Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   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.