More bleak to view the hills at length recede,
   And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: 
   Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! 
   Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,
   Spain’s realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend
   Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows —
   Now must the pastor’s arm his lambs defend: 
   For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes,
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection’s woes.

XXXII.

   Where Lusitania and her Sister meet,
   Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? 
   Or e’er the jealous queens of nations greet,
   Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? 
   Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride? 
   Or fence of art, like China’s vasty wall? —
   Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,
   Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania’s land from Gaul

XXXIII.

   But these between a silver streamlet glides,
   And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook,
   Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
   Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,
   And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,
   That peaceful still ’twixt bitterest foemen flow: 
   For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: 
   Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know
’Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.

XXXIV.

   But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed,
   Dark Guadiana rolls his power along
   In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,
   So noted ancient roundelays among. 
   Whilome upon his banks did legions throng
   Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest;
   Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong;
   The Paynim turban and the Christian crest
Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed.

XXXV.

   Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land! 
   Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,
   When Cava’s traitor-sire first called the band
   That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore? 
   Where are those bloody banners which of yore
   Waved o’er thy sons, victorious to the gale,
   And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? 
   Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale,
While Afric’s echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons’ wail.

XXXVI.

   Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? 
   Ah! such, alas, the hero’s amplest fate! 
   When granite moulders and when records fail,
   A peasant’s plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
   Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate,
   See how the mighty shrink into a song! 
   Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great? 
   Or must thou trust Tradition’s simple tongue,
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?