Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done;
   Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: 
   It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,
   Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
   Fall’n nations gaze on Spain:  if freed, she frees
   More than her fell Pizarros once enchained. 
   Strange retribution! now Columbia’s ease
   Repairs the wrongs that Quito’s sons sustained,
While o’er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained.