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(From Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage)
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, | 5 |
| 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? | |
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| Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; | |
| Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, | |
| Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. | |
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| Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, | |
| His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, | 20 |
| 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; | 25 |
| For on this morn three potent nations meet, | |
| To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. | |
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| By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see | |
| (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) | |
| Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery, | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. | |
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| 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! | 40 |
| 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 fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. | 45 |
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| There shall they rot,—Ambition’s honored fools! | |
| Yes, honor 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 | 50 |
| 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? | |
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