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185
SONNET. II.
Upon thy hills oh Spain, War's beacon gleams,Battle's shrill Clarion startles thy soft air—
Spears glance and banners float! the sight is fair,
The sound is noble, by thy rolling streams—
And brings to mind a thousand glorious dreams,
But say, doth murder—heinous murder there
Her blood-stained arm with barbarous triumph bare?
What mean those groans, those yells, those echoing screams?
Alas! the Brave, the Gallant, and the Bold,
Must they escaping the honourable death
Upon the well-fought field—slow, slow and cold,
Have judgment dealt on them?—the laurel wreath
Shall wither on their brows, who thus have tolled
High Chivalrous Feeling's knell, on Battle's sanguined heath!
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