Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein, at last, they crumble bone by bone?

XLIII.

Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief!

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed,
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,

A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed!
Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's meed
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!

Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient
song. (1)

XLIV.

Enough of Battle's minions! let them play
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:
Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay,
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
In sooth 't were sad to thwart their noble aim
Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good,
And die, that living might have proved her shame;
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud,

Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.
XLV.

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way
Where proud Sevilla (2) triumphs unsubdued:
Yet is she free-the spoiler's wish'd-for prey!
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude,
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive,

And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.

(I) This stanza is not in the original MS. It was written at Newstead, in August 1811, shortly after the battle of Albuera, which took place in May.-L. E.

(2) "At Seville, we lodged in the house of two Spanish unmarried ladies, women of character, the eldest a fine woman, the youngest pretty. The freedom of manner, which is generai here, astonished me not a little; and, in the course of further observation, I find that reserve is not the characteristic of Spanish belles. The eldest honoured your unworthy son with very particular attention, embracing him with great tenderness at parting (I was there but three days), after cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one of her own, about three feet in length, which I send you, and beg you will retain till my return. Her last words were, Adios, tu hermoso, me gusto mucho!' Adieu, you pretty fellow, you please me much!'" Lord B. to his Mother, Aug. 1809. —L. E.

(3) A kind of fiddle, with only two strings, played on by

Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:

Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; [yet! The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy XLVIII.

How carols now the lusty muleteer?

Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,

As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds, he chants "Viva el Rey !" (4) And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX.

On yon long level plain, at distance crown'd
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
Wide-scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest;
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.
L.

And whomsoe'er along the path you meet
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:(5)
Woe to the man that walks in public view
Without of loyalty this token true!
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue,

If subtle poniards, wrapp'd beneath the cloak, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.

LI.

At every turn Morena's dusky height
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load;
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,
The mountain howitzer, the broken road,
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd,
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch,
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd,

The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-piled pyramid, (6) the ever blazing-match,

a bow, said to have been brought by the Moors into Spain. -L. E.

(4) "Viva el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdinand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They are chiefly in dispraise of the old king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of them: some of the airs are beautiful. Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was ori. ginally in the ranks of the Spanish guards; till his person attracted the queen's eyes and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, etc. etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country.-—[See, for ample particulars concerning the flagitious court of Charles IV., Southey's History of the Peninsular War, vol. i.-L. E] (5) The red cockade, with "Fernando VII." in the centre. (6) All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyramidal form in which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra

LII.

Portend the deeds to come:-but he whose nod
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway
A moment pauseth e'er he lifts the rod;
A little moment deigneth to delay:

Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; The West must own the scourger of the world. Ab, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, When soars Gaul's vulture, with his wings unfurl'd, And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd!

LIII.

And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign? No step between submission and a grave? The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? And doth the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? Is all that desperate valour acts in vain? And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal, [of steel? The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart

LIV.

Is it for this, the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? And she whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, and owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.

LV.

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light lively tones in lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase.

LVI.

Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain-she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee-she checks their base career;
The foe retires-she heads the sallying host:

Morena was fortified in every defile through which I passed in my way to Seville.

(1) Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by her valour elevated herself to the highest rank of heroines. When the author was at Seville she walked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of the Junta.-[The exploits of Augustina, the famous heroine of both the sieges of Saragoza, are recorded at length in one of the most splendid chapters of Southey's History of the Peninsular War. At the time when she first attracted notice, by mounting a battery where her lover had fallen, and working a gun in his room, she was in her twentysecond year, exceedingly pretty, and in a soft feminine style of beauty. She has further had the honour to be painted by Wilkie, and alluded to in Wordsworth's Dissertation on the Convention (misnamed) of Cintra; where a noble passage concludes in these words:-"Saragoza has exemplified a melancholy, yea, a dismal truth,-yet consolatory and full of joy, that when a people are called suddenly to fight for

Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? Who can avenge so well a leader's fall? What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foil'd by a woman's hand before a batter'd wall?(1) LVII.

