Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   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.