Turn to a milder Clime her anxious Eyes, 
 Nor seek Religion in her worst Disguise ;
 
 15 
 
 As, though the Morn has broke, and twilight grey 
 Speaks the bright Dawn of Truth and Reason's Day, 
 Yet the foul forms which, in the Darkness bred 
 Of Midnight, loved to haunt the fearful Shade, 
 Perchance may still, around some ivied Tower, 
 Linger awhile, to cheat the dubious Hour. 
 
 And, haply, yet, our gentler Mood may trace, 
 E'en through the Gloom of this sequestered place, 
 Amidst it's loneliest cells, some latent good 
 To smooth the brow of aged Solitude, 
 May find perhaps, though withered in Decay 
 Manhood's fair Grace, though quenched Ambition's 
 
 Kay, 
 Some kindlier power, which yet could lull to rest 
 The unpitied cares of many an aching breast,
 
 16 
 
 Or, whilst it bade the youthful Soul subdue 
 It's nobler warmth, suppress'd it's vices too. 
 
 And say, when, dimly seen, and far behind, 
 Fades each bright Scene that cheered his early 
 
 Mind, 
 When to his parting gaze far off appears, 
 Tracked by his noontide steps, the Vale'of Years, 
 And the spent Traveller courts, forbid to roam, 
 No Joy but Peace, no Hope beyond a Home, 
 Shall he not bless the Hand which closed the Strife, 
 The Toils, the Wanderings, and the Woes, of Life, 
 Found the poor Exile, houseless, and alone, 
 The sad survivor now of Friendships gone, 
 And led his Steps through their last darksome hour, 
 A way worn Pilgrim, to it's welcome Bower ?
 
 17 
 
 Yes he shall bless that Power, as, from the Brow 
 Of yon lone Hill, he scans the plain below, 
 Looks o'er the World he left, and sees the Pride 
 Of wealthy Cities deck the Prospect wide ; 
 The freighted Bay, or yonder armed Shore, 
 The Pomp, the Glories, or the Waste, of War, 
 While calm Reflection tells, that though for him 
 The call of Fame is hushed, her lustre dim, 
 He yet may reign, when closed his bright career, 
 The peaceful Monarch of a milder Sphere. 
 
 Nay, when the Tempest howled, and wild aud 
 far 
 All Nature trembled at the mad'ning Jar, 
 W hen 3 palsied Earth relaxed her firm embrace, 
 And shuddering Lisbon tottered to its Base,
 
 18 
 
 Unveiled, and tranquil, in the hour of dread 
 
 The Beam yet stalled upon his Convent's head. 
 
 What though, for him, no grateful prayers shall 
 flow, 
 The heart-warm Tribute of remembered Woe, 
 For him no Orphan raise the suppliant Eye, 
 Or poor Man's blessings speak his Charity, 
 What though from him no kindred race shall claim 
 Each pleasing care that crowns a father's name, 
 Hang on his loved Embrace, and share, the while, 
 The meed of Merit in a Parent's Smile, 
 Nor from Example catch that generous flow 
 Of noblest Warmth, which Praecepts ill bestow, 
 What though in him no social virtues dwell, 
 And each best feeling freeze in Monkish Cell,
 
 19 
 
 Though yonder corded waist, yon downcast brovV, 
 Be but Devotion's shade, yet mock not thou, 
 Stranger! the Zeal which seeks through devious 
 
 Ways, 
 And paths of darkness, one great Maker's Praise, 
 Mock not the quaint Device, the Image rude, 
 Which warms the prayers of unlearned Solitude, 
 The garb of Frowns to meek Religion given, 
 The Thorns which strew the peaceful Path of Heaven, 
 But learn thy better, easier, course to steer, 
 With Eleart as warm, with Consience half as clear. 
 
 Yet while far gazing on those Towers sublime 
 Which mock, in gloomy pride, the wrecks of Time, 
 Should, chance, my Eye to yon bright prospect rove, 
 Land, Ocean, City, Plain, or shadowy Grove,
 
 
 
 Sure something seems to whisper, " Not alone 
 
 " Where yon vast Building rears it's massive stone, 
 
 " And Fancy learns from cloistered Gloom to steal 
 
 " That mimic Awe which Reason scorns to feel, 
 
 " Not there thy scene, Devotion, look around, 
 
 " Where Nature owns but the Horizon's bound ! 
 
 " Where all create a Master's Hand proclaim, 
 
 " And every Zephyr breathes one mighty Name ! 
 
 " There while you see the Western Ocean play 
 
 " In the soft radiance of declining Day, 
 
 " Or scan yon vine-clad Hill, yon level Strand, 
 
 " There shall you trace with Love His plastick Hand, 
 
 ' Hail His mild Lustre in the Evening Sky, 
 
 ' And 'mid His brightest Works, adore the Deity!"
 
 21 
 
 Marked you yon Sail upon the breezy deep 
 Court the light Gale, and o'er the Billows sweep, 
 And, on her mimic wings as sun beams glance, 
 Shine one bright spot, amid the vast Expanse. 
 The Tempests frown, the black clouds grimly low'r, 
 And Ocean rises in his wildest power : 
 No longer peaceful now, not cloathed in smiles, 
 The fostering Guardian of his thousand Isles, 
 Rises in foamy wrath his frowning Face, 
 And bows the Welkin to his rude embrace. 
 Where is that Vessel now ? which late in pride 
 Stem'd with her little Breast the dark blue Tide, 
 Where now those sails which caught the favouring 
 
 ray, 
 And smiled exulting in the face of Day : 
 Ah she is gone ! The gales of Morn no more 
 With flattering breath shall waft her hopes to Shore.
 
 22 
 
 O'er her pale Ensigns rise in trackless gloom 
 The unfathomed horrors of her azure Tomb. 
 
 The Sea is calm once more ! the Eye in vain 
 Scans the wide surface of the level Main. 
 Where is that Vessel now ? no wreck is seen, 
 To mark the spot where late her course had been, 
 Sunk unobserved amid the Ocean's roar, 
 Bowed by the self same Blast that fann'd before. 
 
 And such thy course O Man ! Thy pigmy form 
 Thus woo'd the gales of life, and braved the storm, 
 Such, and thus proud, it's wildering Ocean trod, 
 And such tby power, amid the works of God! 
 
 And thou, poor hopeless Wretch ! if such there live, 
 Too wise to feci, too haughty to believe,
 
 23 
 
 Poor worshipper of something undefined, 
 The wreck of Genius, twilight of the Mind, 
 That seeks, high born above the sons of Men, 
 To pierce those Shades unsought by mortal Ken, 
 And catch the unearthy sounds of yonder sphere, 
 Which crowding Angels tremble while they hear, 
 Are these thy Triumphs ? this thy proudest Aim, 
 Thy brightest guerdon, and thy happiest claim, 
 This that first taught thy raptured flight to soar, 
 As the wild wanderings of some feverish hour, 
 Far above Nature's calm and peaceful bound, 
 To pause and hover o'er a dark profound, 
 Where e'en conjecture ends, in the deep Gloom 
 Of doubt and death, nor points beyond the Tomb : 
 Are these thy fondest Hopes ? and is the span 
 Of this frail essence all that's given to Man ?
 
 24 
 
 Glory's loud call, Ambition's dazzling flame, 
 
 The Pomp of Greatness, or the Voice of Fame, 
 
 That lure, too oft to mock, our greener age, 
 
 Nor cheer the later walks of this short pilgrimage ; 
 
 Is Life thy utmost care ? what though to Thee 
 
 It's Joys are Bliss, it's Span Eternity, 
 
 Yet let one lingering hope remain behind, 
 
 And leave, oh leave, a future to Mankind ! 
 
 And say 4 canst thou, who, spurning Faith's pure 
 Laws, 
 Quit'st the mild Blessing, to explore it's Cause, 
 Who dream'st away, in fond research, the Space 
 'Twixt this, and an Hereafter canst thou trace. 
 With all thy boasted skill, the Birth sublime 
 Of infant Nature, or the March of Time,
 
 25 
 
 Tell how the wakening Spheres, in concourse high, 
 First caught the strain of Heaven-born melody, 
 Owned through the brightening vault it's mystic sound, 
 And 'gan with time itself their everlasting round. 
 And, 'till 'tis given to thy mortal sense 
 O'er boundless Space to scan Omnipotence, 
 Look Atheist to thyself, ask by what Force 
 Each life drop holds, unseen, it's wond'rous course, 
 Warmed by what spark of Heaven's own genial heat 
 The Blood that mantles, or the Veins that beat, 
 Or here, with me, beneath this cork tree shade, 
 Bless the great Maker in the Scenes he made ! 
 
 Lisbon, to Thee I turn, and, as my Eye 
 Rests on thy dim and twilight Majesty,
 
 26 
 
 Each glittering Battlement, and lofty Tower, 
 The smiling relicks of thy brighter hour, 
 (Hours, now no more ! which but on Memory wait. 
 The upbraiding Angels of thy fallen State !) 
 Still the recording Glance, which loves to turn, 
 And watch, in tears, o'er Valour's trophied Urn, 
 To fondly brood o'er Worth's expiring ray, 
 And bless the radiance in it's last decay, 
 In calm regret shall mark how, conquest-reared, 
 By Fortune courted, and by Foemen feared, 
 Pledge of thy Fame, to it's fair promise true, 
 In happier times, thy tower-girt s Banner flew. 
 
