XXII. On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilome kings did make repair: And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son, When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. * XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld a free-born race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. XXXI. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes. XXXII. Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?— Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, XXXIV. But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Of Moor and Knight, in mailèd splendor drest ; Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. XXXV. Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land! Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale, While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail. XXXVI. Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great? Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong? XXXVII. Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore? XXXVIII. Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. XXXIX. Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands, Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. XL. By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share : The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. XLI. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. XLII. There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools! The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what?- -a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? XLIII. O Albuera, glorious field of grief! As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed? And tears of triumph their reward prolong! Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song. |