The Works of Lord Byron Volume II Part 4

With diadem hight Foolscap, lo! a Fiend, A little Fiend that scoffs incessantly, There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by[bf]

His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry,[bg]

And sundry signatures adorn the roll,[bh]

Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soul.[bi]

XXV.

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled[51]

That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome: Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom.

Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's plume, And Policy regained what arms had lost: For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!

Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host, Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast.

XXVI.

And ever since that martial Synod met, Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name; And folks in office at the mention fret,[bj]

And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.

How will Posterity the deed proclaim!

Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, To view these champions cheated of their fame, By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?

XXVII.

So deemed the Childe, as o'er the mountains he Did take his way in solitary guise: Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, More restless than the swallow in the skies:[bk]

Though here awhile he learned to moralise, For Meditation fixed at times on him; And conscious Reason whispered to despise His early youth, misspent in maddest whim; But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim.[52]

XXVIII.

To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits[53]

A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:[bl]

Again he rouses from his moping fits, But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.[bm]

Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage; And o'er him many changing scenes must roll Ere toil his thirst for travel can a.s.suage,[bn]

Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.

XXIX.

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,[5.B.]

Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen;[bo][54]

And Church and Court did mingle their array, And Ma.s.s and revel were alternate seen; Lordlings and freres--ill-sorted fry I ween!

But here the Babylonian Wh.o.r.e hath built A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt.

x.x.x.

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.[bp]

Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air, And Life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.

x.x.xI.

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:[bq]

Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!

Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 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: For Spain is compa.s.sed by unyielding foes, And _all_ must s.h.i.+eld their _all_, or share Subjection's woes.

x.x.xII.

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?[br]

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:[55]

x.x.xIII.

But these between a silver streamlet[56] glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides: Here leans 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 n.o.blest duke: Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.[6.B.]

x.x.xIV.

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pa.s.sed,[bs]

Dark Guadiana rolls his power along In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, So noted ancient roundelays among.[bt]

Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 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.[57]

x.x.xV.

Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic Land!

Where is that standard[58] which Pelagio bore,[bu]

When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?[7.B.]

Where are those b.l.o.o.d.y Banners which of yore Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, And drove at last the spoilers to their sh.o.r.e?[59]

Red gleamed the Cross, and waned the Crescent pale,[bv]

While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail.

x.x.xVI.

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?[60]

Ah! such, alas! the hero's amplest fate!

When granite moulders and when records fail, A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date.[bw]

Pride! bend thine eye from Heaven to thine estate, See how the Mighty shrink into a song!

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?

x.x.xVII.

Awake, ye Sons of Spain! awake! advance!

Lo! Chivalry, your ancient G.o.ddess, 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, 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 sh.o.r.e?

x.x.xVIII.

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![bx]

Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,[61]

Red Battle stamps his foot, and Nations feel the shock.

x.x.xIX.