 Souls of the warriour Dead, whose giant Might 
 In Lusia's cause oft' stem'd the Tide of Fight,
 
 27 
 
 Oh, could your bright Renown one Beam display 
 Of Beacon Flame, to guide your Children's way, 
 Shine as the Watchfire o'er the Tempest's gloom, 
 x\nd, through the waste of Ages, gild their kindred 
 Doom. 
 
 And Thou, her father King 6 , whose double claim 
 Hath twined the Champion's with the Founder's Fame, 
 Thy sainted Memory first shall stand, to grace 
 The after honours of thy genuine Race. 
 
 Yes ! when from rocky Santarem's frowning wall 
 The fierce Moor pealed his angry battle-call, 
 When spoke the gathering Trumpet's brazen throat 
 To the harsh Cymbal's wild and hurried note,
 
 28 
 
 And mad'ning Shouts announced the coming Foes, 
 Bright o'er her Towers the Islam Banner rose 
 It rose Affonzo, but yon glittering Fane 7 , 
 The storied Fabric of thy blood-bought reign, 
 Reared by thy votive Hand, yet loves to tell 
 How, dimmed and pale, the evening Crescent fell. 
 And still can boast, in tracery quaint pourtrayed, 
 Furious and strange, thy desperate Escalade. 
 
 Nor be his praise o'erpast 3 , who, when from far 
 Invasion's tempest loured, and giant War 
 Wide o'er his native Plains it's thousands poured, 
 "When proud Castille raised high her venturous Sword, 
 And mad Ambition woke, and antique Feud 
 Bathed, once again, her launce in kindred blood,
 
 29 
 
 Shone at his People's head, and led the way, 
 Sovereign of Heroes, to the patriot fray. 
 
 But tedious 'twere, in sooth to number o'er 
 Each feat of forepast Worth, which now no more 
 Lives, but the vain hereditary Boast 
 Of Names long cherished, but of Fame long lost ; 
 Whose lingering praises, barely snatched from time, 
 Scarce swell the Legend's dull and heartless Rhyme, 
 Or now, alas ! in tattered remnants fall, 
 Old, and unheeded, round some Gothic Hall. 
 
 Yet, as my mind recalled the bright display 
 Of Greatness passed, of Ages rolled away, 
 As on my lips the theme of Glory hung, 
 And to each name some glowing record clung,
 
 30 
 
 Haply it seemed as though, with varied swell 
 
 Of mixed Regret and Joy, the accents fell. 
 
 As some far distant Music's dying Tone 
 
 In plaintive sweetness tells of Moments gone, 
 
 Of Joys that fled like Summer's balmy breeze, 
 
 But whose Remembrance yet can sadly please, 
 
 Or, now, whose wilder Note, whose bolder Sound, 
 
 Assumes a martial change, and though around 
 
 The fitful gale may sweep, yet all in vain 
 
 The Blast shall howl the Strain returns again ! 
 
 And You 9 who, 'mid your country's chosen choir, 
 Woke the rapt verse, and struck the quivering 
 
 wire, 
 Bard of Mondego's vale, for your sweet song 
 Oft' charmed his wave, as slow it crept along,
 
 SI 
 
 Flowed o'ef his silver bosom to the main, 
 And left, for wider range, your native plain, 
 Say, for these Scenes have oft, in other time, 
 Responsive hailed your patriot notes sublime, 
 To what high strain your echoing harp was strung, 
 What ardent Spirit prompted as you sung, 
 You were not mute, when Glory's ancient day 
 Inspired the Theme, and sanctified the Lay ; 
 When great Emmanuel IO , heaven-ordained to shine 
 The strength of Lusia and his kindred Line, 
 Sprang to the honours of her ancient Throne, 
 And left her veteran Fame yet brightened in his 
 own. 
 
 And now, in milder strain, the Memory rose 
 Of Inez", lovely in that soft repose
 
 32 
 
 Where calm Seclusion reared the tender flower 
 Of young affection in it's earliest hour, 
 Watched with a Parent's care it's bright encrease, 
 And trained it's infant bloom to Joy and Peace. 
 
 Why paused the witching Note ? Why hushed the 
 Strain 
 Of gentlest Love, untutored yet to Pain ? 
 Ah spare the dread reverse! nor let the cry 
 Of Murder break thy harp's soft melody- 
 Poor helpless Inez, what though vain for Thee 
 Kindred's fair tie, or Beauty's melting plea, 
 Though to thy gasping form thy Children prest 
 Ward not the Poniard from a Mother's breast, 
 And vainly round life's lingering glances stray, 
 To seek, in tears, thy Lover far away.
 
 Yet shall thy Couutry's Muse still fondly court 
 The classic shades that decked thy loved resort, 
 And fondly woo Mondego's murmuring wave 
 In solemn dirges o'er thy early grave. 
 
 Shame on the.sceptered Hand 13 , foredoomed to feel 
 How weak in murderous grasp the Warriour's steel, 
 O'er thy fell Minions, King, the viewless rod 
 Of Heaven's own Vengeance hangs 14 ; see, bathed in 
 
 blood, 
 Justice, severe though slow, pursues their doom, 
 To stamp her Sentence on their Victim's tomb. 
 
 But lo ! as scenes far different met the view, 
 To notes more strange the wonderous Descant flew, 
 
 E
 
 34 
 
 See, Lusia boasts her hardy Mountaineer ,$ , 
 
 The aspiring Champion of a new career; 
 
 Where realms unknown, beyond the Indian Main, 
 
 Spread wild and far an undiscovered reign, 
 
 Her dauntless Sailor hailed the vertic ray, 
 
 And, heaven-defended, steered his venturous May. 
 
 And He 16 , whose undent streamers, next to sweep 
 The pathless bosom of the Western Deep, 
 Closed the bright sequel of Columbo's fame, 
 And sealed the Barrier with Magellan's name, 
 He, while the enquiring eye shall shun to gaze, 
 Through the dim veil of half forgotten days, 
 At dark tradition's forms, shall proudly stand 
 Recorded Guardian of a new-born Land,
 
 35 
 
 And guide the Seaman's bold and toilsome round, 
 In chartered circle, o'er the vast profound.- 
 
 And scorn it were to Valour's cause, when now 
 The frown of Battle arms thy Country's brow, 
 Were He 17 , that Country's Pride, forgot, or Fame 
 Roused to less Zeal by Albuquerque's name, 
 Who, when the voice of loud Debate ran high, 
 And knit the front of angered Majesty, 
 When Tribute's claim to bold demand had grown, 
 And the stern Parle assumed a fiercer tone, 
 Cast to the Despot's scowl Defiance meet, 
 A Champion's Warder, to a Monarch's feet ! 
 
 Such Lusia were thy Glories, when, awhile, 
 Thy better Influence deigned on thee to smile;
 
 36 
 
 Yes, such thou wert, whilst Valour yet held sway, 
 And shone more bright through gallant Courtesy, 
 Whilst Thraldom yet was Shame, save that fail 
 
 band 
 Which Knighthood boasted from it's Lady's hand, 
 Or, prouder yet, which Patriot Ardour draws 
 To bind the Freeman to his Country's cause, 
 When the torn laurel of the fallen brave 
 Sprang in fresh verdure from it's Master's grave, 
 Such once thou wert, oh that the task had been 
 To fondly tarry with the smiling scene, 
 Swell to departed fame the votive song, 
 Exalt the Numbers, and the Sound prolong, 
 Give to the Minstrel's voice a Patriot's fire, 
 The Theme of Angels to a Mortal's Lvre
 
 37 
 
 But, ah ! the Muse must turn that eagle gaze 
 That loved to rest on Glory's sun-like blaze, 
 For ever mute her Harp's exulting Tone, 
 It's Strains forgotten, and it's Heroes gone ! 
 Quit each bright scene her youthful fancy knew 
 To pause in sadness o'er a dark review 18 . 
 
 And Thou, her darling Care, her early Boast, 
 Land of fall'n Virtue, and of Greatness lost, 
 Thou faded Hope of blooming Infancy, 
 Promise too dearly prized, she mourns for Thee ! 
 Mourns as she sees thy Sons, their Birthright now 
 No longer blazoned on each manly brow, 
 Doom to the glittering Stage, or feeble Rhyme, 
 Each loftier strain that graced thy martial time,
 
 38 
 
 To songs of high Emprize, and crimson War, 
 Time with a woman's hand the weak Guitar, 
 And, with a less than woman's ardour, raise 
 The glowing chaunt of Lusia's better days. 
 
 Poor, lost, degraded race, they linger yet 
 Prone to the chain, nor worth a bolder fate, 
 View their pale City tottering to it's fall, 
 Nor rouse to save, though Ruin sap the wall 15 . 
 
 And say, is Honour doomed to feebly shine, 
 The shattered Kelick of a noble Line i 
 Shall high Ambition but have lived to play 
 As the short splendour of the summer's day ? 
 The fiery Meteor of a troubled Sky 
 A\ hich, darting brilliant through Heaven's Canopy,
 
 39 
 
 Glows but to die, and, sport of every wind, 
 
 But parts, to leave a darker void behind ? 
 
 Shall the poor Tenant of paternal Right, 
 
 Dull Heir to all that graced the Hero's might, 
 
 Live but the Phantom of a glorious Name, 
 
 To prove a nobler, by a weaker, frame ? 
 
