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Wo to the conqu’ring, not the conquer'd host, Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast !

XXVI. And ever since that martial synod met, Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name ; 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 foe's in fight o’erthrown, yet victors here, Where scorn her finger points thro' many a coming


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, More restless than the swallow in the skies: Though here awhile he learn’d to moralize, For meditation fix'd at times on him ; And conscious reason whisper'd to despise

His early youth, mispent in maddest whim; But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew him.

To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul :
Again he rouses from his moping fits,
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll

Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, (sage. Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience

XXIX. Yet Mafra sball one moment claim delay, (5) Where dwell 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


XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upbeld a freeborn race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyance 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.

XXXI. 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 realm's appear whereon her shepherds

tend Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader

knowsNow must the pastor's arm bis lambs deferid:

For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's XXXII, Where Lusitania and her sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ?Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,


Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from



XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the ripling waves doth look, That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow; For proud each peasant as the noblest duke:

Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know "Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the

low. (6)

XXXIV. But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd Dark Guardiana rolls his power along In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, So noted ancient roundelays among. Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 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 op


Ob, lovely Spain ! renown'd romantic land!
Where is that standard which Pelagia bore,
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 yorc
Wav'd 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'


XXXVI, Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? Ah! such, alas! the hero's amplest fate! When granite moulders and when records fail, A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine

estate, See how the Mighty shrink into a song ! 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 ! Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar : 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?

XXXVIII. 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


XXXIX. 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


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! Al 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,

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