Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/116

82 XC.

Not all the blood at Talavera shed,

Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,

Not Albuera lavish of the dead,

Have won for Spain her well asserted right.

When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?

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-tree grow native of the soil!

XCI.

And thou, my friend!—since unavailing woe N19

Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain—