To Bethlehem's air was their last anthem given,
When other stars before that ONE grew dim?
Was their last presence known in Peter's prison?
Or where exulting martyrs raised the hymn?

And are they all within their veil departed?
There gleams no wing along the empyrean now;
And many a tear from human eyes has started,
Since angel touch has calmed a mortal brow.

Yet earth has angels, though their forms are moulded But of such clay as fashions all below

Though harps are wanted, and bright pinions folded, We know them by the love-light on their brow.

i have seen angels by the sick one's pillow

Theirs was the soft tone and the soundless treadWhere smitten hearts were drooping like the willow, They stood between the living and the dead.

And if my sight, by earthly dimness hindered,
Beheld no hovering cherubim in air,

I doubt not, for their spirits knew their kindred,
They smiled upon the wingless watchers there.

There have been angels in the gloomy prison

In crowded halls-by the lone widow's hearth; And where they passed, the fallen have uprisenThe giddy paused, the mourner's hope had birth.

I have seen one, whose eloquence commanding

Roused the rich echoes of the human breast;
The blandishment of ease and wealth withstanding,
That hope might reach the suffering and opprest.

And by his side there moved a form of beauty,
Strewing sweet flowers along his path of life,
And, looking up with meek and love-lent duty;
I called her angel, and he called her wife.

Oh, many a spirit walks the earth unheeded,
That, when the veil of sadness is laid down,
Shall soar aloft, with pinions unimpeded,

And wear its glory like a starry crown.

ADDRESS TO SPAIN.

451

CIX.-ADDRESS TO SPAIN.

BYRON.

AWAKE, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance!
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries;
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar:
In every peal she calls-" Awake! arise!"
Say is her voice more feeble than of
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?

yore,

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high-from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe,
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, now anon
Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;

For on this morn three potent nations meet,

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met—as if at home they could not die-
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot-Ambition's honor'd fools! Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what?- -a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?