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-"I would not save! Oh witness Heaven,
One boon to my entreaty given
Should shield thee in the deadly strife,
Thy ransom, poor Maria's life."-
The starting tear, the bursting sob,
Bespoke her bosom's anguished throb,
While love, despair, and virtuous shame,
In following tides of crimson came
O'er his flushed brow and burning frame.
"Forgive the harsh unjust reproof,-
I will not tear thee from the roof
Thy pious zeal has sanctified,
Nor bid thee cast the veil aside ;-
On thee be Heaven's best blessings shown,
The guilt, the punishment my own!—
Short is our life's uncertain scene,
Pass the few years that intervene,
And freed at length, each kindred soul
Shall seek the same celestial goal."

VI.

"Now blessed be the Power who brought To soothe thy mind, that holy thought! To happier scenes, through purer skies, May our glad souls together rise !"— She took the 'kerchief from her head, "Be this the simple pledge" she said, "Of friendship calm and bright; Bear it to yonder battle-plain, And never may the blood-drop stain Its now untarnished white!". She gave it to his eager grasp, She met his hand's impassioned clasp, And bowed her lovely head; Then drawing from his earnest hold, Her gentle hands once more to fold Her crucifix she spread, And called on every Saint to bless Her friend with glory and success. Oh! free from sorrow, pain, and care, May'st thou behold thy native shore !

To Heaven shall rise that daily prayerFarewell!-on earth we meet no more?" VII.

-The sun is in the western sky,

And Love his frantic slave hath led To yonder steep so wildly high,

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Where man had never dared to tread.
What seeks he there? it is the hour,
When in her favorite moss-clad bower,
Maria never fails to raise

Her hand in prayer, her voice in praise:
So told the Friar and Ronald now,
Goaded by love had reached the brow,
Whose height a barrier safe was found,
To screen the garden's northern bound.
His downward gaze at length he bends,
And, careless of his life, descends ;-
He cannot stay his rapid course,
"Tis like the mountain cataract's force,-
Yet firmly still he trod, and now,
His hand has grasped a friendly bough;
There rests he for a time to breathe,
O'er the diminished space beneath,
When gliding through the distant trees,
Maria's graceful form he sees.
And now a daring leap has thrown
His weight on a projecting stone;
Descending now, where closer grew
The cork tree and the spreading yew,
A welcome aid they lent,
And lightly, as from spray to spray
The sportive squirrel speeds his way,
His verdant course he bent.

And now his eye the distance traced,

Then glanced with piercing search around, One moment and his step is placed Within the garden's hallowed bound!

VIII.

He trembles,- -yes the heart that stood
Unmoved in battle's crimson flood,
Shrinks from the daring deed, which shame
Tells him is sacrilegious blame.
He will not heed the warning voice,

He plunges in the myrtle shade,
To lose it in the murmuring noise
That issues from the bright cascade.
A thousand roses gay entwine,
Around the orange and the vine.-
The heliotrope, so soft and fair,
Sheds its sweet perfume on the air,
And all around, above, below,
A fairy vision seems to glow;
He heeds it not-his steps are bent,
To the rude grotto's cell,

"Twas to that spot Maria went,

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-Perchance her beads to tell

Perchance to think on one too near,

Less holy, but alas! more dear.

IX.

Soon has he reached the modest bower,
And he has seen that drooping flower,
Purer and sweeter than the rose
That all around its fragrance throws.
Low at the sacred shrine she kneels,
While fast the trembling tear-drop steals;
Her bosom heaves in agony,

And mingled with the frequent sigh,
From her wan lips low murmured came
A blessing, prayer, and-Ronald's name.
What varying thrills of pain and bliss
Rent his wild-throbbing heart at this!
Yet holy awe withheld his hand,

Half reaching to the gate,
He seems upon the verge to stand
Of everlasting fate:

But fast those living crystals roll
O'er her pale cheek, and melt his soul,
While treacherous Love impels him on,
Till every calmer thought is gone;
Unheard is Reason's voice divine,
And desperate to the holy shrine

His daring steps proceed,

What power that frantic purpose quelled? Bernardo's sacred arm withheld

And warned him from the deed.

