Classic Poem

But those were stirring times; for England's lance
Was rushing fiery o'er the fields of Spain.
Before it waved the plume of vaunting France,
Waved, to be rent on mount, and stream, and plain.
Not for herself, fair Albion shook the steel,
That oft had blazed before the Catalan,
Making the squadrons of the Moormen reel;
It led th' Imperial Austrian's hopeless van.
But France was swept before it, as the tide
Before some lordly vessel's plunging prow,
Yet still, though scattered foaming from her side,
Filling her track, tumultuous, baffled, slow.
War raged: and where it rages, is wild woe;
And all its curse was heavy upon Spain;
Her heaven and earth were changed; the crystal well
Was now a grave, a sanguine pit of slain;
The hamlet was a waste, the vineyard dell
Was now the pining peasant's chilling lair;
Along the thymy slope, where gentle eyes
Oft watch'd the rising of the evening star,
Signal of love, and lover's melodies,
Now burst at eve the burning temple's glare;
But glorious England, thine was not the lance
That ever stain'd its brightness with a tear.
And when did haughty, headlong, heartless France
Pause o'er the prostrate in her wild career?
Sebastian saw the wreck; his father's vane
Had waved against the Frank in many a field;
The Austrian bird soon cover'd its red shield;
He called his serfs, a bold and crowded train,
Heard their first shout, and was himself again.