I trust to my Saint, and my well-tried sword, And the pass of the undiscovered ford."

-"Yet think on the fearful odds, and pause." -"I think on our wrongs, and our Country's cause!

Ere the children shall mourn in captivity,

I will set my life on a desperate die,

My name and my purpose at once reveal,
And trust to the honour of high Castile."-

-"The doves are freed-and the ravenous kite
To morrow shall soar on his latest flight:
Too cheap the conquest-too poor the strife,
That cost but one wretch's worthless life.
Secure the children-the dawning sky
Shall light us to vengeance and victory!"

XI.

SONG CONTINUED.

Ere night had parted, brave Juan stood

night

Have closed his path on his comrade's sight;
The moon is withdrawing her feeble ray,
And the chiefs are gone on their silent way,
And hope to deal on the battle plain,
To Gallia woe, and revenge for Spain.-

X.

SONG CONTINUED.

The guns are silenced-the broken swords

Are wrenched from the hands of their lifeless lords,

And the batteries screen, with gloomy frown,
The gates of the newly vanquished town.
While her lofty towers are echoing high,
To the notes of unhallowed revelry.

Three sides are guarded, but safe they deem The fourth that is laved by the spreading stream;

They knew not the ford, whose winding way Brave Juan has traced ere the dawn of day, Nor dreamed that by those neglected guns Lurked the boldest of Spain's unconquered sons.

He lay till about the vesper hour,

He rests his sword on the olive bough,
And places his trusty steed below,
While the shroud of a peasant's poor disguise,
Veils his noble form from enquiring eyes.

He seeks the walls, where rising loud,
Mix the angry tones of the armed crowd;
And hears of the children's mystic flight,
And the fiery threat of lawless might,
That dooms the city to flame and sword,
If evening see not the prize restored.

In uncouth phrase he tells his tale,

Of a horseman who passed o'er the lonely vale,
And close by his courser's side there speed
Two slender forms on a lighter steed,
And well he deems that the rugged height
Perforce must have checked their eager flight.

"To arms! and haste to the mountain's side;
This peasant slave shall our footsteps guide:
Thou wretch! remember thy caitiff head
Shall vouch for the tale thy lips have said!"
-How blithely the bold Castilian strode,
As he led them forth on their fatal road!-

He has drawn to the wood the unwary bands,

XII.

The cadence of the closing note
Still on th' enchanted ear would float,
While in the maid's uplifted eye
Blazed Juan's soul of pride,
And scorn and indignation high
Her beauteous lips divide,
And her resounding tones inspire
With gleams of a prophetic fire.

XIII.

Thus hour by hour, and day by day,
Still glided unperceived away.
Bernardo all their steps attends,
And with his pleasing converse blends
The pious and instructive truth,
So needful to unthinking youth;
The good old man would fain delay
The call that soon must end their stay.
-O could he hear the sighs that swell
In fair Maria's lonely cell,
And view the ineffectual strife,
That preys upon her harmless life.

His trembling hand the gates would close
On the sad partner of her woes.

CANTO V. I.

How lightly on the quiet breast
Close the unruffled wings of sleep!
Bathing the peaceful brow in rest

Soft as the dew that violets weep,-
While with her poppy garland blending
The airy forms of worlds unknown,
She leads the willing soul, ascending
Through flowery paths to Fancy's throne,
And decks the Ethiop form of night
In halcyon plumes of azure light.—
II.

Sleep has a Sister, dark and dread,
Who seeks the mourner's tear-stained bed;
With sullen scowl, and raven plume,
She deepens midnight's cheerless gloom,
And strews the throbbing temple o'er
With bitter rue and hellebore,-
And loves the shrinking soul to bear
Through wilds of terror and despair;
Snatching from reason's hand the rein,

She whirls the giddy wretch afar,
Where phantoms, horrible as vain,

Throng round the witch's ebon car, Till, panting from the fearful flight, The sufferer wakes to grief and light.

III.

