Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/82

48 In every peal she calls—"Awake! arise!"

Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,

When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?

XXXVIII.

Hark!—heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?

Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?

Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote,

Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath

Tyrants and Tyrants' slaves?—the fires of Death,

The Bale-fires flash on high:—from rock to rock

Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;

Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and Nations feel the shock.

XXXIX.

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,

His blood-red tresses deepening in the Sun,

With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,

And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;

Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon

Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet