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Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;
Not that philosophy on such a mind

E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes :
But passion raves itself to rest, or flies;
And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
Had buried long his hopes, no more to raise :
Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom
Wrote on his faded brow cursed Cain's unresting doom.


Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate:

Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song;
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway,
And as in beauty's bower he pensive sate,
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay,

To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.

To Inez.


Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,

Alas! I cannot smile again;

Yet Heaven avert that ever thou

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.


And dost thou ask, what secret woe

I bear, corroding joy and youth?

And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang even thou must fail to soothe!


It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low ambition's honours lost,
That bids me loathe my present state,

And fly from all I prized the most;


It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see;
To me no pleasure beauty brings;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.


It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore;
That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.


What exile from himself can flee?

To zones, though more and more remote,

Still, still pursues, where'er I be,

The blight of life-the demon thought.


Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake;

Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!


Through many a clime 't is mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.


What is that worst? Nay do not ask—

In pity from the search forbear:

Smile on nor venture to unmask

Man's heart, and view the hell that's there.


Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!

Who may forget how well thy walls have stood!

When all were changing thou alone wert true,

First to be free, and last to be subdued:

And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,

Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye;
A traitor only fell beneath the feud : "7

Here all were noble, save nobility;

None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen chivalry!


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 vassals combat when their chieftains flee,
True to the veriest slaves 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,
War, war is still the cry, war even to the knife!" 18




Ye who would more of Spain and Spaniards know,
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife.
Whate'er keen vengeance urged on foreign foe
Can act, is acting there against man's life :
From flashing scimitar to secret knife,
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need—
So may he guard the sister and the wife,
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed.


such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!


Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain;
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ;
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,
Then to the vulture let each corse remain;
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,

Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain,
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw


Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done, Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees; It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizzaros once enchain'd: Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls murder unrestrain❜d.


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.
When shall her olive-branch be free from blight?
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?
many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
And freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil!


And thou, my friend !9-since unavailing woe
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain-
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,
Pride might forbid even friendship to complain:
But thus unlaurell'd, to descend in vain,
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?


Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most!
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
In dreams deny me not to see thee here!
And morn in secret shall renew the tear
Of consciousness awaking to her woes,
And fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier,
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,
And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose.


Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage :
He who of him may further seek to know,
Shall find some tidings in a future page,
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.
Is this too much! stern critic! say not so:
Patience! and ye
shall hear what he beheld

In other lands, where he was doom'd to go:

Lands that contain the monuments of Eld,

Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd.


Note 1. Stanza i.

Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine.

The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrisso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock: 66 One," said the guide, "of a king who broke his neck hunting." His Majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement.

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow-house.

On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain: probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the "Dews of Castalie."

Note 2. Stanza xx.

And rest ye at "our Lady's house of woe."

The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa Señora de Pena,* on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to ⚫ the beauty of the view.

Note 3. Stanza xxi.

Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life.

It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, the assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen, but that Englishmen were daily butchered: and, so far from redress being obtained, we were requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defending himself against his allies. I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they generally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend; had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have adorned a tale, instead of telling one. The crime of assassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished!

Note 4. Stanza xxiv.

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened !

The convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders: he has perhaps changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his predecessors.

* Since the publication of this poem, I have been informed of the misapprehension of the term Nossa Senora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde, or mark over the n, which alters the signification of the word: with it, Pena signifies a rock; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. "I do not think it necessary to alter the passage, as, though the common acceptation affixed to it is "our Lady of the Rock," I may well assume the other sense, from the severities practised there.

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