Wo to the conquʼring, not the conquer'd host, Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast! XXVI. And ever since that martial synod met, 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 year? 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. XXVIII. To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. XXIX. Yet Mafra shall 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 guilt. XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld 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, Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows 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? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?- 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 In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, Whilome upon his banks did legions throng strong; press'd. XXXV. Ob, lovely Spain ! renown'd romantic land! Where are those bloody banners which of yore 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? 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? 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; 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. |