CASTO I.

53

xc.

Not all the blood at Talavera shod.

Not all the marvels of Barossa’s fight,

Not Alhucra lavish of the dead.

Have won for Spain her well asserted right.When shall her Olive-Branch be free fromblight?

'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-troe grow native of thesoil!

XCI.

And thou, my friend! ^—sinccunavailing woeBursts from my heart, and mingles with thestrain —-

Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low.Pride might forbid ev’n Friendship to complain:But thus uulnureled to descend in vain,

By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,

And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain.While Glory crowns so mauy a meaner crest!W hat hadst thou done to siuk so peacefully torest?

XCII.

Oh, knownthecarliest, and esteemed themost!Hear to a heart where nought was left so dear!