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, But form'd for all the witching arts of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sous, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, "T is but the tender fierceness of the dove, Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: In softness, as in firmness, far above Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.

LVIII.

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: (2) Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch' Who round the north for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak.

LIX.

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye harems of the land! where now (3) I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow; Match me those houries, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest love should ride the wind, With Spain's dark-glancing daughters (4)—deigu to There your wise prophet's paradise we find, [know His black-eyed maids of heaven, angelically kind.

LX.

Oh, thou Parnassus! (5) whom I now survey, Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! What marvel if I thus essay to sing! The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.

their liberty, and are sorely pressed upon, their best field of battle is the floors upon which their children have played; the chambers where the family of each man has slept; upen or under the roofs by which they have been sheltered; in the gardens of their recreation; in the street, or in the market-place; before the altars of their temples, and among their congregated dwellings, blazing or uprooted.”—-L. E.] (2, "Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo

Vestigio demonstrant mollitudinem.”—ul, Gel, (3) This stanza was written in Turkey.

(4) "Long black hair, dark languishing eyes, clear olive complexions, and forms more graceful in motion than can be conceived by an Englishman, used to the drowsy listless air of his country women, added to the most becoming dress, and, at the same time, the most decent in the world, render a Spanish beauty irresistible." B. to his Mother, Aug

1809.-L. E.

(5) These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at the foot of Parnassus, now called Aaxupa (Liakura), Dec. 1809.

LXI.

Oft have I dream'd of thee! whose glorious name
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame
That I in feeblest accents must adore.
When I recount thy worshippers of yore
I tremble, and can only bend the knee,

Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy

In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!(1)
LXII.

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene,
Which others rave of, though they know it not
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,(
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave

Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;(3)
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,
Calls forth a sweeter though ignoble praise.

(1) "Upon Parnassus, going to the fountain of Delphi (Castri), in 1809, I saw a flight of twelve eagles (Hobhouse | says they were vultures-at least in conversation), and I seized the omen. On the day before, I composed the lines to Parnassus (in Childe Harold), and, on beholding the birds, had a hope that Apollo had accepted my homage. I have at least had the name and fame of a poet, during the poetical period of life from twenty to thirty); whether it will last is another matter: but I have been a votary of the deity and the place, and am grateful for what he has done in my behalf, leaving the future in his hands, as I left the past.”— B. Diary, 1821.-L. E.

(2) "Casting the eye over the site of ancient Delphi, one cannot possibly imagine what has become of the walls of the numerous buildings which are mentioned in the history of its former magnificence,-buildings which covered two miles of ground.

With the exception of the few terraces or supporting walls, nothing now appears. The various robberies by Sylla, Nero, and Constantine, are inconsiderable; for the removal of the statues of bronze, and marble, and ivory, could not greatly affect the general appearance of the city. The acclivity of the hill, and the foundations being placed

Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape The fascination of thy magic gaze?

A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.

LXVI.

When Paphos fell by time-accursed Time!
The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee---
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;
And Venus, constant to her native sea,
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee!
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white;
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,

A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.(4)

LXVII.

From morn till night, from night till startled Morn Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 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 sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.

LXVIII.

The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; What hallows it upon this Christian shore? Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast; Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn; The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more; Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn. LXIX.

The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer: Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, And smug apprentice, gulp their weekly air: Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl; To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.(5)

on a rock, without cement, would no doubt render them comparatively easy to be removed or hurled down into the vale below; but the vale exhibits no appearance of accumu. lation of hewn stones; and the modern village could have consumed but few. In the course of so many centuries, the debris from the mountain must have covered up a great deal, and even the rubbish itself may have acquired a soil suf ficient to conceal many noble remains from the light of day. Yet we see no swellings or risings in the ground, indicating the graves of the temples. All therefore is mystery, and the Greeks may truly say, Where stood the walls of our fathers? scarce their messy tonibs remain!" H. W. Williams's Travels in Greece.-L. E.

(3) Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans.

(4) "Cadiz, sweet Cadiz!--it is the first spot in the creation. The beauty of its streets and mansions is only excelled by the liveliness of its inhabitants. It is a complete Cythera, full of the finest women in Spain; the Cadiz belles being the Lancashire witches of their land." Lord B. to his Mother. 1809.-L. E.

