[FROM LORD G. GRENVILLE'S POEM OF THIS NAME.]
NOR, 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 leftier 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.
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.-
Seaward I stretched my view, where to the West
The Sun Beam lingered on the Ocean's Breast,
Where soft the Atlantic wou'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 parting radiance bright,
Fling from their quivering tops a dubious light,
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,
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.
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Beneath these cloistered Walls. no grateful Train
Blesses their Shadow on the subject Plain.
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.---
E'en where the vertic Beam it's fury pours
With fiercest fervour o'er yon Indian Shores,
Where the gaunt Tiger couches for his prey,
And shares with wilder Man the sovereign sway,
I trac'd 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 Dæmon Voice, the Fiends of Blood,
Raise thy fell Hymn of Sacrifice on high,
And close with pious Pomp the horrid Blasphemy !--
GALLANT STRUGGLE OF PORTUGAL.
OW lovely is the Patriot Soldier's Death!
Warm are the grateful Sighs that o'er him breathe,
"And beauteous every Scar his bosom bears,
"When 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 ;--
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, who from the wide expanse
Of unseen distance moves ?---in proud advance,
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 vision of a noontide hour ;---
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 milk 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,
⚫ The curling surges round their Master play,
And kiss his footsteps with the rising spray---
He comes, he comes, 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, 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,
Rose with the startled Breeze, and bade around
Each hallowed grove prolong the unwonted sound!
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 bath owned that Flame
Which kindles brightest at the voice of Fame?
The soul which ne'er bath 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?
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 fluggish pulse's slow and peaceful tide,
(As the long-harboured Bark, who, wont to lave
Her stately bosom in the bounding wave,
Bursts once again the Shipwr ght'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,
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,
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