XXXI.

“Dire was the ruin by Corruption’s hand Shed on our ancient monarchy. Her men Were noble still and worthy of the land, Whose blood hath poured in every mountain-glen From Calpe to Asturia’s rudest den, ’Gainst warlike Moor contending. But her Kings Unworthy most beneath dominion’s ken To hold so proud a people--timorous things-- Crawled ’neath a favourite’s sway, or crouched ’neath churchmen’s wings.