And ever since that martial synod met, How will posterity the deed proclaim! Did take his way in solitary guise : More restless than the swallow in the skies: sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt. And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the tra der knows Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes. Where Lusitania and her sister meet, In every peal she calls-"Awake! arise!" Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore? Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote; Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?—the fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high:-from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 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 fix'd, 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 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. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies; The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 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 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 prick'd his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! Peace to the perish'd! 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. In 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; Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : Yet is she free-the spoiler's wish'd-for prey! Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. Inevitable hour! "Gainst fate to strive Where Desolation plants her famished brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, she song, the revel here abounds; Strange modes of merriment the hours con sume, Nor bleed these patriots with their 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: How carols now the lusty muleteer? His quick bells wildly jingling on the And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground; And, scathed by fire, the green sward's darken'd vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest; Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Woe to the man that walks in public view At every turn Morena's dusky height Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, tott'ring walls. match, Portend the deeds to come:-but he whose nod | Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, The West must own the Scourger of the Ah,Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, unfurl'd, But form'd for all the witching arts of love: And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to The seal Love's dimpling finger hath im Hades hurl'd. And must they fall? the young, the proud, No step between submission and a grave? Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, power, Her lover sinks—she sheds no ill-timed tear; reer; The foe retires--she heads the sallying host: Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, pressed Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak! Match me,yeclimes! which poets love to laud; To taste the gale lest Love should ride the With Spain's dark - glancing daughters— deign to know, There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty! Though from thy heights no more one Muse Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. When Paphos fell by Time-accursed Time! And consecrate the oath with draught, and The queen who conquers all must yield to thee The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venue, constant to her native sea, Though not to one dome circumscribeth she dance till morn. All have their fooleries-not alike are thine, |