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.