Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   On yon long level plain, at distance crowned
   With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
   Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
   And, scathed by fire, the greensward’s darkened vest
   Tells that the foe was Andalusia’s guest: 
   Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,
   Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon’s nest;
   Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.