X.

Astonishment, confusion, shame,

In one o'erwhelming current came ;—
The Father saw the moment's power,
And drew him to the olive bower,
And on his trembling lip he laid
A supplicating hand;

While Ronald's awe-struck mind obeyed

The mild and soft command, Maria slowly rose, and spread The veil around her drooping head; Her arms were folded on her breast, And her meek bending form expressed Returning calmness in a mind Forlorn, forsaken, but resigned ;And Ronald strove not to unclasp Bernardo's weak but earnest grasp;Passive he stood, while glided by

The sad unconscious fair, Then on the Father bent his eye, In sullen, calm despair: "I know my crime, I know its doom, Thrice welcome is the closing tomb!" "Yes, even the closing tomb, my son,

Must welcome prove to thee, Favoured by Heaven, thy virtue won

A glorious victory!"

A tear from his mild eye that stole. Spoke soothing peace to Ronald's soul. "Much have I erred," Bernardo said, As through the screening orange shade Slowly they bent their way,—

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"Who from yon peaceful fane would tear
One maiden bud that blossoms there,
Screened from the tempest's rudely hurled
O'er that defenceless waste-the world?
It was the hand of Heaven that spread
The holy shelter o'er their head,
And saved them from the storms of life,
The clouds of woe, the waves of strife,
The thousand agonies that press
On woman's blighted tenderness,
When by that poisoned shaft subdued,
Their sex too often prove,
The arrow of ingratitude,

Barbed by the hand of love!
The faithful bosom left to bear
The deep sad pressure of despair;
The day of pain, the night of sorrow,
The joyless dawning of the morrow,
The sickening eye, that cannot trace
One comfort in creation's space,
Until the pitying tomb shall close
On the poor mourner's silent woes.-

Now haste thee to the field and bear
Even to thy grave this blighted flower,-
The tale its faded leaves declare,
Shall comfort thy departing hour!"

CANTO VII.

I.

ALBERCHE! on thy winding stream
The eye of morn was wont to beam,
And make each opening flower display
Its velvet petals in the ray,-

To drink the pearl of glistening dew,
And wake the songster's note anew;
Then the dark prowlers of the night
Sped from the searching glance of light,
Which bade Heaven's feebler lamps retire
Before the blaze of vital fire,—
While cheerily the shepherd trod,
O'er Talavera's verdant sod.

II.

But faintly pale the day-light broke,
Dim struggling through the earthly smoke
That wrapped those altered plains in shroud
Denser than midnight's murkiest cloud,-
Nor morning's beam might chase away
The wolves of carnage from their prey.
There, for the mild star's twinkling rays,
Still flashed the death-devoting blaze;
There, for the feathered warbler's note,
The trumpet strained its brazen throat;
Crushed were the wild flowers of the plain
Beneath the wounded and the slain,-
The dew profusely sprinkled o'er,
Was of those warriors' gushing gore.

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Where rose in richest minstrelsy,
The combat fierce, the conquest high,
Of Talavera's day:

O quit the mighty theme, and glance
Where yonder slender band advance
Impetuous o'er the plain,

And press upon the wily foe
Who meditates the sure o'erthrow

Of that devoted train.

There, in the jaws of death and flame,
Fitz-Arthur seeks the smile of Fame,
And cheers each eager friend,
While from the central battle's roar,
Through clouds of smoke and seas of gore,
Their crimson path they bend:
Too late they view the vengeful foes,
In awful force surrounding close;
Well may each warrior deem he stands
On his allotted grave,

Though with redoubled force their hands

The dinted faulchions wave, And every death-shot parting true, Straight to some Gallic bosom flew. Still rushing with o'erwhelming might, The raging foemen urge the fight; Cleft is Fitz-Arthur's waving crest, The blood is streaming o'er his vest, But like the mountain pine, his form Rises majestic through the storm: Turn, gallant youth, thy fearless eye, For Ronald's sword is flaming nigh; Through their firm ranks and close array With onset fierce he rends his way, Before their startled view appears The glittering blade, the range of spears, And Ronald, like the simoon's breath, Resistless pours the blast of death.

