Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
   Not all the marvels of Barossa’s fight,
   Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
   Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
   When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? 
   When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? 
   How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
   Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
And Freedom’s stranger-tree grow native of the soil?