For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! | |
Woe to the conqu’ring, not the conquer’d host, | |
305 | 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. | |
310 | How will posterity the deed proclaim! |
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, | |
To view these champions cheated of their fame, | |
By foes in fight o’erthrown, yet victors here, | |
Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year? | |
XXVII | |
315 | 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, | |
320 | For Meditation fix’d at times on him; |
And conscious Reason whisper’d to despise | |
His early youth, misspent in maddest whim; | |
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. | |
XXVIII | |
To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits | |
325 | 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; | |
330 | And o’er him many changing scenes must roll |
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, | |
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. | |
XXIX | |
Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, | |
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians’ luckless queen; | |
335 | 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, | |
340 | 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 joyaunce fills, | |
345 | 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, | |
350 | 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, | |
355 | Spain’s realms appear whereon her shepherds tend |
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 | |
360 | 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? | |
365 | 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 Gaul: | |
XXXIII | |
But these between a silver streamlet glides, | |
370 | 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 rippling waves doth look, | |
That peaceful still ’twixt bitterest foemen flow; | |
375 | 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. | |
XXXIV | |
But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass’d | |
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along | |
380 | In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, |
So noted ancient roundelays among. | |
Whilome upon his banks did legions through | |
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest: | |
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; | |
385 | The Paynim turban and the Christian crest |
Mix’d on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress’d. | |
XXXV | |
Oh, lovely Spain! renown’d, romantic land! | |
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, | |
When Cava’s traitor-sire first call’d the band | |
390 | 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 gleam’d the cross, and waned the crescent pale, | |
395 | While Afric’s echoes thrill’d 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. | |
400 | 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 | |
405 | 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, | |
410 | 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? | |
415 | 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 | |
420 | 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 deep’ning in the sun, | |
425 | 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; | |
430 | 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 mix’d embroidery, | |
435 | 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, | |
440 | And Havoc scarce for joy can number 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! | |
445 | The foe, the victim, and the fond ally |
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, |