No more the balm of tranquil rest
Is shed o'er sad Maria's breast,

No more the shrine and midnight prayer

Her undivided homage share;

One visioned form will hover near,

One voice still vibrate on her ear,

And when within her narrow cell,
Her hand th' accustomed bead would tell,
Still from her murmuring lips will steal,
The ceaseless prayer for Ronald's weal.
What though her pious mind disowned
The interdicted name of Love,
Th' usurper in her heart was throned,

Nor virtue's self that throne might move;
While she, a lone unsheltered flower,
Was withering underneath his power,
And that fair cheek was faint and pale,
As the meek snow-drop in the vale.
With pitying eye, Fitz-Arthur viewed
The maid by hopeless love subdued,
And inly vowed by strong reproof
His lingering friend to tear,
Far from that dark ill-fated roof
Of passion and despair.

IV.

The morning beam was scarce displayed On the wild mountain, when he sought To pass, within the fragrant shade,

An hour of deep and serious thought; But in the glen, in mental dream,

He found his pensive friend reclined, Intent upon the murmuring stream

That soothed to rest his feverish mind.
Roused by the loud advancing tread,
He slowly raised his languid head,—
"Fitz-Arthur! you are soon abroad,

To greet the morning's early light :"-
"Yes, I have viewed my idle sword,
And burnished it for future fight;
For truly we shall both be shamed
To hear our conquering hero named,
If loitering here in sloth and ease,
We let the rust our weapons seize :
What think you, if tomorrow's ray
Behold us on our destined way?”—
His half-averted glances seek
The varying hue of Ronald's cheek.

"I would not, for an empire's power
Be absent from the battle hour;-
Yet do the troops with toil o'erspent,
Repose beneath the sheltering tent,
And-doubt not but Bernardo's care
Will for our timely march prepare-
Till then"- -his martial spirit strove
Disdainful 'gainst the tyrant Love.
Fitz-Arthur saw the mounting blush,
And marked the downcast eyes,

He felt resentment's kindling flush

Each calmer thought surprise, Nor longer his impetuous soul Could the severe reproach control. With curling lip, and scornful look,

He glanced from Ronald to the brook :-
"Let the sweet purling stream o'erwhelm
Thy warlike garb and useless helm,
Methinks a cowl would better grace
The outline of that pensive face;
Forsake thy King-eschew thy creed,
Embrace the crucifix and bead,

Doff that neglected steel!
Let Britain bleed, and Lusia fall,
Friar Ronald in his Convent wall
No sense of shame will feel.

V.

"Far better had I seen thee die
In yonder midnight glen!
Soldiers had caught thy latest sigh,
And in an honoured grave thoud'st lie,
Mourned by thy countrymen.-

-I care not for that reddening frown!—
I saved thee not, thy bright renown
At woman's feet to lay,
To languish for an idle toy,
And like a whimpering love-sick boy,
Sigh thy fond soul away!—
A Nun professed!" he sternly smiled,
"Why Ronald, sure the wayward child,
Who in the stream shall see
The moon's reflection round and fair,
And cries to catch the bauble rare,
Is but the type of thee:
Boldly the urchin might essay,
To grasp the warm resplendent ray,
Cold recompense were his,

And such were thine, if thou should'st try
To seize her heart which dwells on high,
Among the saints in bliss."—

VI.

Resentment flashed in Ronald's eyes"To me these daring words addressed! But that my soul may well despise,

Boy as thou art, thy taunting jest, This sword thy hasty tongue should teach, To weigh the yet unuttered speech :Deem'st thou I bear a heart so base, To shame my Country's warlike race?— As for the life thou bragg'st to save

I value not the gift from thee; Take what thy well-meant succour gave, But check that tongue so bold and free, And cast no more thy gibes on me!"

VII.

Sternly he spoke, and strode away :Rage struggled in Fitz-Arthur's breast,

IX.

