XXXII. Where Lusitania and her sister meet, Deem Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow; For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. (6) XXXIV. But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. XXXV. Oh, lovely Spain! renown'd, romantic land! That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore? (7) Where are those bloody banners which of yore Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? 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? XXXVII. Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! Say, is When more feeble than of yore, as 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; 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; 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 Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. |