 E'en now, thy peasant train, their Country's Boast, 
 
 Champions of all their dastard Lords had lost, 
 
 Sons of the Earth, it's bulwark, and it's pride, 
 
 Pour to the Frontier War a swelling tide, 
 
 Thy boldest, stoutest, share the sacred toil, 
 
 Or press, in beauteous Death, a parent Soil. 
 
 Once more arise ! Go cheer thy youthful Blood 
 To feats of Strength, and manly Hardihood,
 
 40 
 
 The Morn of Glory wakes ! In ruddier dyes 
 
 Ne'er did thy hopes behold the Dayspring rise, 
 
 Cast to it's purer beam thy Film away, 
 
 Burst into Light and Life, and hail the rising Day ! 
 
 So shall a Noon of fairer promise wait 
 
 To gild thy course, and Freedom's dubious fate ; 
 
 By native hands shall bloom a deathless Crown, 
 
 The proud Memorial of a new Renown, 
 
 But, if to perish, thou shalt perish free, 
 
 And Valour, Justice, Europe, fall with thee! 
 
 Yes, thou shalt yet arise ! I mark the Ray 
 Of the first Star that cheered thy early day, 
 Pale, yet unquenched, again it's fires shall burn, 
 Unveiled by Clouds, and blighter in return
 
 41. 
 
 Yes, thou shalt yet assert thy ancient Fame, 
 
 Raised from the Dust, and purified by Flame, 
 
 Start from thy Tomb at fainting Europe's Cry, 
 
 Uprear thy Phoenix Form, the Child of Liberty ! 
 
 Yes, glorious relick of forgotten worth, 
 
 I trace thee yet, I hail thy second birth, 
 
 Throned on the Estrella's height, I see thy Form 
 
 Fan with it's seraph wings the rising storm, 
 
 Inspire thy Sons to hope a brighter day, 
 
 Raise high it's clarion Voice, and wake them to the Fray ! 
 
 Oli had some Warriour Spirit, when the blade 
 Of struggling Freedom sued thy kindred aid, 
 When Spain, and Valour, on yon neighbouring Strand, 
 Raised to one glorious blow each Patriot Hand,
 
 4 '2 
 
 When Albion joyed to fan the inspiring flame, 
 
 And own Her Cause, and Liberty's, the same ! 
 
 Oh had some Spirit whispered, " Now the hour 
 
 " Of brightest Daring ; for the buxom flower 
 
 " Of high-born Enterprize has bowed, to fade 
 
 " Beneath the Gallic Laurel's noxious shade, 
 
 " Soiled is thy trophied Coat, thy fair Renown 
 
 " Gone, to enwreathe a Victor's blood-stained Crown, 
 
 " And, trod to earth, and patient of decay, 
 
 " Thy hoar head bowed to Trance's despot sway!" 
 
 Yet, yet unsheathe, once more, thy veteran Blade, 
 Scorn the mute quiet of thy poplar Shade, 
 Again repair thy lately tarnished Crest, 
 Arm in fair Freedom's Cause thy warriour Breast,
 
 Bend to yon eastern hills thine Eagle Eye, 
 
 And light once more the Spark of Lusian Chivalry !- 
 
 END OF PART I.
 
 PORTUGAL. 
 
 Part II.
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND PART. 
 
 Apostrophe. Allusion to the popular belief relative to the 
 re-appearance of King Sebastian. Transition to the im- 
 mediate Theatre of Warfare. Busaco. The Action. 
 Evening, and Night after the Action, described. Reflec- 
 tions which arise, on viewing the field of battle by moon- 
 light. Thoughts suggested by seeing the dead body of a 
 French Officer. Allusion to the fate of a brave and la- 
 mented friend, and Address to his Memory. After hav- 
 ing indulged the train of thoughts to which the view of the 
 country around Cintra had originally given rise, I turn to 
 the Ocean. England. The feelings of Joy, occasioned 
 by the recollection of our Native country, and the pride 
 with which we contemplate her present gallant struggle in 
 the cause of Europe, perhaps a little damped by reflecting 
 upon the scenes of misery which inevitably accompany 
 war wherever it is 1'ound, as well as upon the severe and 
 irretrievable loss of valuable lives she has herself sustained 
 in it's prosecution. The calamities of war not confined to 
 the field of Battle. Allusion to the sufferings of a fugitive 
 Portugueze family. To the state of desolation into which 
 we see almost all the surrounding nations of Europe 
 plunged. Invocation to Peace. When obtained with Ho- 
 nour, the firmest pledge of National Security, and the sole 
 end of Military Exertion. Conclusion of the Poem.
 
 PORTUGAL. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Av^uTy yt o crxproywv fj.h l<rr(V, Uy.r, a.hx,a7vro t 
 
 ToX/ufc 7rXjv c-i/f^rjrai. Corinthian Speech. Thucyd. Book I. 
 
 u How lovely is the Patriot Soldier's Death! 
 
 " Warm are the grateful Sighs that o'er him breathe, 
 
 " And beauteous every Scar his bosom bears, 
 
 " VV r lien washed and hallowed, by his Country's tears." 
 
 Thus roused her favourite Warriour to the Strife 
 The Spartan Mother, or the Parthian Wife, 
 Thus to her children Lusia speaks, the stain 
 Of her best Blood yet freshens on the plain ;
 
 48 
 
 She points each sacred Wound ; " With you," she 
 
 cries, 
 " With you, my Sons, my Fate, my Vengeance, lies, 
 " Live for that cause alone, with it to fall ;" 
 A bleeding Mother's is an holy Call! 
 
 Nor let that Call be vain ; e'en now on high 
 Your brave forefathers sit, in viewless Panoply, 
 And, if immortal Powers yet blend above 
 The Seraph's Influence, with the Patriot's Love, 
 Bend from their Thrones of everlasting light, 
 To watch with anxious Hope their native Fight. 
 
 And who is He 1 , who from the wide expanse 
 Of unseen distance moves ? in proud advance,
 
 49 
 
 A giant Form, he comes! his Forehead wears 
 
 The snowy ringlets of departed years, 
 
 Her Regal Ermine o'er his Shoulders spread, 
 
 The Crown of Lusia decks his radiant Head. 
 
 Your own Sebastian, from the realms afar 
 
 Of highest Heaven, hath heard the sounds of 
 
 War, 
 Indignant heard ! hath burst the tedious band 
 That stayed his footsteps from his native land, 
 His mighty Mandate once again unfurled, 
 He wakes ! the avenger of a prostrate World ! 
 He moves companionless, no mortal force 
 Can 'bide the swiftness of the Hero's course, 
 Alone, exulting in his matchless Power, 
 The radiant virion of a uoontide hour ;
 
 50 
 
 Death in his right hand sits, but the mild glow 
 Of Hope and Conquest light his kindling brow. 
 
 Hail aweful Being ! as the Rainbow, cast 
 O'er Heaven's vast concave, tells, the Storm is past, 
 We hail thy coming ! from the rising Sun 
 Whether sublime thy seraph flight begun, 
 Whether, from Ocean borne, thy shadowy train 
 Swept the broad bosom of the western main. 
 
 And now, behold, on Tejo's bounding tide, 
 Buoyant, and brave, his miik white Courser's pride, 
 Foams the light wave beneath the unearthly tread 
 That stamps the Bosom of his sparkling Bed, 
 Unbent beneath the Form, his native Stream 
 Darts back with joy his Armour's iron gleam,
 
 51 
 
 The curling surges round their Master play, 
 
 And kiss his footsteps with the rising spray 
 
 He comes, he conies, thy Chief! with courage 
 
 high, 
 And new-raised spark of unquenched Energy, 
 The warriour Spirit see his Country claim, 
 Herald, and Pledge, of her reviving Fame ! 
 
 And in that cloistered gloom 2 , that shadowy dell, 
 Where faintly peals the Vesper's distant swell, 
 Where calm Devotion tends her ceaseless care, 
 'Mid the lone haunts of Solitude and Prayer, 
 Thy Chieftain's voice was heard ! as the loud blast 
 Of Battle's trumpet-call, his accents past, 
 Hose with the startled Breeze, and bade around 
 Each hallowed grove prolong the unwonted sound !
 
 ,52 
 
 Each frowning rock by holy footsteps worn, 
 And chapel-cave, the warning notes return, 
 Whilst Echo, wakening on the mountain's breast, 
 With hundred tongues proclaims the high Behest ; 
 Affrighted Penance from her Caverns fled, 
 Her Lash forgotten, and her Rites unpaid, 
 Religion hushed her chaunt, and to her cell 
 Turned a last lingering glance, and sighed, Farewell ! 
 
 Beats there the heart, which ne'er hath owned that 
 Flame 
 Which kindles brightest at the voice of Fame? 
 The soul which ne'er hath felt a genial ray 
 Glow to the Drum's long Roll, or Trumpet's Bray, 
 Start at the Bugle's distant blast, and hail 
 It's buxom greetings on the morning gale ?
 
 53 
 
 Such the Muse courts not ; but to him whose ear 
 Loves the fierce Joy her quivering war-notes bear 
 She lifts the inspiring strain, with him to join 
 In fiery haste the fancied battle-line, 
 And, whilst her wilder note returns, to chide 
 His sluggish pulse'e slow and peaceful tide, 
 (As the long-harboured Bark, who, wont to lave 
 Her stately bosom in the bounding wave, 
 Bursts once again the Shipwright's tedious stay, 
 To breast the surge, and cleave the watery way,) 
 Springs at the sound his Soldier Spirit high, 
 To list the tone of martial Minstrelsy ! 
 
