Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
   Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
   And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,
   Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? 
   And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
   Appalled, an owlet’s larum chilled with dread,
   Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar,
   The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead
Stalks with Minerva’s step where Mars might quake to tread.