XLIII.

Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief![cc][67] As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed![cd] Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed[ce] And tears of triumph their reward prolong![cf] Till others fall where other chieftains lead Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.[cg][68]