XXXVII. Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard, on Andalusia's shore? XXXVIII. Hark! heard you 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, 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 havoc scarce for joy, can number their array, XLI. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, And fertilize 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 humau 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 pricked his steed, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! 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 re-animate 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 desolation plants her famished brood XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; Here folly still his votaries enthralls; 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 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? Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds, he chaunts; « Viva el Rey ! » 8 And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crowned |