5. It is that settled ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb But cannot hope for rest before. 6. What Exile from himself can flee? To Zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be, The blight of life-the demon, Thought. 7. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, And taste of all that I forsake; Oh! may they still of transport dream, 8. Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, With many a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. LXXXV. Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? When all were changing thou alone wert true, And if amidst a scene a shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dfe; A traitor only fell beneath the feud: 17 Here all were noble, save Nobility; None hugged a Conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry! LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! They fight for freedom who were never free; A Kingless people for a nerveless state, Her vasssls combat when their chieftains flee True to the veriest of Treachery: , Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride points the path that leads to Liberty; Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, Var, war is still the cry, » War even to the knife » 18 LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniard know, Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: Can act, is acting there against man's life: So From flashing scymitar to secret knife, War mouldeth there each weapon to his need- So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead! Look on Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; Let their bleached bones, and blood's unbleaching stain Long mark the battle-field with hideons awe : Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw! LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done, Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained. XC. 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. And thou, my friend! 19-since unavailing woe By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most! In dreams deny me not to see thee here! Of consciousness awaking to her woes, And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourned and mourner lie united in repose. XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ye who of him may further seek to know, Ere Greece and Grecian arts) by barbarous hands were quelled, END OF CANTO I, 4. |