XXXVIII. Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. XXXIX. Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 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 (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs, of mix'd embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their air, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share; The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy ean number their array. XLI. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. XLII. There shall they rot-Ambition's honour'd fools! 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? 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! As o'er thy plain the pilgrim prick'd his steed, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! And tears of triumph their reward prolong! 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! XLIV. Enough of Battle's minions! let them play Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good, r in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursu'd. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. D XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; Here Folly still his votaries enthralls; And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. XLVII. Not so the rustic-with his trembling mate Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet! |