The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,[az]
 The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,
 The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrowned,
 The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,
 The tender azure[46] of the unruffled deep,
 The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,
 The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,[ba]
 The vine on high, the willow branch below,
 Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.

XX.

Then slowly climb the many-winding way,
 And frequent turn to linger as you go,
 From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,
 And rest ye at "Our Lady's house of Woe;"[47] [2.B.]
Where frugal monks their little relics show,
 And sundry legends to the stranger tell:
 Here impious men have punished been, and lo!
 Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,
 In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

XXI.

And here and there, as up the crags you spring,
 Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path:[48]
Yet deem not these Devotion's offering—
 These are memorials frail of murderous wrath:
 For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath
 Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife,
 Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;
 And grove and glen with thousand such are rife
 Throughout this purple land, where Law secures not life. [3.B.]

XXII.

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,[49]
 Are domes where whilome kings did make repair;
 But now the wild flowers round them only breathe:
 Yet ruined Splendour still is lingering there.
 And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair:
 There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son,[bb][50]
 Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware
 When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,[bc]
 Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.

XXIII.

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan,
 Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow:
 But now, as if a thing unblest by Man,[bd]
 Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as Thou!
 Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow
 To Halls deserted, portals gaping wide:
 Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how
 Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;[be]
 Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide!

XXIV.

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! [4.B.]
Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!
 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 assuage,[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 Mass and revel were alternate seen;
 Lordlings and freres—ill-sorted fry I ween!
 But here the Babylonian Whore 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.

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.[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.

XXXI.

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 compassed by unyielding foes,
 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?[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]

XXXIII.

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 noblest duke:
 Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know
 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. [6.B.]

XXXIV.

But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed,[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 mailéd 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]

XXXV.

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 bloody Banners which of yore
 Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale,
 And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?[59]
 Red gleamed the Cross, and waned the Crescent pale,[bv]
 While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail.

XXXVI.

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?

XXXVII.

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,
 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?

XXXVIII.

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.

XXXIX.

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
 His blood-red tresses deepening in the Sun,
 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;
 For on this morn three potent Nations meet,
 To shed before his Shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

XL.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see[62]
 (For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
 Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,[by]
 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;[63]
 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;[64]
 The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
 The Foe, the Victim, and the fond Ally
 That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,[65]
 Are met—as if at home they could not die—
 To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
 And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.

XLII.

There shall they rot—Ambition's honoured fools![bz]
 Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay![66]
 Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,[ca]
 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?[cb]
 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![cc][67]
 As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,
 Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
 A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed![cd]
 Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed[ce]
 And tears of triumph their reward prolong![cf]
 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.[cg][68]

XLIV.

Enough of Battle's minions! let them play
 Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:
 Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay,
 Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
 In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim
 Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good,[ch]
 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.[ci]

XLV.

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way[cj][69]
 Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:[ck]
 Yet is she free? the Spoiler's wished-for prey!
 Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude,
 Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.
 Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive
 Where Desolation plants her famished brood
 Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive,
 And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive

XLVI.

But all unconscious of the coming doom,[70]
 The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;
 Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,
 Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds:
 Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck[71] sounds;[cl]
 Here Folly still his votaries inthralls;
 And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:[cm]
 Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals,
 Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls.

XLVII.

Not so the rustic—with his trembling mate
 He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,
 Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,
 Blasted below the dun hot breath of War.
 No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star
 Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:[72]
 Ah, Monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,
 Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;[cn]
 The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet!

XLVIII.

How carols now the lusty muleteer?
 Of Love, Romance, Devotion is his lay,
 As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,
 His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?
 No! as he speeds, he chants "Vivā el Rey!" [8.B.]
And checks his song to execrate Godoy,
 The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day
 When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy,
 And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.

XLIX.

On yon long level plain, at distance crowned[73]
 With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
 Wide-scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
 And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest
 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.

L.

And whomsoe'er along the path you meet
 Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,
 Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet: [9.B.]
Woe to the man that walks in public view
 Without of loyalty this token true:
 Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;
 And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue,
 If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke,
 Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.

LI.

At every turn Morena's dusky height[74]
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load;
 And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,
 The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,
 The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed,
 The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch,[co]
 The magazine in rocky durance stowed,
 The bolstered steed beneath the shed of thatch,
 The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, [10.B.]

LII.

Portend the deeds to come:—but he whose nod
 Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,
 A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;
 A little moment deigneth to delay:
 Soon will his legions sweep through these their way;
 The West must own the Scourger of the world.[cp]
 Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day,
 When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled,[cq]
 And thou shall view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.

LIII.

And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave,
 To swell one bloated Chiefs unwholesome reign?[75]
 No step between submission and a grave?
 The rise of Rapine and the fall of Spain?
 And doth the Power that man adores ordain
 Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal?
 Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?
 And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal—
 The Veteran's skill—Youth's fire—and Manhood's heart of steel?

LIV.

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
 Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
 And, all unsexed, the Anlace[76] hath espoused,
 Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?
 And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
 Appalled, an owlet's 'larum chilled with dread,[77]
 Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar,[cr]
 The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead
 Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.

LV.

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
 Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
 Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
 Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower,
 Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
 Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
 Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
 Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,
 Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.

LVI.

Her lover sinks—she sheds no ill-timed tear;
 Her Chief is slain—she fills his fatal post;
 Her fellows flee—she checks their base career;
 The Foe retires—she heads the sallying host:
 Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?
 Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?
 What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost?
 Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
 Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered wall? [11.B.]

LVII.

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons,
 But formed for all the witching arts of love:
 Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
 And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
 Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate:
 In softness as in firmness far above
 Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;
 Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.

LVIII.

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed[cs]
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: [12.B.]
 Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,
 Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:
 Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much
 Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek,
 Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!
 Who round the North for paler dames would seek?
 How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak![78]

LIX.

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
 Match me, ye harems of the land! where now
 I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud
 Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow;[ct]
 Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow
 To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,
 With Spain's dark-glancing daughters—deign to know,
 There your wise Prophet's Paradise we find,
 His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.

LX.

Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,[79] [13.B.]
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye,
 Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,[cu]
 But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
 In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty!
 What marvel if I thus essay to sing?
 The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by
 Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string,
 Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.

LXI.