 And You, whose anxious sigh has learned to heave 
 At some fond thought, which yet 'tis pain to leave,
 
 ,54 
 
 Down whose fair cheeks the warmest tears that 
 
 steal 
 Scarce mourn those softer cares you love to feel, 
 Daughters of Albion ! should your milder mood 
 Pause at the tale of conquest and of blood, 
 Shun not the venturous song, tho' fierce it tell 
 How the fight thickened and what thousands fell, 
 How, closed around, each dark battalion met 
 The native force of England's Bayonet, 
 How distant flamed her Lightning's volleying glow, 
 And fainting Gallia sunk beneath the blow. 
 For sure some nobler influence than the power 
 Which waits on Beauty in her Myrtle bower, 
 Which gilds her smile and woos the enamoured air 
 To fan with gentlest breath her auburn hair,
 
 55 
 
 Bids you exult, when those you loved have won 
 That fame perchance your Image first begun, 
 And Britain's youth from you demand the Crown, 
 Pledge of their Country's worth, and guerdon of their 
 
 own. 
 Sweet is that Country's praise, and yet a part 
 Of the pure flame that fires the soldier's heart, 
 Unshamed may own the spark from whence it grew, 
 And boast it's bright original in You. 
 
 The morning rose in clouds, the orient light 
 Shed a dim lustre on Alcoba's height, 
 The gleam of arms just marked it's topmost pride, 
 And scudding mists Hew swiftly o'er its side, 
 The unwilling Sun from out Ins heathy bed 
 In tearful moisture raised his shaded head,
 
 66 
 
 Paused in his giant course, then, bending slow, 
 Gazed on the embattled throng that moved below, 
 Sought with dark blush the empyrean's breast, 
 And veiled in purer air his conscious crest ; 
 
 I said not that the glorious orb of Heaven, 
 In prophet sufferance from the Zenith driven, 
 Shrunk from the terrors of the coming fray, 
 And woke reluctantly the lingering Day, 
 But that, to Fancy's eye, he well might seem 
 To shroud with kindred gloom his morning beam, 
 Turn, sadly turn, from sight of human woe, 
 And view fair Nature's face with lessened glow, 
 Shun the stern Heralds of the Fight, and fly, 
 Nor witness all her parent agony!
 
 57 
 
 Marked you yon moving Mass, the dark array 
 Of yon deep column wind it's sullen way ? 
 Low o'er it's barded brow, the plumed boast, 
 Glittering, and gay, of France's vayward host, 
 With gallant bearing wings it's venturous flight, 
 Cowers o'er it's kindred bands, and waves them to the 
 Fight. 
 
 No martial shout is there ; in silence dread, 
 Save the dull cadence of the Soldier's tread, 
 Or where the measured beat of distant drum 
 Tells forth their slow advance, they come ! the\ 
 come ! 
 
 The Wolf steals trembling from the mountain glade, 
 The fleet Stag bounds from out his covert shade,
 
 58 
 
 The rock bird, startled from his nest on high, 
 Bends to the unwonted storm a wondering eye, 
 And, wildl} screaming, from the dark affray, 
 Swift rising, heavenward wheels his aery way. 
 
 And who are they, who burst the wizard spell 
 Of Nature, shrined within her peaceful dell, 
 Rouse the dread slumber of the War, and threat 
 The fcederate Sisters on their mountain seat ? 
 Is this the host of vengeance 3 ? this the power 
 That ruled in blood o'er Russia's darkest hour, 
 That tamed proud Austria's Eagle to the toil, 
 And called her death-bought pledge a Victor's spoil, 
 That strewed her fields with kindred slain, and 
 
 shred 
 Her veteran garland for a Stranger's head ?
 
 59 
 
 Are these the Bands who, from the wave afar 
 
 Of crimsoned Ebro led the waste of war, 
 
 To court with luckless boast the hour of Fight, 
 
 And brave the Giant to his castle's might? 
 
 Where is their matchless Sword? the Trumpet where, 
 
 That spake the rally in their kindling ear, 
 
 When bleeding Prussia bent beneath their sway, 
 
 And wide o'er Jena's 4 plains her ruins lay ? 
 
 Their victor course is run ! for see, above, 
 
 As bursts the British Lion from his Grove, 
 
 Lusia's young offspring quits its neighbouring lair, 
 
 Child of his hopes, and nursling of his care, 
 
 And hails, with kindred zeal, the coming day, 
 
 To flesh it's infant fangs, and claim a welcome prey.
 
 60 
 
 Their silent march approaches ! Now, if e'er 
 Your Homes, your Country, or your Fame, were dear, 
 Ere yet the combat closes, let the thought 
 Of each fond tie, by bold affection wrought, 
 Rise lovelier yet in Memory, let it start 
 With tenfold warmth to kindle round your heart, 
 Stout be your arm of Thunder, for it draws 
 It's filial strength from Nature's sacred cause, 
 Yours is no hireling hand, no feeble blade 
 Reluctant lends it's mercenary aid, 
 Then, as the assei tors of your Fathers' right, 
 Heirs to their worth, and champions in their tight, 
 Sweep like the mountain torrent on the foe, 
 Tis Justice arms, and Britain guides, the blow !
 
 ei 
 
 The fight's begun ; in momentary blaze 
 Bright o'er the hills the volleying lightning plays, 
 Bursts the loud Shell, the death-shots hiss around, 
 And the hoarse cannon adds it's heavier sound, 
 Till wide the srathering clouds that rise between 
 Clothe in a thicker gloom the madd'ning scene ; 
 And, as the billow's wild and angry crest, 
 That swells in foam o'er Ocean's lurid breast, 
 Through each dark Line the curling volumes spread, 
 And hang their white wreathes o'er the Column's 
 head. 
 
 But mark, as onward swept the northern blast, 
 In opening folds the eddying circles pass'd, 
 The deaf 'ning guns are hushed ; but, from afar, 
 As slow the gale uplifts the shroud of war,
 
 62 
 
 Half veiled in Smoke, half glimmering on the sight, 
 What bristling Line expands it's wings of Light ? 
 It lengthens as it moves, thus the pale ray 
 Scowers o'er the Steep, when tempests pass away. 
 Death hovers o'er it's path, Yes, Britain, here, 
 Here was thine inborn might ! hark, the loud cheer 
 Bursts from thy thousand voices to the race, 
 The ranks of Battle melt before thy face ! 
 
 They join ! The shout has ceased ! as when the 
 breeze 
 Of Winter sweeps along the leafless trees, 
 When the loud storm is up, and, waving slow, 
 The stately forest bends before the blow, 
 Wide shrinks the adverse host, with rustling moan, 
 Heard distant, speeds the gathering havoc on.
 
 63 
 
 Yes France thou fali'st! vain was that rallying Cry, 
 That desperate charge of choicest Chivalry, 
 From flank to flank thy loud Artillery ran, 
 Thy boldest chieftains seek the yielding van, 
 In vain ! for, as the sands by whirlwinds driven 
 Fly, tost, and scattered 5 , through the face of Heaven, 
 Thy mangled Front gives way, whilst headlong fear, 
 And swift pursuit, hang wildly on thy Rear. 
 On, England, on ! Thou, Caledonia, raise, 
 'Midst Lusia's wilds, thy Shout of other days, 
 'Till grim x\lcoba catch thy slogan roar, 
 And trembling glisten to thy blue claymore. 
 
 And shall not Erin 6 bless the spot, where flew 
 Fierce to the rocky charge her gallant few ?
 
 64 
 
 Potlred from the Battle's right her reckless power ? - 
 The pause of Fortune was her happiest hour ! 
 
 Yes, whilst thy green Isle yet shall fondly own, 
 In bond of worth, a kindred Chief's renown, 
 Whilst yet thy grateful hands shall wreathe the sword 
 That graced so oft thy native Beresford, 
 Still shall thy soldier, Erin, join the Fame 
 That band has won to it's commander's name, 
 Bid them iu union bloom, together stand 
 The strength and lustre of their parent land, 
 And, when his limbs are old, his tresses grey, 
 In proud remembrance to his children say, 
 Ours was the arm that snatched the Laurel of that 
 Day.
 
 65 
 
 Genius of Britain ! did thy warriour fonn 
 On wing of lightning ride the mountain storm, 
 Speak to thy sons in thunder, bid them shew 
 Their bright extraction in each well nerved blow, 
 With thine own strength each kindred arm endow, 
 And sail, the Monarch of the battle's brow ? 
 What though, all viewless still, thy presence shed 
 It's noblest influence o'er thy children's head, 
 High on each kindling cheek thy ardour glowed, 
 'Twas proud, 'twas genuine, for 'twas English Blood !- 
 
 Nor blame the votive Muse, if, in the praise 
 Which grateful Europe to her Champion pays, 
 Which Fortune joys with flattering smile to breathe, 
 And Worth to sanction, on her Wellesley's wreath, 
 
 G
 
 66 
 
 She check the strain which single Merit draws, 
 To swell the publick measure of applause ; 
 For whilst the Trump of War, in descant high, 
 But lengthens out the strain of Victory, 
 Whilst yet the inspiring note is heard around, 
 And Time itself, but animates the sound, 
 Vain were her weaker voice ; the loud acclaim 
 Of those his arm has saved shall speak his Fame, 
 His Country's love that fair renown shall guard, 
 The Pride of Memory be his best reward. 
 
