XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, XXXI. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend: And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes. XXXII. Where Lusitania and her sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul: XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides, Here leaus the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow; For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know "Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low, 6 XXXIV. But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest: Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed. XXXV. Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land! Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, When Cava's traitor- sire first called the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore? 7 Where are those bloody banners which of yore pale, While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail. XXXVI. Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? Can Volume, Pillar, Pile preserve thee great? Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does 'thee wrong? XXXVII. Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, song was heard on Andalusia's Hark! -- XXXVIII. heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. XXXIX. Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. |