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: 
   But thus unlaurelled 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 esteemed the most! 
   Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! 
   Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
   In dreams deny me not to see thee here! 
   And Morn in secret shall renew the tear
   Of Consciousness awaking to her woes,
   And Fancy hover o’er thy bloodless bier,
   Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,
And mourned and mourner lie united in repose.

XCIII.

   Here is one fytte of Harold’s pilgrimage. 
   Ye who of him may further seek to know,
   Shall find some tidings in a future page,
   If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
   Is this too much?  Stern critic, say not so: 
   Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld
   In other lands, where he was doomed to go: 
   Lands that contain the monuments of eld,
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled.

CANTO THE SECOND.

I.

   Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!—­but thou, alas,
   Didst never yet one mortal song inspire —
   Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,
   And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
   And years, that bade thy worship to expire: 
   But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
   Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire
   Of men who never felt the sacred glow
That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow.

II.

   Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
   Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul? 
   Gone—­glimmering through the dream of things that were: 
   First in the race that led to Glory’s goal,
   They won, and passed away—­is