Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance
   Lo!  Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries,
   But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,
   Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: 
   Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,
   And speaks in thunder through yon engine’s roar! 
   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?