XXXVIII. Hark!-heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? Red Battle stamps his foot and nations feel the shock. XXXIX. Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 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, Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for their 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; 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 hears 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! And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song. XLIV. Enough of Battle's minions! let them play Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursu'd. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way XLVI. But all unconcious of the coming doom, 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, The hoarse full 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; "Vivael 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-ey'd boy, And gore-fac'd Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. L. 1 And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Without of loyalty this token true; Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height LII. Portend the deeds to come :-but he whose nod A little moment deigneth to delay; Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; The West must own the Scourger of the world. Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day, When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings uufurl'd, And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd. LIII. And must they fall, the young, the proud, the brave, [steel; The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of LIV. Is it for this the Spanish maid arous'd, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsex'd, the Anlace hath espous'd, Sung the loud song, and dar'd the deed of war ? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread. Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead [tread. Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to LV. Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, Thin the clos'd ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. LVI. Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-tim'd tear; What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost? Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall? (11) LVII. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, Remoter females, fam'd for sickening prate; C |