 The storm of Fight is hushed ; the mingled roar 
 Of charging Squadrons swells the blast no more; 
 Gone are the bands of France, the crested pride 
 Of War, which lately clothed the mountain's side,
 
 67 
 
 Gone, as the winter cloud which tempests bear 
 In broken shadows through the waste of Air ; 
 Sunk is her plumed head, her shout is still, 
 And mute her war-drum on the slumbering hill. 
 The noontide Breeze that swept the peopled heath 
 Had borne the shouts of thousands on its breath, 
 The noontide Sun had seen the ardent fight 
 Dart back it's lustre with redoubled light ; 
 Now, sad and silent flits the evening blast, 
 And the low suu beam gilds a desert Waste ! 
 
 'Tis Night ; and, glittering o'er the trampled 
 heath, 
 Pale gleams the moonlight on the field of Death, 
 Lights up each well-known spot, where, late, in blood, 
 The vanquished yielded, and the victor stood,
 
 08 
 
 When red in clouds the sun of battle rode, 
 
 And poured on Britain's front it's favouring flood. 
 
 Shun not that ghastly form ! though, breathless 
 now, 
 Naked, and stretched upon the mountain's brow, 
 His mangled limbs, and blood-stained features tell 
 How, bowed by Britain's wrath, the mighty fell ; 
 Shun not that ghastly form ! in courage high 
 And dauntless throb of ardent chivalry, 
 With heart as bold, with step as firm and free, 
 He trod, of late, the dangerous path with thee ! 
 Fired with an equal joy, he marked the gleam 
 Of France's Eagles kiss the morning beam, 
 Fought for her fair renown, to battle led, 
 And proudly perished, at her Legion's head !
 
 69 
 
 He too, like thee had friends, a Father poured 
 A last sad blessing on his youthful sword, 
 Prayed for his distant safety, heard with joy 
 The martial darings of his gallant boy, 
 Winged with an ardent hope each anxious sigh, 
 And viewed his dangers with a veteran's eye. 
 
 E'en now, on bleak Helvetia's icy rock, 
 Or bloomy hill of vine-clad Languedoc, 
 E'en now, perhaps, through midnight's chilly skies 
 To Heaven the reekless prayer of fondness flies, 
 The warmest hopes that e'er Affection wove, 
 The sigh of Friendship, or the throb of Love ; 
 For sure the stoutest breast may sometimes lend 
 One blameless sigh to grace an absent friend,
 
 70 
 
 The World may.yield to calm regret a part 
 Of the bright sunshine of a Female Heart, 
 On cheek of Age one tear-drop yet may burn, 
 When the Soul ponders on a Child's return ! 
 
 Then sacred be their last repose who fall 
 Bravely and greatly at their Duty's call, 
 Mix with their Country's cries their parting Breath, 
 And from her Vanguard face her foes in Death ! 
 
 I too have known the hour when Friendship'* 
 tear 
 Has dewed, from British eyes, a comrade's Bier 
 When the rough soldier o'er the lowly cell 
 Of fallen courage breathed a last farewell,
 
 71 
 
 Payed the last mournful honours to the brave, 
 And left, with heavy heart, the new closed grave. 
 
 Yes, Talbot, I have known that hour 7 , and yet, 
 As memory loves to court her fond regret, 
 O'er the warm cheek a glow of honest pride 
 Rises, to stay the tear-drop's bursting tide, 
 Checks the soft yielding tribute ere it strays, 
 And the soul's grief half brightens into praise 
 
 Oh had he fallen, when the doubtful ray 
 Of conquest paused o'er Britain's brighter day, 
 Then had his arm no scanty laurels won, 
 The Fight, the Conquest, as the Death, his own ! 
 France then had mourned the proud memorial torn. 
 Fresh from her wreathe, to deck his youthful urn,
 
 72 
 
 Had trembling marked his Eye's last fervid glow, 
 And bowed her Eagles to his dying Blow. 
 Twined by no sparing hand the glittering prize 
 Had graced his brows, and cheered his closing eyes, 
 And the best feelings which on Friendship wait 
 Had smiled, not sorrowed, at so bright a Fate ! 
 
 Yet on that sacred spot, where yonder sod 
 Greets with a brighter green the Soldier's blood, 
 Shall the still freshening Earth, in traces wild, 
 W rite on her breast where died her gallant Child, 
 Weep in soft night-dews o'er his honoured head, 
 And deck with sweeter flowers his narrow bed. 
 Though nor the sculptured urn nor breathing Bust 
 Crown with their ponderous pomp our soldier's 
 dust,
 
 73 
 
 Though o'er him wild and free the bleak winds rave, 
 And humblest Nature brood o'er Valour's grave, 
 Yet rests he not unmarked ; that searching Eye 
 Which rules o'er Space, and scans Eternity, 
 Which views, unseen, the wayward fate of Man, 
 Marks the dread struggle in the Battle's Van, 
 Rests on fair Valour's crest in peril's day, 
 And gilds her lowering front with brightest ray, 
 Which can it's aid in viewless strength supply, 
 Point through the bloody fray, and lead to Victory,- 
 That Eye can pierce the mountain's deepest gloom, 
 With parent Influence watch his grass-green tomb, 
 And call with smiles to Honour's last abode, 
 Joy, and repose, the bosom of his God!
 
 74 
 
 But see, the sun has set, and o'er the deep 
 In purple streaks the day's last blushes sweep ; 
 From yonder aery ridge, cloud-capt, and rude, 
 Which westward bends it's trackless solitude, 
 Still, still, to England turns my musing mind, 
 Ponders each favourite scene it left behind, 
 Sighs for those distant haunts, where once it roved, 
 Endeared from Childhood, and in Youth beloved, 
 Welcomes each home-fraught gale from thee that 
 
 blows, 
 And hails thy west'ring blush at Evening's close. 
 
 England ! my Country ! generous, great, and 
 brave, 
 Though far between us yon Atlantic wave
 
 75 
 
 Stretches his giant arm, at evening still, 
 
 As slow my footsteps climb yon heath-clad hill, 
 
 High on it's beetling top, I'll bless the smile 
 
 Of the last beam that gilds my native Isle, 
 
 Murmur thy praises to a foreign air, 
 
 And breathe for Britain still a Briton's latest prayer !- 
 
 And, as my soul's last prayer to England turned, 
 As sighed Remembrance, or as Fancy burned, 
 As my lone steps in peaceful silence strayed 
 'Midst the cool fragrance of the Orange shade. 
 Say, -did my Spirit cease to brood on times 
 Of forepast joyaunce in thy distant climes, 
 Trace thee in fancy o'er the waveless seas, 
 Catch thy faint accents in the whispering breeze,
 
 76 
 
 And teach my eyes, whilst o'er the expanse they 
 
 roam, 
 To paint it, Albion, like thyself, and think it Home ! 
 
 And, by that Spark which patriot feelings rear, 
 Sacred to Virtue, and to Memory dear, 
 Which calls each nobler passion into play, 
 And warms the dawn of Genius into day, 
 Points through fair Valour's paths to Fame and 
 
 Joy, 
 And forms the Hero, whilst it fires the Boy ; 
 By all those Scenes which childish ardour drew, 
 Still still the liveliest, when the most untrue, 
 Call it not false, when Faery fingers shed 
 Their twilight visions o'er the wanderer's head,
 
 77 
 
 And Feeling wakes to Memory's pensive eye 
 The living image of each kindred Tie, 
 Call it not false ! for cannot Fancy pour 
 The treasured Joys that guiled our earliest hour ? 
 Trace to it's source again Life's varying stream, 
 Now darkly rolled, now glittering in the Beam, 
 And bid it's tints, from distance yet more sweet, 
 Blend all their charms, and brighten as they meet. 
 
 And what's the thought of Absence ? 'Tis a light 
 That shines the clearest through the gloomiest night, 
 That bursts from scenes, which with the Sunbeam 
 
 flew, 
 And in the dim horizon pictures new, 
 Gives but the cheering gleam without alloy, 
 And lends to Memory all the smile of Joy.
 
 78 
 
 Thus, when, from Summer's sunbright radiance led, 
 We pierce the blackness of some Cavern's shade, 
 Still round our Eyeballs moves, in circling maze, 
 The fiery Phantom of the Zenith's blaze, 
 Bright through the gloom the beams of noontide play, 
 And gild the darkness with redoubled ray. 
 
 Albion ! my Mother ! what though reared foi 
 Thee 
 No fruitage loads the wildly blooming tree, 
 Though Nature's hand for Thee refuse to twine 
 The purple richness of the clustering Vine, 
 Though paler Azure paint the brow of day, 
 And Phcebus court Thee with diminished ray, 
 Yet sweet, to minds that once have learned to roam, 
 The rougher welcome of a native home.
 