Ronald spoke first, and mildly said,
Fitz-Arthur, I was wrong,
Thy zealous friendship to upbraid
In terms so sharp and strong,
Albeit thy words were harsh and rude,
And taxed me with ingratitude,

And-what my soul abhors!
My patriot warmth no longer glowed,
Although my dearest blood has flowed

In my loved Country's cause.
Nay more,-thou said'st"- -his colour rose,
And to the ground his glance he throws,

"That I, with treacherous art, For my own selfish views would dye With the foul stain of perjury,

Yon Maid's unspotted heart,

And from her woe-worn soul remove
A heavenly for an earthly love.
Could such black charge stand unrepelled ?”—
His heart with strong emotion swelled.
"Friend of my soul! forgive the wrong,
My zeal hath blazed too rudely strong,
Roughly I seized the fatal dart,
That festers in thy gallant heart;
And my unskilful hand hath pressed
The shaft more deeply in thy breast."-

X.

That evening to Fitz-Arthur's hand,
A courier brought the chief's command,
That he upon the tented plain,
Should join his warlike friends again;
But as no march they meditate,
Ronald, within the Convent gate,
May yet the future summons wait.

XI.

The morning's earliest beam surveyed
Fitz-Arthur for the march arrayed,
His face in wonted smiles was dressed,
But Ronald's fate disturbed his breast.
And when the pious Nuns had given
Their matin orisons to Heaven,
Pressed round the grate in tears they stand,
Contending for the out-stretched hand,
That soon in bloody battle field,
Again the glittering blade must wield.—
The Abbess with an ardent prayer
Commends him to th' Almighty's care,―
In gentle accents then,

While her kind cheek with dew is wet,
She prays him never to forget

The Convent in the glen.
Laden with blessings, prayers, and gifts,
And tells them, in the next bold fray
His sword shall their good deeds repay.
His holy hands Bernardo spread,
Above the warrior's bending head,
While scarce his quivering lip can say
The fervent "Benedicite!"

XII.

Ronald the warm injunction gives,

To warn him of the earliest move; For if to that good day he lives,

His sword his steadfast faith shall prove. With gentle hint, and mild disguise, His friend the wholesome counsel plies; And now they reach the outward glen-"Soon may we meet as fighting men! Part we in this eventful dell;—

Dear Ronald, guard thy heart-farewell!"
XIII.

Throughout St. Clara's holy bounds,
The silence of dejection hung,
The cheerful note no more resounds,
The voice is mute, the lyre unstrung;
Even Isabel's resplendent eye,
Now rolled in listless vacancy;
Maria felt the sad farewell,
As presage of a warning knell,
And shuddered, as the deadly chill
Stole o'er her frame with painful thrill.
Bernardo strove, but strove in vain,
To wake the cheerful smile again;-
The pensive Nuns too keenly viewed
The gloom of hopeless solitude.

XIV.

-O! let me earth's wide surface tread,
With weary step, unsheltered head,
And let my feeble frame sustain
The stormy terrors of the main ;
An endless pilgrimage to roam,
From native land and peaceful home,
With never-ceasing care to tend
The steps of one beloved friend!
And I will greet, with ready smile,
The forms of peril, want, and toil,
So on my lip may never dwell

That dreary sound-the long Farewell!
That blighter of our every joy,
That canker, formed but to destroy
The rose that sparingly adorns
This cloudy wilderness of thorns.
-Oh, heavily its accents swell!

Even from th' unwilling, short, good night,
To the last deep and hollow knell,
O'er those the grave's relentless cell

Hath closed for ever from her sight!

XV.

While many a vestal sigh is borne
On the soft breezes of the morn,
And prayers to patron Saints are told
For the young warrior true and bold,—
Cheerly he winds his way;
The cloud upon his spirits light,
Dispersed like lingering shades of night

Before the rising day.

High deeds of might and wreaths of fame
Before his brightening fancy came ;—
Proud Gaul subdued, Iberia freed,
An honoured name, and laurelled meed,
Supplied a long and flattering dream,-

And home, dear home, still crowned the theme.
For there were hearts in Britain's Isle,
That glowed but in his magic smile,
Parents, whose only pride and joy
Was centred in that gallant boy,

And friends, whose anxious breasts would burn
In rapture at his safe return.

XVI.

