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And is it among rude untutored Dales,
There, and there only, that the heart is true?
And, rising to repel or to subdue,
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails?
Ah, no!—though Nature's dread protection fails
There is a bulwark in the soul.—This knew
Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales
Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt
By Palafox, and many a brave Compeer,
Like him of noble birth and noble mind;
By Ladies, meek-eyed Women without fear;
And Wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt
The bread which without industry they find.

XII.

O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
Dwells in the affections and the soul of man
A Godhead, like the universal Pan,
But more exalted, with a brighter train.
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain,
Showered equally on City and on Field,
And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield
In these usurping times of fear and pain?
Such doom awaits us.—Nay, forbid it Heaven!
We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws
To which the triumph of all good is given,
High sacrifice, and labour without pause,
Even to the death:—else wherefore should the eye
Of man converse with immortality?

XIII.

ON THE

FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE.

It was a moral end for which they fought;

Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,

Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,

A resolution, or enlivening thought?

Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought;

For in their magnanimity and fame

Powers have they left—an impulse—and a claim

Which neither can be overturned nor bought.

Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose!

We know that ye, beneath the stern controul

Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul.

And when, impatient of her guilt and woes

Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise

For perfect triumph o'er your'Enemies.

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Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye
We can approach, thy sorrow to behold,
Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold;
Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh.
These desolate Remains are trophies high
Of more than martial courage in the breast
Of peaceful civic virtue: they attest
Thy matchless worth to all posterity.
Blood flowed before thy sight without remorse;
Disease consumed thy vitals; War upheaved
The ground beneath thee with volcanic force;
Dread trials! yet encountered and sustained
Till not a wreck of help or hope remained,
And Law was from necessity received.

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Say, what is Honour?—'Tis the finest sense Of justice which the human mind can frame, Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, And guard the way of life from all offence . ,Suffered or done. When lawless violence A Kingdom doth assault, and in the scale Of perilous war her weightiest Armies fail, Honour is hopeful elevation—whence Glory—and Triumph. Yet with politic skill Endangered States may yield to terms unjust, Stoop their proud heads ;—but not unto the dust,— A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil!Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust Are forfeited; but infamy doth kill.

Vol. H. R

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