THE

VISION OF DON RODERICK,

A

INTRODUCTION.

I.

LIVES there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire

May rise distinguish'd o'er the din of war,

Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre,
Who sung beleaguer'd 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 swell'd 'twixt each loud trumpet-change, That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!