XLI. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 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 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? XLIII. 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? XLIV. 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. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where desolation plants her famish'd brood XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, Not here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds; 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. XLVII. Not so the rustic-with his trembling mate Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 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? As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, boy, [joy. And gore-fac'd Treason sprung from her adulterate XLIX. 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. L. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet: (9) Wo 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 foemen rue, 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, The ball-piled pyramid, the ever blazing match, (10) LII. [way; 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 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 un[hurl'd. And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades furl'd, LIII. 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 Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel? LIV. Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsex'd, the Anlace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. LV. Ye who shall marvel when ye hear her tale, veil, Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. LVI. Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear; |