XVIII. Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes- In variegated maze of mount and glen. Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken XIX. The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. XX. Then slowly climb the many-winding way, And rest ye at our " Lady's house of woe;"(2) Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo! XXI. And here and there, as up the crags you spring, These are memorials frail of murderous wrath: And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. (3) XXII. On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilome kings did make repair; And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. XXIII. Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow: But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide! XXIV. Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened !(4) Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend, A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, And sundry signatures adorn the roll, Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soul. XXV. Convention is the dwarfish demon styled That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! XXVI. And ever since that martial synod met, And folks in office at the mention fret, And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. How will posterity the deed proclaim! Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, To view these champions cheated of their fame, By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year? XXVII. So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he Did take his way in solitary guise: Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. |