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LXXXVIII.
Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain;
Look on the hands with female slaughter red;
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,
Then to the culture let each corse remain ;
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain,

Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!

LXXXIX.
Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done;
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees :
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees
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 shod,
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!

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END OF CANTO THE FIRST.

CANTO THE SECOND.

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