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The queen who conquers all must yield to theeYot in the fabled landscape of a lay,
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warın a clime But soring snow-clad through thy native sky And Venus, constant to her native sea, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!
To naught else constant, hither deign’d to fee; What marvel if I thus essay to sing ?
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by
Though not to one dome circunscribeth she Would gladly wo thine Echoes with his string, Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. wave her wing.
LXVII. LXI. ust have I dreim'd of Thee! whose glorious name
From morn till night, from night till startlea Mcn
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn,
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu
He bids to sober joy that here sojourus:
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu
Of true devotion monkish incense burns,
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!
LXVIII. Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ?
Lo! it is sacred to a soleinn feast;
Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn, Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,
The throng'd arena shakes with shoi ts for more;
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.
The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man.
London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer: I turn'd aside to pay my homage here;
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain :
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear;
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, And haild thee, not perchance without a tcar.
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, Now to my theme-but from thy holy haunt
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair ; Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, for let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.
Some o'er thy Thames row the ribbon'd fair,
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, The song of love than Andalusia's maids,
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, (sworn. Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire :
In whose dread name both men and maids are Ac! that to these were given such peaceful shades and consecrate the oath with draught, and dance 1s Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her
All have their fooleries-not alike are thine,
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare:
LXXVIII. The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brası Ne vacant space for lated wight is found :
And foes disabled in the brutal fray; Here dons, grandees, but chietly dames abound, And now the Matadores around him play, Skill d in the ogle of a roguish eye,
Shake the red cloak, ind poise the ready brand Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;
Once more through all he bursts his thund'ring way Nine through their cold disdaiu are doom'd to die, Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Ag moonstruck bards complain, by Love's sad Wraps his tierce eye-'tis past--he zirks upon the archery.
He stops-he starts-disdaining to decline:
The decorated car appears-on high
The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyes And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swilt as shy, repay.
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swali The lord of lowing herds; but not before
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: What private feuds the troubled village stain! His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the Can man achieve without the friendly steed Enough, alas! in humble homes remuin, [foe Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow,
For soine slight cause of wrath, whence life's warn. LXXV.
stream must flow. Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo: the signal falls,
But Jealousy has fied: his bars, his bolts,
His wither'd sentinel, Duenna sage!
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could enc. 30 Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
Have piss'd to darkness with: the vanish'd age. His first attack, wide waving to and fro
Who late so tree as Spanish girls were seen, His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,)
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, LXXVI.
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-lovic
Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, The skill that yet may check his mad career.
Or dream'd he loved, since Rapture is a dream, With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ;
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream; Streams from his flank the crims un torrent clear:
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ;
Love has ro gift so grateful as his wings; Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings How fair, how young, how soft soc'er he seem, speak his woes.
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling veno LXXVII.
LXXXII:. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though man, and man's avenging arins assail, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.
Not that Philosophy on such a mind One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse; E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes. Another, hideous sight! unscam'd appears, But Pussion raves itself to rest, or flies; His gory chest unveils lite's pantung source ;
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb. Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears, Ilad buried long his hopes, no niore to rise : Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unham'd he Pleasure's pallid victim! life-abhorrius gloom bears.
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's uuresting doo
Through many a clime 'tis mine to gc;
LXXXV. beill he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu ! But view'd them not with misanthropic hate: Who may forget how well thy walls havo blood : Faiu would he now have joined the dance, the song, When all were changing thou alone wert true But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? First to be frec and last to be subduea : Sought that he saw his sadness could abute: And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, Yet once he struggled gainst the denion's sway, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye; And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sute,
A traitor only fell beneath the feud : 17 Prur'd forth this unpremedituted lay
Here all were noble, save Nobility; Colarms as fair as those that soothed his happier None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save faller day.
Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! Nay, smile not at my sullen brow;
They fight for freedom who were never free; Alus! I cannot smile again :
A Kingless people for a nerveless state,
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery: Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 2.
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty;
Back to the struggle, batfied in the strife, And dost 1 hou ask, what secret wo
War, war is still the cry,
** War even
to the I bear, corroding joy and youth?
knife!” 18 And wilt thou vainly seek .o know
LXXXVII. A pang, ev'n thou must fail to sooth?
Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 3.
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : It is not love, it is not hate,
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe Nor low Ambition's honors lost,
Can act, is acting there against man's life: That bids me loathe my present state,
From flashing scimitar to secret knife, And Hy from all I prized the most :
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 4.
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed,
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain;
Look on the hands with female slaughter red, It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, The fabled Hebrew wanuerer bore;
Then to the vulture let each corse remain; That will not look beyond the tomb,
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, (stain, But cannot hope for rest before.
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: 6.
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw! What Exile from himself can flee? To Zones, though more and more remote,
LXXXIX. Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done, The blight of life—the demon Thought.
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyreneen:
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 7.
Nor mortal eve the distant end foresees. Yes others rapt in pleasure seem,
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees And taste of all that I forsake;
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: Oh! may they still of transport dream,
Strange retribution! now Columbia's case And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd,
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder una 8.
XC. With many a retrospection curst;
Not all the blood at Talavera shed, solace is to know,
Not all the marrels of Barossa's fight, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.
Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 9.
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from hlight, What is that worst? Nay do not ask
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil. In pity from the search forbear:
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil
Even gods must yield-religions take their turn
'Twas Jove's—'tis Mahomct's—and other creeds And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, Will rise with other years, till man shall learn
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; I'nat kadst thou done to sink so peacefully to Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is buih rest?
on reeds. XCII.
IV. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most!
Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!
Is't not enough, unhappy thing! to know Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, In dreams deny me not to see thee here !
That being, thou would'st be again, and go And Morn in secret shall renew the tear
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, 8c Of Consciousness awaking to her woes,
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies?
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and wo?
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies ;
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.
Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound;
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps :3 Ye who of him may further seek to know,
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around;
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps,
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell.
Remove yon scull from out the scatter'd heaps : In other lands, where he was dooni'd to go:
Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? Lands that contain the monuments of Eld,
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd Kre Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands we cell! quell’d.
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit
And Passion's host, that never brook'd control;
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit;
Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son !
“ All that we know is, nothing can be known." And is, despite of war and wasting fire,'
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun! And years, that bade thy worship to expire ;
Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best; Of men who never felt the sacred glow
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : Chat thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, bestow.
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest
Bebold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight,
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ;
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines re
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.
And once again thy hapless bosom gore.!
But where is Harold ? shall I then forget
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave?
No friend the parting hand extended gave,
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes :
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave,
He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,
And oh, the little warlike world within!
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high i
While through the scaman's hand the tackleglides;
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;
Ah! grievance sore, and listiess dull delay,
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day,
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, Nor now preserved the walls he lored to shield The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like before.