 79 
 
 The blanched cliffs that fence thy sacred shore, 
 
 And mock the rudeness of the Ocean's roar, 
 
 Or, homelier yet, the village distant chimes, 
 
 The breeze, that wafts the chaunt of other times, 
 
 The ploughman's song that swells from upland lea, 
 
 Nay ; e'en the blast that shakes his favourite Tree, 
 
 To the returning wanderer seem to say, 
 
 " Here shall thy wearied footsteps learn to stay; 
 
 " Thy Country greets thee ! Thou hast heard the cry, 
 
 " On yonder distant shores, of Europe's agony, 
 
 " Hast marked the tears from foreign cheeks that 
 
 " flow, 
 " And, haply, learned to feel for other's woe ; 
 " Thy Country greets thee! Bless her happier lot ; 
 ' The Scenes thou long hast left, but not forgot,
 
 80 
 
 u Once more renewed, thy toil-worn heart shall cheer, 
 " My Child, my long lost Child, thou art welcome 
 "here!" 
 
 Yes, I will hail Thee, though the billow's roar 
 May drown the voice that flies to Albion's shore, 
 Though foreign breezes catch the filial sigh, 
 And Echo startle at the unwont reply, 
 Yet I will hail Thee, loveliest, bravest, best, 
 Cradle of Worth, of Liberty and Rest, 
 Firm, 'midst the wreck of Realms to ruin hurled, 
 And last, stout, bulwark to a tottering World! 
 
 Still, whilst I think on all those dearer ties 
 Which prompt the dreams of youthful Enterprize,
 
 81 
 
 Which streighten Absence, and, at each remove, 
 Bind thee yet closer to thy Children's love, 
 One gloomier feeling may a shade impart 
 To chill the spark that warmed a patriot heart. 
 
 Yes, much loved land, though long with Syren 
 smile 
 Hath Conquest lightened on thy gallant Isle, 
 Though Nature formed Thee lion-ported, bold, 
 And stamped thy features in her happiest mould, 
 Though one half Kurope dread thy warriour fame, 
 Or start, to join thy triumph's loud acclaim, 
 Though parent Ocean with affection wild 
 Clasp to her heaving breast her favourite child, 
 I see thee faint, thy rich, thy generous, blood 
 Pours from thy thousaud veins it's crimson flood, 
 
 H
 
 82 
 
 Weighed to the Earth, by countless foes opprest, 
 
 The iron dint has entered to thy breast, 
 
 In fatal pomp thy gory Ensigns wave, 
 
 And Europe's shores are but thy Soldier's grave! 
 
 For manly Courage mourn, untimely lost, 
 Still oftenest lavished, when 'tis needed most, 
 For glowing Enterprize too rashly tried, 
 The costly victims of a Nation's pride, 
 Trace on fair Nature's face each deadly scar, 
 The sad memorial of her children's war, 
 And, (as the harp of Memnon, which, of old, 
 Struck to the rising Sun it's war-notes bold, 
 To hail his fierce advance, yet, when the beam 
 Flung o'er the western sands it's level stream,
 
 83 
 
 Swept o'er its mystic chords a softer swell, 
 To charm the lingering Evening ere it fell,) 
 So let thy better Genius bid Thee cease 
 Thy shout of Victory in the song of Peace, 
 Court her in Fortune's hour, ere yet 'tis past, 
 Yes, 'tis thy firmest Hope, for 'tis thy last ! 
 
 True that, as yet, thy soil hath scorned to own 
 Invasion's footsteps on thy sea-girt Throne, 
 Or, did it mark where erst the Invader stood, 
 Hath shewn his backward traces stampt in blood, 
 True that the midnight Angel 8 , as he trod 
 The viewless winds, and raised the sword of God, 
 (Fierce as when Egypt wept the avenging hour, 
 And bowed her thousauds to a mightier power,)
 
 84 
 
 Hath pass'd thee in the march of Nations o'er, 
 And sealed his promise on thy rocky Shore : 
 Yet, oh forgive, my Country, though a tear 
 Fall e'en in sorrow o'er the wreathe you wear, 
 Forgive, though, kindling at your children's doom, 
 Perchance it trickle to a Stranger's tomb. 
 
 Nay, whilst I speak, what means yon murky Light 
 That gilds with trembling ray the brow of night ? 
 'Tis broader, ruddier, than the watchfire's glow, 
 And dims the moonbeam on the wastes below, 
 Now redder yet it glares, and, blazing high, 
 Mocks with it's gloomy flame the desert scenery. 
 Misery, thy reign is here ! and though the war, 
 From Calpe's steep to Douro's distant shore.
 
 85 
 
 Is hushed to rest, though stilled her thundering tread, 
 And stretched her squadrons on their heath-laid bed, 
 Yet here her wakeful steps in silence sweep 
 The trackless mazes of the midnight steep, 
 Wander, unseen, unheard, save as yon gleam 
 Pours from some burning cot it's lengthened stream, 
 Or as, by fits, some houseless victim's groan 
 Swells o'er the waste, and marks it for her own. 
 
 The Wolf may wake, unheard, his evening cry, 
 Or Eaglet his wild Mountain lullaby, 
 The dewy Moon a thankless vigil keep, 
 And Care, and Hunger's self, may sink to sleep, 
 But Misery's tear shall ne'er unheeded speak 
 Her tale of sorrow on yon wanderer's cheek,
 
 86 
 
 He shall not tend, unmarked, his drooping child, 
 
 Forced from a home, yet shrinking from the wild, 
 
 Nor, from the Estrella's tops, a wayworn guest, 
 
 Crave a last shelter on her rocky breast. 
 
 Ah no ! that pitying Power, whose vast controul 
 
 Spans the wide course of Ages as they roll, 
 
 Rules o'er the Peasant's fate, with anxious care 
 
 Shall list' the wretch's cry, the exile's prayer ; 
 
 And though the despot quit his blood-reared Throne, 
 
 To toil afar for Kingdoms not his own, 
 
 And though his Arm be strong, though trained in 
 
 Fight, 
 Feared for his Crimes, and courted in his Might, 
 Shall teach the stern oppressor yet to feel 
 The sacred terrors of a Freeman's steel.
 
 87 
 
 But Thou, poor widowed Albion, when the brand 
 Of War shall fail within thy wearied hand, 
 Last of thy lineage ! who shall succour Thee, 
 When fainting in thy worst Extremity? 
 
 Ask every Wind of heaven, on sightless wings 
 That scowers the trackless waste, what sound it brings- 
 Say, comes it from the North ? the suffering wail 
 Of war-worn nations loads the mournful gale; 
 The sickly tone of Russia's fainting sigh, 
 Of Prussia's fall, of Austria's infamy, 
 The captive plaint of Sweden's humbled shore, 
 Or helpless cry of injured Elsineur. 
 Say, comes it from the East ? a louder strain 
 Hangs on it's flight, and sweeps the answering main:
 
 88 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the shout of Battle's on it's breath, 
 And every fitful blast is charged with Death ! 
 
 Methinks, as now, in fancy's dreams, I tread 
 O'er the still ashes of thy Warriours dead, 
 Methinks I hear their thousand voices cry, 
 " Where is the visioned Fame which bade us die ? 
 " Where is the cheering Spark that can illume 
 " The dull cold silence of our early tomb ? 
 " Where, but in History's page, which, whilst it pays 
 " It's tearful homage to departed days, 
 " May ask perchance, when closed the dire dispute, 
 " And glory's trumpet, with her champions, mute, 
 " When years have dimmed her shine, what boots it now 
 " The barren wreathe that decked our Country's brow ?
 
 89 
 
 " The short lived beam of Fortune's harlot smile, 
 " Triumph's swol'n Tide, which, yet a little while, 
 " Swept on its course ; but ah, reduced once more, 
 " Left but a channell'd track, a desolated shore !" 
 
 Far other, England, be thy hopes, whose Form, 
 Like thine own Oak, ne'er trembled in the Storm ; 
 Locked in it's native earth, it long has stood, 
 The pride, the strength, the Monarch, of the wood, 
 But, like it, let thy lusty branches spread 
 In closest union round thy parent head. 
 Then let the gale sweep on ! Thou shalt remain, 
 The fence and guardian of the subject plain. 
 But, if indeed thou falPst, and England's Age 
 Must close at length her bright, her matchless, page,
 
 90 
 
 Let her day set in Honour, as it rose, 
 And hymning Angels sing her to repose. 
 Her sons shall grasp the standard of her fame, 
 And charge their latest sigh with England's name ; 
 Speak her stern sorrows in the Trumpet's breath, 
 Weep in her foemen's blood her hour of Death, 
 Hail her last triumph in War's mingled cries, 
 And in it's thunders roar her Obsequies 9 ! 
 
 Yet oh, to gild once more her wintry state, 
 To crown her toils, and point a happier Fate, 
 Sabbath of calm Repose, by Mercy sought, 
 By Justice sanctioned, and in glory bought, 
 Come blessed Peace ! Yes, as the genial powei 
 Unseen sheds verdure in the Summer's shower,
 
 91 
 
 As the light breeze, in which young Nature's birth 
 Wafts, viewless still, it's offspring to the earth, 
 Oh thou shalt yet return, and with thee bring 
 Life in thy path, and gladness on thy wing. 
 
 Britain be bold, be fearless ; never slow 
 In Freedom's cause, when Freedom's on the blow : ; 
 So shall her heaven-sent presence, awful still, 
 Sit, as the Warder, on thy watchtower hill, 
 Calm in her might ; and thou, whate'er abide, 
 Rouse at her call, and combat by her side, 
 'Till venged by Thee, by grateful Europe blessed, 
 She smooth her frown, and sanctify thy Rest.
 
 92 
 
 Let others toil for Fame, thy veteran Ray 
 Beams yet undimmed, nor knows, nor fears, decay, 
 Virtue thy cause, thy birthright Liberty, 
 Fight England but for life, and live but to be free ! 
 
