XXXV. Oh, lovely Spain! renown'd, romantic land! That dyed thy mountain streams with gothic gore?" 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, grave 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! Yes, honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, 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. Oh, 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! Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song! XLIV. Enough of battle's minions! let them play Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good, And die, that living might have proved her shame; Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild rapine's path pursued. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; Here folly still his votaries inthrals; And young-eyed lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, Still to the last kind vice clings to the tott'ring walls. XLVII. Not so the rustic-with his trembling mate Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of glory would ye fret; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and man be happy yet! XLVIII. How carols now the lusty muleteer? Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, No! as he speeds, he chants, « Viva el Rey!» 8 The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. |