LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!” (18) LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe Can act, is acting there against man's life: From flashing scimitar to secret knife, War mouldeth there each weapon to his needSo may he guard the sister and the wife, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain'd. XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Have won for Spain her well asserted right. XCI. And thou, my friend! (19)—since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain— Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain: But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much? stern Critic! say not so: Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doom'd to go: Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO II. I. COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven!-but thou, alas! Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow. (2) II. Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone-glimmering through the dream of things that First in the race that led to Glory's goal, [were: They won, and pass'd away-is this the whole? A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. VOL. I. E |