plume,
   And Policy regained what Arms had lost: 
   For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! 
   Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host,
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania’s coast.

XXVI.

   And ever since that martial synod met,
   Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name;
   And folks in office at the mention fret,
   And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
   How will posterity the deed proclaim! 
   Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,
   To view these champions cheated of their fame,
   By foes in fight o’erthrown, yet victors here,
Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?

XXVII.

   So deemed the Childe, as o’er the mountains he
   Did take his way in solitary guise: 
   Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,
   More restless than the swallow in the skies: 
   Though here awhile he learned to moralise,
   For Meditation fixed at times on him,
   And conscious Reason whispered to despise
   His early youth misspent in maddest whim;
But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew dim.

XXVIII.

   To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits
   A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul: 
   Again he rouses from his moping fits,
   But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
   Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal
   Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;
   And o’er him many changing scenes must roll,
   Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.

XXIX.

   Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,
   Where dwelt of yore the Lusians’ luckless queen;
   And church and court did mingle their array,
   And mass and revel were alternate seen;
   Lordlings and freres—­ill-sorted fry, I ween! 
   But here the Babylonian whore had 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 garnish guilt.

XXX.

   O’er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,
   (Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!)
   Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,
   Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. 
   Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
   And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
   The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. 
   Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.

XXXI.