Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Portend the deeds to come:  —­but he whose nod
   Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,
   A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;
   A little moment deigneth to delay: 
   Soon will his legions sweep through these the way;
   The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
   Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day,
   When soars Gaul’s Vulture, with his wings unfurled,
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.