« السابقةمتابعة »
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader
knowsNow must the pastor's arm his lambs defend :
For Spain is compassid by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's
AXI. 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? 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
XXXIII. 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 rippling 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
XXXIV. But ere the mingling bounds have far been
pass'd, 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 Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts
Xxxv. Oh, lovely Spain! renown'd, romantic land! Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, When Cava's traitor-sire first calld the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic
gore?7) 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, While Afric's echoes thrillid with Moorish ma
See esta bendPlaint
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
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;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
XXXIX. -Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,
done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems
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.
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 fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.
XLII. There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd 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
XLIII. Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! As 'o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and
bleed! Peace to the perish'd! 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 transi. ent 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;
Perish'd, perchance, in some 'domestic feud, Or in narrower sphere wild Rapine's path persued.
xlv. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : Yet is she free-the spoiler's wish'd.for prey ! Soon, soon hall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive,
XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds: Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Nor bleed these patriots with their country's
wounds: Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sou Here Folly still his votaries inthralls; 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
XLVII. Not so the rustic-with his trembling mate He Turks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : Ah, monarchs! could ve 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 che His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds, he chants, «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