Scene—the Church of St Jerome, Granada.

A Traveller—A Spaniard.
Whose grave is this ?— a stranger-eye, like mine,1
Can hardly trace the legend’s time-worn line ;2
The slab is simple—yet, I know not why,3
It seems as if no common dust should lie4
Beneath. This reverend building’s central nave5
Might suit a king’s, a saint’s, a hero’s grave :—6
Which of the three lies here ?
The last :— who died7
As he had lived, his country’s boast and pride8
Statesman and warrior—who, with patient toil,9
Scant and exhausted legions taught to foil10
Skill, valour, numbers ; one who never sought11
A selfish glory on the fields he fought ;12
Who spoke, felt, breathed but for his country’s weal,13
Her power to stablish, and her wounds to heal14
The dread of France, when France was most the dread15
Of all.
How’s this ?— Can Wellington be dead16
And buried here ?— and yet my note-book calls17
The church we see St Jerome’s, not St Paul’s.18
Sir, with your leave, all this may well be so,19
For Cordova’s Great Captain sleeps below :20
Here—in three words to make the matter plain21
Gonsalvo lies—the Wellington of Spain !22