Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   O Albuera, glorious field of grief! 
   As o’er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,
   Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
   A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed. 
   Peace to the perished! may the warrior’s meed
   And tears of triumph their reward prolong! 
   Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
   Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.