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Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown Of thy fair knighthood; and the insatiate horde, Not with thy life content, O ruined land! Sad Lusitania! even thy bright renown Defaced and trampled down; And scattered, rushing as a torrent flood, Thy pomp of arms and banners;—till the sands Became a lake of blood—thy noblest blood!— The plain a mountain of thy slaughtered bands. Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed; On thy devoted sons—amaze, and shame, and dread.

Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight, The warrior men, the invincible, the famed, Who shook the earth with terror and dismay, Whose spoils were empires?—They that in their might The haughty strength of savage nations tamed, And gave the spacious orient realms of day To desolation's sway,