V.

Beneath the evening's sober ray,
The echoing war-note dies away.
The skilful Leech has gently bound
The cincture on Fitz-Arthur's wound,
Who scorns his wearied eye to close,
Beneath the wing of soft repose,

Till Ronald shall have pledged the draught,
To Britain and to conquest quaffed.
Amid th' exulting victor train

He seeks him, but alas! in vain :—
The posted guard the wounded band,
No cheering hope can yield,
Too well they fear that gallant hand
Is cold upon the field!
And now his earnest accents ask
To share in their accustomed task,
Who haste, with sad and silent tread,
To part the dying from the dead.
VI.

O veil, my muse, thy weeping eye!
Nor pause on the soul-sickening plain,

Where murderous carnage triumphs high,

O'er the red piles of warriors slain : View not the frozen gaze of death, That glares as in unearthly strife, Nor mark the agonizing breath

That struggles still for life,

But, while the drop of anguish rolls,

Beg Heaven's sweet mercy on their souls!

VII.

As Phœbus o'er the western hill
Slowly recedes, and lingers still,
So Ronald's spirit paused, as yet
His sun of glory was not set:-
Drawn from the dank, corrupting steam,
And laved with the refreshing stream,

Once more his eyes unclose;
Once more upon his altered cheek,
A wandering and uncertain streak

Of vital colour rose,-
And Hope's unfaithful meteor broke
On glad Fitz-Arthur when he spoke.
"Or foes or friends,-in pity say

How fares the fight?-how goes the day?"—
"Yonder across Alberche's stream,
Slowly retires the routed Gaul;

The watch-fires ray and Cynthia's beam

On Albion's conquering banner fall!" -"Fitz-Arthur to my dying ear

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How sweetly sounds thy cheering voice! O truest friend! thou sought'st me here, To bid my parting soul rejoice!" "Talk not of parting-many a sun"It may not be-my sand is run: The richest boon that Heaven could yield, Is death on this victorious field!

My breath is short-my wounded breast-
-Fitz-Arthur, hear my last request!
Whene'er this contest's glorious close
Shall proffer thee a long repose,
Haste to the glen,"-his keen eye shone-
"Maria!Say her soldier fell,
Where many a fierce invader's groan

Pealed forth her murdered father's knell.
Her parting boon my hand shall grasp,
Till death have loosed its lingering clasp :
Then, faithful friend! thy pious care
To her the treasured gift will bear.”-

VIII.

A pang that rent his mangled breast
His faltering voice awhile suppressed;
His brow was damp with dews of death,
And shorter came the panting breath,-
But still in calm serenity

On heaven was fixed his fading eye.
With gentle arm Fitz-Arthur raised
His drooping head, and hopeless gazed,
Bending, with indrawn breath, to seize
The murmuring accents that respire

Faintly, as to the evening breeze

Responsive sighs th' Æolian lyre. Once more those speaking glances roll, And beat, with tranquil beam his own, While from the warrior's rising soul

Breathes the proud thought in loftier tone:"Dear comrade! thou wilt see me laid Beneath some olive's friendly shade;

And in my father's ancient hall
Tell thou the tidings of my fall,—
Tell him unstained by fear or shame,
My grave is on the field of Fame !"

IX.

Ere sunk the moon, the turf was spread
By martial hands o'er Ronald's head,
Where on the slope spontaneouз grew
The olive and sepulchral yew;

A little mountain stream supplied
The never-ceasing dirge beside,
And lowly flowerets bloomed around,
To deck the consecrated ground
Hallowed by friendship's holy tear,
And the poor soldier's sigh sincere.
Fitz-Arthur breathed, with bending head,
A solemn prayer above the dead!
Then with the dews of midnight damp,
Sadly he sought the conquerer's camp.

X.

