XXXV. Oh, lovely Spain! renown'd, romantic land! 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? XXXVIII. Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? 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. XXXIX. Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 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; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. XLII. There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools! By myriads, when they dare to pave their way XLIII. O 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 Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: Fame that will scarce re-animate 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. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Blackening her lovely domes, with traces rude. Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls. XLVII. Not so the rustic-with his trembling mate No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star Ah, monarchs! 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! XLVIII. How carols now the lusty muleteer? Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds he chants "Viva el Rey!" And 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. XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. L. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 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 Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, LII. Portend the deeds to come:-but he whose nod A little moment deigneth to delay: |