Childe Harolds Pilgrimage | Page 5

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 shore?
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;?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?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 deepening in the sun,?With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,?And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;?Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon?Flashing afar,--and at his iron feet?Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;?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 mixed 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 cumber 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 fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.
XLII.
There shall they rot--Ambition's honoured 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 bone?
XLIII.
O Albuera, glorious field of grief!?As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,?Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,?A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed.?Peace to the perished! 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 transient 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;?Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud,?Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.
XLV.
Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way?Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:?Yet is she free--the spoiler's wished-for prey!?Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude,?Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.?Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive?Where Desolation plants her famished brood?Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive,?And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.
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 sounds;?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 tottering walls.
XLVII.
Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate?He lurks, 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 ye 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 cheer,?His quick bells wildly jingling on the way??No! as he speeds, he chants 'Viva el Rey!'?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 joy.
XLIX.
On yon long level plain, at distance crowned?With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,?Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;?And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest?Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:?Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,?Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon's nest;?Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,?And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.
L.
And whomsoe'er along the path you meet?Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,?Which