(5) "In thus mixing up the light with the solemn, it was the intention of the poet to imitate Ariosto. But it is far

LXX.

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair,
Others along the safer turnpike fly;

Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware,
And many to the steep of Highgate hie.

Ask ye, Baotian shades! the reason why?(1) 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery,

In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.(2)

LXXI.

All have their fooleries-not alike are thine,
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea!
Soon as the matin-bell proclaimeth nine,
Thy saint-adorers count the rosary:

Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free
(Well do I weeu the only virgin there)

From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.

LXXII.

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd,
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found:
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames, abound,
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye,

Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die,
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.

LXXIII.

Hush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, [lance, And lowly bending to the lists advance; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, Best prize of better acts, they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.

LXXIV.

In costiv sheen and gaudy cloak array'd,
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herds; but not before

easier to rise, with grace, from the level of a strain generally familiar, into an occasional short burst of pathos or splendour, than to interrupt thus a prolonged tone of solemnity by any descent into the ludicrous or burlesque. In the former case, the transition may have the effect of softening or elevating; while, in the latter, it almost invariably shocks; for the same reason, perhaps, that a trait of pathos or high feeling, in comedy, has a peculiar charm; while the intrusion of comic scenes into tragedy, however sanctioned among us by habit and authority, rarely fails to offend. The poet was himself convinced of the failure of the experiment, and in none of the succeeding cantos of Childe Harold repeated it." Moore.-L. E.

(1) This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the best situation for asking and answering such a question; not as the birthplace of lindar, but as the capital of Bootia. where the first riddle was propounded and solved.

(2) Lord Byron alludes to a ridiculous custom which

The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steedAlas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.

LXXV,

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

LXXVI.

Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd: away,
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear:
Now is thy time, to perish, or display

The skill that yet may check his mad career. With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.

LXXVII.

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; Though man and man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse; Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, His gory chest unveils life's panting source; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears.

LXXVIII.

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,
And foes disabled in the brutal fray:
And now the Matadores around him play,
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:
Once more through all he bursts his thundering

way

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past-he sinks upon the sand! (3)

formerly prevailed at the public-houses in Highgate, of administering a burlesque oath to all travellers of the middling rank who stopped there. The party was sworn on a pair of horns, fastened, "never to kiss the maid when he could the mistress; never to eat brown bread when he could get white; never to drink small beer when he could get strong; with many other injunctions of the like kind,-to all which was added the saving clause,-"unless you like it best.”— L. E.

(3) The reader will do well to compare Lord Byron's ani mated picture of the popular "sport" of the Spanish nation, with the very circumstantial details contained in the charming Letters of Don Leucadio Doblado (i. e. the Rev. Blanco White), published in 1822. So inveterate was, at one time, the rage of the people for this amusement, that even boys mimicked its features in their play. In the slaughter-house itself the professional bull-fighter gave public lessons; and such was the force of depraved custom, that ladies of the

LXXIX.

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.
He stops-he starts--disdaining to decline:
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle, dies.
The decorated car appears-on high

The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyes!Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. LXXX.

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites

The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain;
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain.
What private feuds the troubled village stain!
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe,
Enough, alas! in humble homes remain,

To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow.

LXXXI.

But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
His wither'd centinel, Duenna sage!

And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage,
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age.
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green,
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving
Queen?

LXXXII.

Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, Or dream'd he loved, since Rapture is a dream; But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream; And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.(1)

LXXXIII.

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 rise: Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.

LXXXIV.

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

bighest rank were not ashamed to appear amidst the filth and horror of the shambles. The Spaniards received this sport from the Moors, among whom it was celebrated with great pomp and splendour. See various notes to Mr. Lock. hart's Collection of Ancient Spanish Ballads, 1822.-L. E. (1) "Medio de fonte leporum,

Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat."-Luc.

And dost thou ask, what secret woe
I bear, corroding joy and youth?
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang ev'n thou must fail to soothe?
3.

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:
4.

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.
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.