A POET'S PASSION. 191 



and that Tarragona should be a second Saragossa. For three days 

 the breach was gallantly defended, but no hopes remained of main- 

 taining the place; and notwithstanding a detachment of our own 

 troops had arrived for its defence, our chiefs would not suffer their 

 lives be risked in so hopeless a service. This occasioned great ani- 

 mosities between the Spanish and English commanders, in the midst 

 of which Marshal Suchet ordered the assault, which was executed in 

 open day light, and the whole line of batteries were carried at the same 

 time. The slaughter was tremendous ! The Spaniards defended 

 every street, and almost every house; but they were gradually obliged 

 to give way, and endeavoured to make their escape by scrambling 

 over the walls to the eastward, where our boats were waiting to em- 

 bark them. The French, however, had sent round a squadron of 

 cavalry who charged these poor defenceless beings down to the 

 water's edge, driving men, women, children, and priests into the 

 sea. Every atrocity was committed within the town that could be 

 imagined; neither age nor sex being spared. The governor was 

 taken prisoner, after being badly wounded in defending his own 

 house; Sarsfield escaped by cutting his way through the enemy's 

 cavalry. I shall never forget our departure from Tarragona that 

 evening as we made our way under easy sail for the neighbouring 

 town of Villa Nueva, our decks crowded with sick and wounded 

 Spaniards, our boats out in all directions to pick up the unfortunate 

 stragglers, and the distant cathedral, which, three hours before, I 

 had seen filled with wounded, blazing behind us, so that the 

 greater part of these unfortunate wretches must have perished in the 

 flames ! 



" Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris ! 

 Just ponder what a pretty pastime war is \" 



A POET'S PASSION. 



BY KENRICK VAN WINCKLE. 



Ye rocks, and groves, and hills, 



With meadows at your base, 

 Ye winding streams, and you, ye shady rills, 

 How boundless is your beauty and your grace ? 

 O stamp your mirror'd beauty on my soul, 

 As though it were a scroll. 



O would that I could grasp 



The mountains in my arms ! 

 O would that I exultingly could clasp 

 All nature in the richness of her charms ! 

 And bathe me in the sunset's burning gold 

 And light's pure fount behold ! 



