By Isis' hallow'd stream. Oft' now the strand
Where Gama march'd his death devoted band,
While Lisboa awed with horror saw him spread
The daring sails that first to India led;
And oft' Almada's castled steep inspires
The pensive Muse's visionary fires;
Almada Hill to English Memory dear,
While shades of English heroes wander here!
To ancient English valor sacred still
Remains, and ever shall, Almada Hill;
The hill and lawns to English valor given
What time the Arab Moors from Spain were driven,
Before the banners of the Cross subdued,
When Lisboa's towers were bathed in Moorish blood
By Gloster's lance.-Romantic days that yield
Of gallant deeds a wide luxuriant field,
Dear to the Muse that loves the fairy plains
Where ancient honor, wild and ardent reigns.
Where high o'er Tago's flood Almada lowers,
Amid' the solemn pomp of mouldering towers
Supinely seated, wide and far around
My eye delighted wanders.-Here the bound
Of fair Europa o'er the Ocean rears
It's western edge; where dimly disappears
The Atlantic wave, the slow descending day,
Mild beaming pours serene the gentle ray
Of Lusitania's winter, silvering o'er
The tower-like summits of the mountain shore;
Vol. IV.
Dappling the lofty cliffs that coldly throw
Their sable horrors o'er the vales below.
Far round the stately-shoulder'd river bends
It's giant arms, and sea-like wide extends
It's midland bays, with fertile islands crown'd,
And lawns for English valor still renown'd:
Given to Cornwallia's gallant sons of yore,
Cornwallia's name the smiling pastures bore ;
And still their Lord his English lineage boasts
From Rolland famous in the Croisade Hosts.
Where sea-ward narrower rolls the shining tide
Through hills by hills embosom'd on each side,
Monastic walls in every glen arise
In coldest white fair glistening to the skies
Amid the brown-brow'd rocks; and, far as sight,
Proud domes and villages array'd in white
Climb o'er the steeps, and thro' the dusky green
Of olive groves, and orange bowers between,
Speckled with glowing red, unnumber'd gleam—
And Lisboa towering o'er the lordly stream
Her marble palaces and temples spreads
Wildly magnific o'er the loaded heads
Of bending hills, along whose high. pil'd base
The port capacious, in a moon'd embrace,
Throws her mast-forest, waving on the gale
The vanes of every shore that hoists the sail.
Here while the Sun from Europe's breast retires, Let Fancy, roaming as the scene inspires,
Pursue the present, and the past restore,
And Nature's purpose in her steps explore.
Nor you, my Friend, admiring Rome, disdain
Th' Iberian fields and Lusitanian Spain.
While Italy, obscur'd in tawdry blaze,
A motley, modern character displays,
And languid trims her long exhausted store;
Lberia's fields with rich and genuine ore
Of ancient manners, woo the traveller's eye;
And scenes untrac'd in every landscape lie.
Here every various dale with lessons fraught
Calls to the wanderer's visionary thought
What mighty deeds the lofty hills of Spain
Of old have witness'd-From the evening main
Her mountain tops the Tyrian pilots saw
In lightnings wrapt, and thrill'd with sacred awe.
Thro' Greece the tales of Gorgon, Hydras spread,
And Geryon dreadful with the triple head;
The stream of Lethe, and the dread abodes
Of forms gigantic, and infernal gods.
But soon, by fearless lust of gold impell'd,
They min'd the mountain, and explor'd the field; 'Till Rome and Carthage, fierce for empire, strove, As for their prey two famish'd birds of Jove.
The rapid Durius' then and Boetis' flood
Were dyed with Roman and with Punic blood, While oft' the length'ning plains and mountain sides Seem'd moving on, slow rolling tides on tides,
When from Pyrene's summits Afric pour'd
Her armies, and o'er Rome destruction lour'd.
Here while the Youth revolves some Hero's fame, If patriot zeal his British breast inflame,
Here let him trace the fields to freedom dear
Where low in dust lay Rome's invading spear;
Where Viriatus proudly trampled o'er
Fasces and Roman eagles steept in gore;
Or where he fell, with honest laurels crown'd,
The awful victim of a treach'rous wound;
A wound still bath'd in Honor's generous tear;
While Freedom's wounds the brave and good revere;
Still pouring fresh th' inexpiable stain,
O'er Rome's patrician honor false and vain!
Or should the pride of bold revolt inspire, And touch his bosom with unhallow'd fire; If merit spurn'd demands stern sacrifice, O'er Ev'ra's fields let dread Sertorius rise. Dyed in his country's blood, in all the pride Of wrongs reveng'd, illustrious let him ride Enshrin'd, o'er Spain, in Victory's dazzling rays, 'Till Rome look pale beneath the mounting blaze. But let the British wanderer thro' the dales Of Ev'ra stray, while midnight tempest wails: There, as the hoary villagers relate Sertorius, Sylla, Marius, weep their fate, Their spectres gliding on the lightning blue,
Oft' doom'd their ancient stations to renew;
Sertorius bleeding on Perpenna's knife,
And Marius sinking in ambition's strife;
As forest boars entangled in a chain,
Dragg'd on, as stings each Leader's rage or pain;
And each the furious Leader in his turn,
'Till low they lie, a ghastly wreck forlorn.
And say, ye tramplers on your country's mounds,
Say who shall fix the swelling torrent's bounds?
Or who shall sail the pilot of the flood?
Alas, full oft' some worthless trunk of wood
Is whirl'd into the port, blind Fortune's boast,
While noblest vessels, founder'd, strew the coast!
If wars of fairer fame and old applause,
That bear the title of our country's cause,
To humanise barbarians, and to raise
Our country's prowess, their asserted praise;
If these delight, Hispania's dales display
The various arts and toils of Roman sway.
Here jealous Cato laid the cities waste,
And Julius here in fairer pride replac'd,
'Till ages saw the labors of the plough
By every river, and the barren bough
Of laurel shaded by the olive's bloom,
And grateful Spain the strength of lordly Rome;
Her's mighty bards, and her's the sacred earth
That gave the world a friend in Trajan's birth.
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