XXIV. Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry, And sundry signatures adorn the roll, Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soul. XXV. Convention is the dwarfish demon styled XXVI. And ever since that martial synod met, And folks in office at the mention fret, And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, To view these champions cheated of their fame, Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year? XXVII. So deemed the Childe, as o'er the mountains he Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, XXVIII. To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage, XXIX. Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless queen; And church and court did mingle their array, And mass and revel were alternate seen; Lordlings and freres-il!-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, And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. XXXI. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 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? Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from-Gaul : XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. XXXIV. But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : 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? 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? Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale, While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail. XXXVI. Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? When granite moulders and when records fail, Can volume, pillar, pile preserve thee great? 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? Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. |