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 number 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 fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! By myriads, when they dare to pave their way' XLIII. Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed, 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 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 Desolation plants her famished brood XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, Not here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds; And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. Not so the rustic XLVII. with his trembling mate Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet! VOL. I. C XLVIII. How carols now the lusty muleteer? Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day boy, And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulte rate 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 green sward's darkened Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the bold 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. |