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      'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.

      XXXIV.

      But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed,

       Dark Guadiana 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

      Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed.

      XXXV.

      Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land!

       Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,

       When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band

       That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore?

       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 gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale,

      While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail.

      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 shock.

      XXXIX.

      Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,

       His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,

       With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,

       And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;

       Restless it rolls, now fixed, 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 sweet.

      XL.

      By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see

       (For one who hath no friend, no brother there)

       Their rival scarfs of mixed 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 cumber their array.

      XLI.

      Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

       Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;

       Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.

       The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!

       The foe, the victim, and the fond ally

       That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,

       Are met—as if at home they could not die—

       To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,

      And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.

      XLII.

      There shall they rot—Ambition's honoured fools!

       Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!

       Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,

       The broken tools, that tyrants cast away

       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.

      O Albuera, glorious field of grief!

       As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,

       Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,

       A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed.

       Peace to the perished! 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;

       Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud,

      Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.

      XLV.

      Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way

       Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:

       Yet is she free—the spoiler's wished-for prey!

      

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