The Vision of Don Roderick

PREFACE

The following Poem is founded upon a Spanish Tradition, bearing, in
general, that Don Roderick, the last Gothic King of Spain, when the
invasion of the Moors was depending, had the temerity to descend
into an ancient vault, near Toledo, the opening of which had been
denounced as fatal to the Spanish Monarchy. The legend adds, that
his rash curiosity was mortified by an emblematical representation
of those Saracens who, in the year 714, defeated him in battle, and
reduced Spain under their dominion. I have presumed to prolong the
Vision of the Revolutions of Spain down to the present eventful
crisis of the Peninsula, and to divide it, by a supposed change of
scene, into, THREE PERIODS. The FIRST of these represents the
Invasion of the Moors, the Defeat and Death of Roderick, and closes
with the peaceful occupation of the country by the victors. The
SECOND PERIOD embraces the state of the Peninsula when the conquests
of the Spaniards and Portuguese in the East and West Indies had
raised to the highest pitch the renown of their arms; sullied,
however, by superstition and cruelty. An allusion to the
inhumanities of the Inquisition terminates this picture. The LAST
PART of the Poem opens with the state of Spain previous to the
unparalleled treachery of BUONAPARTE, gives a sketch of the
usurpation attempted upon that unsuspicious and friendly kingdom,
and terminates with the arrival of the British succours. It may be
further proper to mention, that the object of the Poem is less to
commemorate or detail particular incidents, than to exhibit a
general and impressive picture of the several periods brought upon
the stage.

EDINBURGH, June 24, 1811.

INTRODUCTION.

I.
Lives there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire
May rise distinguished o'er the din of war;
Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre
Who sung beleaguered Ilion's evil star?
Such, WELLINGTON, might reach thee from afar,
Wafting its descant wide o'er Ocean's range;
Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood could mar,
All, as it swelled 'twixt each loud trumpet-change,
That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!

II.
Yes! such a strain, with all o'er-pouring measure,
Might melodise with each tumultuous sound
Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure,
That rings Mondego's ravaged shores around;
The thundering cry of hosts with conquest crowned,
The female shriek, the ruined peasant's moan,
The shout of captives from their chains unbound,
The foiled oppressor's deep and sullen groan,
A Nation's choral hymn, for tyranny o'erthrown.

III.
But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day
Skilled but to imitate an elder page,
Timid and raptureless, can we