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Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon Flashing afar—and at his iron feet 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.
By heaven! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their faugs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share; The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, A ad havoc scarce for joy can number their array.
Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
There shall they rot—Ambition's honoured fools! Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clayJ 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?
Oh , Albuera ! glorious field of grief! As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed 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!
Enough of Battle's minions! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name, lu sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good, And die, that living might have proved her shame; Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.
Fall swiftly Harold wends his lonely way
But all nnconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Nor bleed these patriots with t1ieir country's wounds Not here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds: Here folly still his votaries enthralls; 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.
Not so the rustic—with his trembling matt He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet: Ah, monarchsi 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! XLV1II.
How carols now the lusty muleteer? '.
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome ke was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds, he chaun-ts: « Viva el Hey! » Aud 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.
On yon long, level plain, at distance crowned With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground; And, scathed by fire, the green sward's darkened vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host; Here the hold peasant stormed the dragon's nest; Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, Atid points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.
And whomsoe'er along the path you meet, r- ]• Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, . , Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet: Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI.
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At every turn Morena's dusky height
Portend the deeds to come :—but he whose nod
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; • 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, Aqd thou shall view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.
And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign? No step between submission and a grave? The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? And doth the power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? Is all that desperate valour acts in vain? And counsel sage and pntriotic zeal, The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel?