XXVIII. To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul: But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. And o'er him many changing scenes must roll Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. XXIX. Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,(5) Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless queen; And church and court did mingle their array, And mass and revel were alternate seen; Lordlings and freres-ill-sorted fry I ween! But here the Babylonian whore hath built A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt. XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. XXXI. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 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. XXXII. Where Lusitania and her sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, "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, Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest: Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. XXXV. Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land! When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 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? Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong? XXXVII. Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore? |