Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land! 
   Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,
   When Cava’s traitor-sire first called the band
   That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore? 
   Where are those bloody banners which of yore
   Waved o’er thy sons, victorious to the gale,
   And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? 
   Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale,
While Afric’s echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons’ wail.