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L. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet; (9) Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true; Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; And sorely would the gallic foeman rue,
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke,
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch,
LII. Portend the deeds to come ;-but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; A little moment deigneth to delay; Soon will his legions sweep through these their way ; The West must own the Scourger of the world. Ah ! Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning day,
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings uufurl'd, And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd.
LIII. And must they fall, the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reigo, No step between submission and a grave, The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? And dotb the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal, Is all that desperate valour acts in vain ! And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal,
[steel; The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead stread. Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to
LV. Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Ob! had you known her in her softer hour, Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, wiib more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, Thin the clos'd ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.
LVI. Her lover sinks she sheds no ill-tim'd tear ; Her chief is slain-she fills his fatal post; Her fellows fice-she checks their base career: The foe retires—she heads the sallying host : Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? What maid retrieve when man's Alush'd hope is lost?
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
Remoter females, fani'd for sickening prate ;
LVIII. The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch : (13) Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phæbus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Wbich glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! Who round the North for paler dames would seek! How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan,and weak.
Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud;
'There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of beaven, angelically kind.
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy
Sigbs in the gale, keeps silence in the grave,
Yield me ore leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,
LXIV. Bat ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was See round thy giant base a brighter choir, (young, Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more lban mortal ire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:
Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory Aly her glades.
A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,
Her worships, but, devoted to her rite,
Of true devotion monkish incense buros, And Love and Prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.
LXVIII. The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; What hallows it upon this Christian shore? Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast; Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar ? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn; The throng'd Arena shakes with shouts for more ;
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ey'n affects to mourn.
LXIX. The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. · London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer ; Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artizan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air; Thy coach of Hackney, whisky, one-horse chair, And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl, To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair;
Till the tir'd jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian Churl.