For not till now, how oft soe’er the task Of truant verse hath lightened graver care, From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask, In phrase poetic, inspiration fair; Careless he gave his numbers to the air, They came unsought for, if applauses came: Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer; Let but his verse befit a hero’s fame, Immortal be the verse!—forgot the poet’s name! VII. Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer tost: “Minstrel! the fame of whose romantic lyre, Capricious-swelling now, may soon be lost, Like the light flickering of a cottage fire; If to such task presumptuous thou aspire, Seek not from us the meed to warrior due: Age after age has gathered son to sire Since our grey cliffs the din of conflict knew, Or, pealing through our vales, victorious bugles blew. VIII. “Decayed our old traditionary lore, Save where the lingering fays renew their ring, By milkmaid seen beneath the hawthorn hoar, Or round the marge of Minchmore’s haunted spring; Save where their legends grey-haired shepherds sing, That now scarce win a listening ear but thine, Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging, And rugged deeds recount in rugged line, Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, or Tyne. IX. “No! search romantic lands, where the near Sun Gives with unstinted boon ethereal flame, Where the rude villager, his labour done, In verse spontaneous chants some favoured name, Whether Olalia’s charms his tribute claim, Her eye of diamond, and her locks of jet; Or whether, kindling at the deeds of Græme, He sing, to wild Morisco measure set, Old Albin’s red claymore, green Erin’s bayonet! X. “Explore those regions, where the flinty crest Of wild Nevada ever gleams with snows, Where in the proud Alhambra’s ruined breast Barbaric monuments of pomp repose; Or where the banners of more ruthless foes Than the fierce Moor, float o’er Toledo’s fane, From whose tall towers even now the patriot throws An anxious glance, to spy upon the plain The blended ranks of England, Portugal, and Spain. XI. “There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark Still lightens in the sunburnt native’s eye; The stately port, slow step, and visage dark, Still mark enduring pride and constancy. And, if the glow of feudal chivalry Beam not, as once, thy nobles’ dearest pride, Iberia! oft thy crestless peasantry Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit their side, Have seen, yet dauntless stood—’gainst fortune fought and died.