 END OF THE POEM.
 
 N T E S.
 
 PART I. 
 
 Page 12. " What to his crimes was raised and what 
 to God." 
 
 It is certainly not a little remarkable that, if we refer 
 to the Origin of the great Monastick Establishments 
 throughout the Peninsula, we may, almost universally, 
 trace their foundation and endowment to some act of 
 rapacious violence, or to some scene of horrid blood- 
 shed ; either to the pursuance of a Vow made in anti- 
 cipation of the event of some sanguinary battle, or to 
 the hope of averting the vengeance of the Almighty 
 from visiting the perpetration of some barbarous In- 
 justice. The Monasteries, for instance, of Alcoba^a 
 and of Battalha, in the interior of Portugal, owed 
 their existence to the wars against the Moors, and 
 
 i
 
 98 
 
 against the Spaniards ; and the Monastery and Church 
 of N. S. de Bethlehem, or Belem, on the banks of 
 the Tagus, was intended to commemorate perhaps the 
 blackest zera of Modern History, that of the barbarous 
 religious government of Portugueze India, and America, 
 and to serve as a place of worship for the Sailors em- 
 ployed on the service of Discovery. 
 
 See Faria y Souza. Hist, of Port. Asia, Part I. 
 Chap. IV. 
 
 Page 14. " With fiercest fervour o'er yon Indian 
 shores," 
 
 Among the many instances of systematic and inventive 
 cruelty, which blacken the annals of the Holy Office, 
 and have consigned it's memory to everlasting execration, 
 in no one of it's institutions have, I believe, these in- 
 stances existed in greater number, or in more horrid
 
 99 
 
 variety than in those of the Inquisition established by the 
 Portuguese, for the furthering the conversion of the 
 Indians at Goa. 
 
 See Limborch Hist, of Inquisitions also the autho- 
 rities quoted in the Reyno Jesuitico de Paraguay, 8cc. 
 
 Page 17. " When palsied Earth relaxed her firm 
 embrace," 
 
 During the tremendous Earthquake of the year 1756, 
 which reduced half Lisbon to ruins, and the shock of 
 which was felt so sensibly in the interior of Portugal, 
 that a part of the monastery da Battalha, at the dis- 
 tance of nearly thirty leagues from Lisbon, was materi- 
 ally injured by it, the convents of Cintra and of Mafia 
 remained unshaken, a circumstance of course attributed 
 by the inmates of these two establishments to a mira- 
 culous and exclusive interposition in their behalf.
 
 100 
 
 Page 24. " And say, can'st thou who spurning Faith's 
 pure laws," 
 
 " Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words with- 
 out knowledge r" 
 
 " Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the 
 Earth ? declare, if thou hast understanding." 
 
 " Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest, 
 or who hath stretched the line upon it ? 
 
 " Whereupon are the foundations thereof fastened, or 
 who hath laid the corner stone thereof? 
 
 " When the morning stars sang together, and all the 
 sons of God shouted for joy." 
 
 " Have the gates of Death been opened unto thee, or 
 hast thou seen the doors of the shadow of Death .*" 
 
 Job, Chap, xxxviii.
 
 101 
 
 Page 26. " In happier times thy tower-girt banner 
 flew" 
 
 The arms of Portugal are environed by a bordure 
 Gules, charged with seven castles, Or, in allusion to the 
 seven principal fortified places of the kingdom of the 
 Algarbes, which were taken from the Moors. 
 
 Page 27. " And Thou, her father King, whose double 
 claim" 
 
 Affonzo Ilenriquez, first King of Portugal, was son of 
 the famous Count Henry, to whom his father-in-law 
 Alfonzo of Castile had given, together with his daughter, 
 the sovereignty of the whole country, south of Gallicia. 
 He successfully attacked the Moors in 1139, and having 
 dispossessed them of the whole of Portugal, to the e\-
 
 102 
 
 ceptiou of the Alemtejo, and the Algarbes, he drove them 
 across the Tagus at Santarem, which Town and fortress 
 he took by Escalade. He afterwards gave them battle on 
 the Campo d'Ourique, and gained, with an inferiour 
 force, a complete and decisive victory. He was pro- 
 claimed Kin^ on the iield of Battle. 
 
 Page 28. " It rose Affonzo, but yon glittering Fane/' 
 
 The Bernardine Monastery of Alcobaga, the largest 
 and best endowed in Portugal, was founded by Affonzo I. 
 in commemoration of the siege of Santarem, the principal 
 events of which exploit are represented in the refectory of 
 the Monastery, on a series of coloured tiles, of the date, 
 it is supposed, of the Building itself.
 
 103 
 
 Page 28. " Nor be his praise o'erpast, who when 
 from far" 
 
 Juan I. the son of King Pedro, gained the famous 
 battle of Aljubarota in 1386, over the Spaniards, and ex- 
 pelled them from Portugal. 
 
 Page 30. " And you who 'mid your country's chosen 
 choir," 
 
 Luis de Camoes, the Author of " the Lusiad," was 
 educated at Coimbra, whither, after a youth spent in 
 military exertion, and laborious Enterprize, he returned, 
 and cultivated his talents for Poetry. lie died at an ad- 
 vanced age, at Lisbon, in extreme poverty, in 1579- 
 
 See Mickle's Life of Camoes.
 
 104 
 
 Page 31. " When great Emmanuel, heaven-ordained 
 to shine" 
 
 Emmanuel, surnamed " o feliz," succeeded on the 
 throne of Portugal his cousin Juan II. who was grandson 
 to Dom Henrique, the patron and promoter of the Por- 
 tugueze spirit of Maritime Discovery. Emmanuel ter- 
 minated in December, 1521, a long life and reign, de- 
 servedly styled the golden age of Portugal. 
 
 Page 31. " Of Inez, lovely in that soft repose " 
 
 For the history of the attachment, the misfortunes, and 
 the death of the lovely, but unhappy Inez de Castro, see 
 the beautiful passage relating to her, which begins Stanza 
 xx. Canto 3, of " the Lusiad." The small villa on the 
 banks of the Mondego, near Coimbra, called the " Quinta
 
 105 
 
 das lagrimas," where she lived in retirement with her 
 children, and where together with them, during the ab- 
 sence of her husband Prince Pedro, she was murdered 
 by the hands of her father-in-law Affonzo IV. still exists. 
 Several tragedies have been written upon her death, 
 of which the principal are, one in French, by M. de la 
 Motte, and one in Spanish, by Luis Velez de Guevara, 
 entitled " Reynar despues de Morir." 
 
 Page 33. Shame on the sceptei'd hand, foredoomed 
 to feel," 
 
 Affonzo IV. whom Mr. Mickle, in the introduction to 
 his translation of the Lusiad, has, I think unguardedly, 
 styled " the greatest Warriour, Monarch, and Politician 
 of his age," appears to have had no claim to these cha- 
 racteristics, excepting what was afforded by a ruinous, 
 sanguinary, and unsuccessful war against the Moors; and
 
 106 
 
 whose military fame, if indeed he deserved any for the 
 barren and questionable victory of Tarrifa, was tarnished 
 by the loss which, under him, the Portugueze army sus- 
 tained, whilst making an irruption into Castille, at Vil- 
 lanueva de Barcarota, A. D. 1035. 
 
 See Mariana, Lib. lG. 
 
 Page 33. " see, bathed in blood, 
 
 " Justice, severe though slow, pursues their 
 doom." 
 
 Alluding to the Execution, by order of King Pedro, 
 upon his accession, of Pedro Coelho, and Alvaro Gon- 
 zalez, who had advised Aflonzo IV. to the murder of 
 Inez, and who had assisted at its perpetration.
 
 107 
 
 Page 34. " See Lusia boasts her hardy mountaineer/' 
 
 Vasco de Gama was born at Sines, a small seaport 
 town among the mountains of the Alemtejo. He was 
 employed by King Emmanuel, A. D. 1497, to reconnoitre 
 the Indian Seas : Having passed the Cape, and run down 
 the western coast as far as the Ganges, he was appointed 
 by John III. viceroy of the Indies. He died at Cochin, 
 1525. 
 
 Page 34." And he whose ardent Streamers next to 
 sweep," 
 
 Fernando de Magalhaens, or Magellan, in 1519, dis- 
 covered and passed through the Straights which have 
 since borne his name, and went through the South Sea 
 on a project of Circumnavigation to the islands of Los 
 Ladrones. In one of these islands he was killed. One
 
 108 
 
 of his ships however completed the Tour round the globe, 
 and arrived at Seville, Sept. 8, 1521. 
 
 Page 35. " Were He, that Country's Pride, forgot, 
 or Fame 
 " Roused to less Zeal by Albuquerque's 
 name " 
 
 Affonzo, Duke of Albuquerque, surnamed the " Mars 
 of Portugal/' was after many victories created Viceroy of 
 the Indies, under Emmanuel. Having conquered Goa, 
 and rendered it the centre of Portugueze commerce in 
 that part of the Globe, he invested and subdued the island 
 of Orrnus in the Persian Gulf, A. D. 1507-8. Demand 
 having been made by the King of Persia, for a Tribute 
 to be paid by him for the island, Albuquerque command- 
 ed a cannon ball and a sabre to be brought, exclaiming, 
 " Behold the only Tribute my master pays !"
 
