LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done, More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain❜d. XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera lavish of the dead, Have won for Spain her well asserted right. When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil! XCI. And thou, my friend!"-since unavailing woe By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! Till my XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ye who of him may further seek to know, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd. END OF CANTO I. |