The Battle of Maclodio, (or Macalo,)—an Ode.
Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet's sound,
A loud, shrill trumpet from the left replies!
On every side hoarse echoes from the ground
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise,
Hollow and deep—and banners all around,
Meet hostile banners waving to the skies;
Here steel-clad bands in marshall'd order shine,
And there a host confronts their glittering line.
Lo! half the field already from the sight
Hath vanish'd, hid by closing groups of foes!
Swords crossing swords, flash lightning o'er the fight,
And the strife deepens, and the life-blood flows!
Oh! who are these? What stranger in his might
Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose?
What patriot hearts have nobly vow'd to save
Their native soil, or make its dust their grave?
One race, alas! these foes, one kindred race,
Were born and rear'd the same fair scenes among!
The stranger calls them brothers—and each face
That brotherhood reveals;—one common tongue
Dwells on their lips—the earth on which we trace
Their heart's blood—is the soil from whence they sprung.
One mother gave them birth—this chosen land,
Circled with Alps and seas, by Nature's guardian hand.
O grief and horror! who the first could dare
Against a brother's breast the sword to wield?
What cause unhallow'd and accurs'd, declare,
Hath bath'd with carnage this ignoble field?
Think'st thou they know?—they but inflict and share
Misery and death, the motive unreveal'd!
—Sold to a leader, sold himself to die,
With him they strive, they fall—and ask not why.
But are there none who love them? Have they none,
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between,