Proud is the hour when heroes meet
Unscathed from battle's fiery heat,
While the bright blaze of victory rests
Resplendent on their lofty crests:
Yet must the warrior's bosom know,
In that proud hour such piercing woe
As well may prompt the saddening thought
That conquest's wreath is dearly bought;
For, borne upon the breeze of death,

Starting he hears the distant groan,
And deems some dear-loved comrade's breath
Has parted in that plaintive tone.
The eye that like the morning's ray

Shone cloudless on the early fight, Untimely closed, ere fading day, In deep and everlasting night: Ghastly and cold the blooming face Where beamed the heart's untutored smile, The towering form of manly grace

Crushed in the undistinguished pile;
And the gay voice, whose carol rose
Mid yester-eve's convivial train,
Greeting the march's welcome close,

Shall never sound again!
Yes, friendship's tear, compassion's sigh,
Will cloud the brightest victory,
While the thinned ranks too well unfold
How many a gallant heart is cold;
How many a soul hath passed the bounds
That dark eternity surrounds,

And mingled with her awful stream, Like frost-work in the noontide beam.

XI.

The relics of the brave remain

To moulder in the soil of Spain;
The mild autumnal breeze had spread
With her pale scattered leaves their bed;
Iberia's short-lived winter threw

The transient veil of spotless hue;
And Spring had bade her wild-flowers wave
Luxuriant o'er the soldier's grave,
Ere parting from the warlike train,
Fitz-Arthur sought St. Clara's fane.

XII.

His pensive way was long and lone ;-
The evening fell serenely mild,
And Cynthia from her azure throne,
August in tranquil beauty smiled;
But sad and cheerless fell the rays,
Unwelcome to his altered gaze;

A holy anthem, deep and clear,
Now strikes on his attentive ear;-
Behind a column's friendly height,
He screens him from the glare of light,
And views with sad prophetic eye,
The long procession winding nigh.
Bernardo leads the drooping train

With faultering step and motion slow, His hands the sacred cross sustain,

His placid cheek is blanched by woe. Along the pillared aisle they spread And now they bend their measured tread So near Fitz-Arthur's shaded stand, That every feature of the band

His eye might trace distinct and clear; But all unmarked they came and went, His keen enquiring gaze was bent

On nought but the approaching bier.

XV.

Bright fell the taper's funeral ray, Where robed in vestal garb she lay !

He thought of where those moon-beams strayed Through the light texture of the veil

O'er his loved Ronald's lowly bed;

The breeze that whispered from the shade, The rill that murmured through the glade, All spoke of the lamented dead.

XIII.

With heavy heart, and dewy eye, Slowly he paced the well-known dell, Till sounding from the turret nigh,

He hears once more the hallowed bell. It comes not with that cheerful chime, That rose so sweet in other days, To mark the lapsing course of time,

Or call the Nuns to prayer and praise.

Oh no! it is the awful toll
That tells of a departed soul !
With quickened step he seeks the gates

That ope to his remembered call,
His boding heart no question waits,-
He presses to the Convent hall.
Silent and dark is all around,

But streams of radiance paint the ground,
Where the long corridor extends;
And there his stealing step he bends.

XIV.

Sudden a pealing note arose,
With lofty swell and solemn close;

Shone that fair face so sweetly pale,-
Save the dark lash and graceful brow,
No shade obscured its virgin snow,
She looked as if a peaceful rest

Had sealed her beaming eyes awhile,
And still her half-closed lips expressed

Their meek and melancholy smile.
Her hands were joined, as if in prayer,
And their transparent hues declare
That lingering Death with long delay
Had hovered o'er his patient prey.
The sisters' pious care had strewed

The fragrant herb and blooming flower, And fancy might have deemed she viewed A lily in a roseate bower.

Fitz-Arthur gazed, till borne along,
The bier was lost amid the throng,
And the full tide of bursting grief
Gave his o'erburthened heart relief,
While in majestic harmony
Maria's requiem rose on high.

Her's was that deep and solemn knell! That taper's glimmering radiance fell Where in the dark and silent clay,

She rests from earthly woes,— And the sad strain that died away, Was for her soul's repose.

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