XXXVII. Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! 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? Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 1 XXXIX. Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, 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, XLI. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, And fertilise 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 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. Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grier! A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, |