LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done; Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain'd. XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera lavish of the dead, Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil! XCI. And thou, my friend!-since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain : K But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest ? XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd. |