XLI. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. XLII. There shall they rot-Ambition's honoured fools! Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! Till others fall where other chieftains lead Enough of Battle's minions! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where Desolation plants her famished brood, But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls. Not so the rustic---with his trembling mate Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 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, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds, he chaunts; "Viva el Rey!" (8) And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 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. D XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crowned Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host- And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. At every turn Morena's dusky height The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch, Portend the deeds to come:-but he whose nod A little moment deigneth to delay: Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; The West must own the Scourger of the world. Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled, And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled. |