 109 
 
 Page 37. " To pause in sadness o'er a dark review/' 
 
 Tan florecientes Dias 
 
 Vol6ron 
 
 * Do estas, pasada Gloria ? 
 
 i Do estas ? Ay triste ! Yaces 
 En la infeliz Memoria, 
 Que siempre llama, fue ! 
 
 Discordia impura, 
 
 De la guerra infeliz soplando el Fuego 
 
 Sin Esperanza me robo el Sosiego, 
 
 Y, oh ! peor que el morir, son los fatales 
 
 Vicios, que esta region biota do quiera. 
 
 Cancion del J oven Nuniida 
 
 Gonzalo de Cordoba, de Florian, 
 Por D. Juan de POualver, L. VJ T.
 
 110 
 
 Page 38. " Nor rouse to save, though ruin sap the 
 wall." 
 
 Tanti tibi non sit opaci 
 
 i( Omnis arena Tagi, quodque in Mare volvitur aurum 
 " Ut somno careas." 
 
 Juvenl Sat. III.
 
 PART II. 
 
 Page 48. " And who is He, who from the wide 
 expanse," 
 
 Sebastian III. King of Portugal, during a rash and un- 
 successful expedition against the Moors, was slain at the 
 Battle of Argilla in the kingdom of Fez, A. D. 1578. In 
 this battle three Kings perished ; namely Sebastian, 
 Muley Mehemed, whose cause Sebastian had assisted 
 against his uncle Molucco, King of Fez, which monarch 
 likewise died at the head of his troops. From the cir- 
 cumstance of no one beinsx found to attest Sebastian's
 
 112 
 
 death, and from his body not having been recovered by 
 his Army, owing to the severity of the Defeat, a super- 
 stitious belief has existed in Portugal that he was trans- 
 ported into Heaven, from whence, at a time when his 
 Country shall be in the most imminent danger, he will 
 descend, and will ride upon the waves of the Tagus, on 
 a white charger, to Lisbon, where he is to unfold his di- 
 vine Mission, and to lead the Portugueze Armies to Bat- 
 tle. For the account of the Action in which Sebastian 
 fell, see the first part of L'Abbe Vertot's History of the 
 Revolutions of Portugal. 
 
 Page 51. " And in that cloistered gloom, that sha- 
 dowy dell," 
 
 The Carmelite Convent of Busaco is situated in a thick 
 and extensive grove of Fir and Cork Trees, which over- 
 shadows a small secluded dell formed by two of the
 
 113 
 
 highest summits of the Serra d'Alcoba. The resident 
 Monks of this institution observe, with a severity I be- 
 lieve unparalleled in any of the other convents in Portugal, 
 the utmost duties of that most rigorous order to which 
 they belong. Three years of total silence, except when 
 assisting at the Office, which is chaunted night and day, 
 without intermission, in turns by the Monks, forms a 
 part of their noviciate. 
 
 They are barefooted, and never taste meat, and, it was 
 told me, had, by a system of uninterrupted trial, reduced 
 Nature to the habit of deriving sufficient refreshment for 
 the purposes of a life so sedentary as theirs is, from the 
 miserable allowance of only one hour's sleep at a time. 
 Above the convent of Busaco rises a green and winding 
 path through the wood, so steep that the ascent is in 
 some places only rendered accessible by occasional steps 
 formed in the moss. At certain intervals in this walk are 
 erected small cells, or chapels, hewn out of the lime- 
 stone Rock, in which are placed groups of coloured 
 
 K
 
 114 
 
 figures representing the different passages of our Saviour's 
 passion. You arrive at length at a summit called the 
 Calvario, from whence you at once embrace a prospect 
 of surrounding country, scarce terminated but by the 
 dimness of distance. 
 
 In this convent Lord Wellington established his head 
 quarters, four days before the attack upon the allied 
 British and Portuguese troops in position, on the 27th of 
 September, 1810. 
 
 Page 58. " Is this the host of vengeance," 
 
 " Are these the Men who conquer by Inheritance r 
 " The fortune makers ? These the Julians 
 " That, with the Sun, measure the end of Nature, 
 " Making the World but one Rome, and oneCa;sar ?" 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's tragedy of Bonduca, 
 Act I. Scene I.
 
 115 
 
 Page 59. " And wide o'er Jena's plains her ruins lay " 
 
 At the battles of Jena and Auerstadt, on the 14th and 
 15th of October, 180G, the two great armies on which 
 rested the fate of the Prussian Monarchy, commanded by 
 Prince Hohenlohe, and by the King in person, are said, 
 inclusive of the corps of Saxons in their service, to have 
 lost above 32,000 men. 
 
 See Muller's Elements of the Science of War, Vol. 3. 
 
 Page 63. " Fly, tost and scattered, through the face 
 of heaven." 
 
 ayra.3 Ayjuv; 
 
 OiTTaoln x_e <I> - Jc/*, <J>qos x-'s/ocvro; IvtUv 
 
 Yl-.-.Jii. o' rtT?.>iT.c (li^~o~hyaTO wrivr;; . irrrs.. 
 Jli '<:' Cf/IIJ.OL C'S'j 7T9VT0V 0->i'TOV 'ivSyoiyrre
 
 116 
 
 'E\9ivV tgwrciii;, afx-jlt; it ts Hv^a xtXajysv 
 Koo9 vtrca, toXXov it Ttaft^ a\u puxoj tytvxf 
 'il; liai^tTO 9vjj.o; hi rtiQtaaiv 'A^iiov. 
 
 Iliad, Book IX. 
 
 Page 6'3. " And shall not Erin bless the spot." 
 
 Among those British Regiments who were engaged in 
 the partial affair of the 27th, none happened to be favour- 
 ed with a more advantageous moment for distinction, (of 
 which doubtless all would have equally gallantly availed 
 themselves, had the opportunity occurred to them,) than 
 the 88th, or Conaught Rangers, on whom a principal 
 share of the service performed on the right centre of the 
 allied army devolved. It is moreover no small part of 
 the boast of tins deserving regiment that it bears at its 
 head a name which is at once the pride of the Land that 
 gave him birth, and the veneration of that country in
 
 117 
 
 whose cause his talents, his firmness, and his labours, 
 have been so successfully exerted. I mean ,the name of 
 Sir William Carr Eeresford. I cannot therefore think 
 the claims of that regiment and of it's colonel on the gra- 
 titude of their common parent improperly blended toge- 
 ther a bond of mutual distinction, by which I trust it 
 will long be their glory and fortune to be united. 
 
 Page 71. " Yes, Talbot, I have known that hour." 
 
 Lieutenant-Colonel Talbot, in an unsuccessful affair 
 of outposts, near Alverca, July 11, 1810, gallantly fell at 
 the head of his regiment the 14th Light Dragoons, 
 while charging a solid square of French Infantry.
 
 118 
 
 Page 83. a True that the midnight Angel," 
 
 " And the blood shall be to you for a token upon the 
 houses where you are. And, when I see the Blood, I 
 will pass over you, and the Plague shall not be upon you, 
 to destroy you, when I smite the land of Egypt." . . 
 
 " For the Lord will pass through to 
 
 smite the Egyptians, and when he seeth the blood upon 
 the Lintel, and on the two side door posts, the Lord will 
 pass over the door, and will not suffer the Destroyer to 
 come into your houses to smite you." 
 
 Exodus, Chap. xii. Ver. 13, Sec.
 
 119 
 
 Page 90. " And, in it's Thunders, roar her Ob- 
 sequies" 
 
 " Nennius. Is not peace the end of Arms ?" 
 " Carat ach. Not where the cause implies a general 
 conquest. 
 " Had we a difference with some petty Isle, 
 " Or with our neighbours, for our Landmarks, 
 " The taking in of some rebellious Lord, 
 " Or making head against commotions, 
 " After a day of blood, Peace might be argued ; 
 " But where we grapple for the ground we live on, 
 " The liberty we hold as dear as life, 
 " The Cods we worship, and, next those, our honour?. 
 " And with those swords that know no end of Battle, 
 " Those men, besides themselves, allow no neighbour, 
 " Those minds that, where the day is, claim inheritance, 
 " And, where the Sun makes ripe the fruits, their harvest ;
 
 120 
 
 " And, where they march, but measure out more ground, 
 
 " To add to Rome, and here, i'th' bowels on us, 
 
 " It must not be ! No, as they are our foes, 
 
 " Let's use the peace of Honour, that's fair dealing, 
 
 " But, in our ends, our swords. That hardy Roman 
 
 " That hopes to graft himself upon our stock 
 
 " JV1 ust first begin his kindred under ground, 
 
 " And be allied in ashes !" 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's Tragedy of Bonduca, 
 Act I. Sceue I. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 T. DAVISON, Lombard- street, 
 Wfaitefnars, London.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 LO 
 
 K1PD 
 
 ORi APR 2 5 Ml 
 
 interlibrIB? 
 APR 1 1 1967 
 
 tmjflft 
 
 ^ 
 
 HREE WEEKS FROM b/iit 
 ON-RENEWABLE cC<j,p 
 
 ;/ rtLo^r, 
 
 1967 
 
 >ANS 
 
 Form L9-30m-ll,'58(8268s4)444
 
 JIM HHH3HII1 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A A 000 079 213 5 
 
 i
 
 p 
 mat 
 
 Sim 
 
 ifliimliilPiii- I 
 
 liiisi