How throbbed his bosom when afar
He saw the radiant lines of war!
And to the playful breeze unfurled
The glorious flag that awed the world.
While notes of preparation rise,

And he the hand, the eye, the soul,
Wellesley-the mighty plan supplies,
That moves and regulates the whole.
Fitz-Arthur hears the high design
Is ripening for the fray;
Cuesta will soon his force combine

With Albion's proud array; And high Madrid her head shall rear, When their united bands appear

XVII.

Ronald has heard the martial call,
That roused him from inglorious thrall,-
Once more his eye is beaming bright
With all the warrior's stern delight;
Nor treacherous Love himself may claim
Another day's delay,

To-morrow to the field of fame

He speeds his hasty way.

But grief can dim that sparkling eye,
And wring his soul with agony,
And treble all his former woes,

As to his purpose firm and true,
With stealing step, alone he goes,
To take a long, a last adieu!

CANTO VI.

I.

WHERE is the kind considerate art
That veiled the pangs of Ronald's heart?
Alas! the fearful parting hour

Has torn the feeble shroud aside,
Nor longer has the sufferer power
His bosom's agony to hide;
But every sound his lips express
Is love's despairing bitterness.

II.

As vainly would the maid control
The wild emotions of her soul,
Till her distracted glances fell

On the low shrine that graced the cell,-
Then on the cross her hand she laid,
"The will of God must be obeyed!
In earliest years this form was given,
To be th' affianced bride of Heaven,-
And what avails it now to say,

That had I drawn the vital air
Where liberty delights to stray,

In yonder Isle, so sweet and fair,—
Aye, had I filled her regal throne,
Myself, my crown, were thine alone:
Or happier in some cottage bower,
To share with thee the peaceful hour,
To tend our white flocks on the plain,
To watch the autumn's ripening grain,
Around our little porch to twine
The roses and the eglantine,
To bid our simple garden bloom,

And wander in the solemn shade,

Where through the oak tree's pleasing gloom The zephyr with the moon-beam played; The nightingale with vesper song

Had closed in peaceful rest our eyes,

And the lark's matin clear and strong,

Pierced the thatched roof, and bade us rise:
Adown life's current, side by side,
Methinks our barks would smoothly glide.”—
-The faultering voice her heart betrayed,
She grasped the cross, and firmer said
"The will of God must be obeyed!-
And when 'gainst His o'erruling power
Our wayward wills would seek to rise,
That is the best, the holiest hour

For most accepted sacrifice;
"Tis then we emulate the Son-
-Oh Father! may thy will be done!
Since thou hast deemed me meet to share
The vestal's joys, the life of prayer,
Shall my ungrateful heart rebel,
Impatient of the sheltering cell?
No-ever at thy sacred shrine

O! let me yield my will to thine!"

Her hands are clasped, and raised her eye,
In patient, meek humility,-

But the faint hectic on her cheek,
Her pale and quivering lip, bespeak
What deep and strong emotions pressed-

For empire in her lab'ring breast,
While closer still her fevered grasp
The crucifix essayed to clasp,
As if within its holy power

Dwelt the sole balm for that sad hour.

III.

Again she bends her pitying glance
On him who lost in sullen trance,

Was brooding o'er their hopeless fate;
One hand upon his brow was spread,
As if to calm his throbbing head,

The other grasped the fatal grate.
A low and scarcely uttered groan
Forced passage for his stifled breath,
Then starting, and in hollow tone,

"Maria! wilt thou work my death? Break these accursed bands, and fly The hated den of bigotry!

Mistaken maid! would righteous Heaven
That soul of sympathy have given
To moulder in a living tomb,

Unblessed by one congenial heart,
To shut thee from creation's bloom?
-"Twas superstition's baneful art!—
Burst the dark chain and fly with me
To pure and pious liberty;
And every joy that Isle can give

Shall smile upon thy spotless life,
Too blest for thee alone to live,
My treasured love, my cherished wife !"-

IV.

With altered look, and brow severe, -"Ronald," she said, "I may not hear Our holy faith reviled;