LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!" (18) LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done; 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? When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil! XCI. And thou, my friend! (19)—since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strainHad the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain: But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO II. I. COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven!--but thou, alas! Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow. (2) II. Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone-glimmering through the dream of things that First in the race that led to Glory's goal, [were: They won, and pass'd away—is this the whole? Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. VOL. I. E |