Selected Poems (19 page)

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.
¹

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.
¹

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?
²

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,