Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
   Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
   Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies. 
   The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! 
   The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
   That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
   Are met—­as if at home they could not die —
   To feed the crow on Talavera’s plain,
And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.