1
Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
2
Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!
3
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
4
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
5
Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill;
6
Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine
7
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
8
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
9
To grace so plain a tale—this lowly lay of mine.
11
Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
12
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
13
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
14
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
15
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
16
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
17
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
18
Save concubines and carnal companie,
19
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.
21
Childe Harold was he hight:—but whence his name
22
And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
23
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
24
And had been glorious in another day:
25
But one sad losel soils a name for aye,
26
However mighty in the olden time;
27
Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay,
28
Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme,
29
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
31
Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun,
32
Disporting there like any other fly,
33
Nor deemed before his little day was done
34
One blast might chill him into misery.
35
But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,
36
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
37
He felt the fulness of satiety:
38
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
39
Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.
41
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
42
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
43
Had sighed to many, though he loved but one,
44
And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his.
45
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
46
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
47
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
48
And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
49
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.
51
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
52
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
53
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
54
But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:
55
Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,
56
And from his native land resolved to go,
57
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
58
With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,
59
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.
61
The Childe departed from his father's hall;
62
It was a vast and venerable pile;
63
So old, it seemed only not to fall,
64
Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle.
65
Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!
66
Where superstition once had made her den,
67
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;
68
And monks might deem their time was come agen,
69
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
71
Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,
72
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,
73
As if the memory of some deadly feud
74
Or disappointed passion lurked below:
75
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
76
For his was not that open, artless soul
77
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;
78
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
79
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.
81
And none did love him: though to hall and bower
82
He gathered revellers from far and near,
83
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
84
The heartless parasites of present cheer.
85
Yea, none did love him—not his lemans dear—
86
But pomp and power alone are woman's care,
87
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
88
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
89
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
91
Childe Harold had a mother—not forgot,
92
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
93
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
94
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:
95
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
96
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;
97
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon
98
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
99
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
101
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
102
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
103
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
104
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
105
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
106
His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
107
And all that mote to luxury invite,
108
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
109
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.
111
The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew
112
As glad to waft him from his native home;
113
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
114
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
115
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
116
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
117
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
118
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
119
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.
121
But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
122
He seized his harp, which he at times could string,
123
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
124
When deemed he no strange ear was listening:
125
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,
126
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight,
127
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
128
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
129
Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good Night.'
130
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
131
Fades o'er the waters blue;
132
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
133
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
134
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
135
We follow in his flight;
136
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
137
My Native Land—Good Night!
138
A few short hours, and he will rise
139
To give the morrow birth;
140
And I shall hail the main and skies,
141
But not my mother earth.
142
Deserted is my own good hall,
143
Its hearth is desolate;
144
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
145
My dog howls at the gate.
146
'Come hither, hither, my little page:
147
Why dost thou weep and wail?
148
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
149
Or tremble at the gale?
150
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye,
151
Our ship is swift and strong;
152
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
154
'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
155
I fear not wave nor wind;
156
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
157
Am sorrowful in mind;
158
For I have from my father gone,
159
A mother whom I love,
160
And have no friend, save these alone,
161
But thee—and One above.
162
'My father blessed me fervently,
163
Yet did not much complain;
164
But sorely will my mother sigh
165
Till I come back again.'—
166
'Enough, enough, my little lad!
167
Such tears become thine eye;
168
If I thy guileless bosom had,
169
Mine own would not be dry.
170
'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
171
Why dost thou look so pale?
172
Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
173
Or shiver at the gale?'—
174
'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
175
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
176
But thinking on an absent wife
177
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
178
'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
179
Along the bordering lake;
180
And when they on their father call,
181
What answer shall she make?'—
182
'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
183
Thy grief let none gainsay;
184
But I, who am of lighter mood,
185
Will laugh to flee away.'
186
For who would trust the seeming sighs
188
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
189
We late saw streaming o'er.
190
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
191
Nor perils gathering near;
192
My greatest grief is that I leave
193
No thing that claims a tear.
194
And now I'm in the world alone,
195
Upon the wide, wide sea;
196
But why should I for others groan,
197
When none will sigh for me?
198
Perchance my dog will whine in vain
199
Till fed by stranger hands;
200
But long ere I come back again
201
He'd tear me where he stands.
202
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
203
Athwart the foaming brine;
204
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
205
So not again to mine.
206
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
207
And when you fail my sight,
208
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
209
My Native Land—Good Night!
211
On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
212
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.
213
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
214
New shores descried make every bosom gay;
215
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way,
216
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
217
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;
218
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
219
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.
221
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
222
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
223
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!
224
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!
225
But man would mar them with an impious hand:
226
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge
227
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command,
228
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge
229
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.
231
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!
232
Her image floating on that noble tide,
233
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,
234
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride
235
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,
236
And to the Lusians did her aid afford
237
A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride,
238
Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword.
239
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.
241
But whoso entereth within this town,
242
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,
243
Disconsolate will wander up and down,
244
Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e;
245
For hut and palace show like filthily;
246
The dingy denizens are reared in dirt;
247
No personage of high or mean degree
248
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
249
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwashed, unhurt.
251
Poor, paltry slaves! yet born midst noblest scenes—
252
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?
253
Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes
254
In variegated maze of mount and glen.
255
Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,
256
To follow half on which the eye dilates
257
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken
258
Than those whereof such things the bard relates,
259
Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates?
261
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,
262
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,
263
The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned,
264
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,
265
The tender azure of the unruffled deep,
266
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,
267
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,
268
The vine on high, the willow branch below,
269
Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.
271
Then slowly climb the many-winding way,
272
And frequent turn to linger as you go,
273
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,
274
And rest ye at 'Our Lady's House of Woe;'
275
Where frugal monks their little relics show,
276
And sundry legends to the stranger tell:
277
Here impious men have punished been; and lo,
278
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,
279
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.
281
And here and there, as up the crags you spring,
282
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path;
283
Yet deem not these devotion's offering—
284
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath;
285
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath
286
Poured forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife,
287
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;
288
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife
289
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life!
291
On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,
292
Are domes where whilom kings did make repair;
293
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe:
294
Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there.
295
And yonder towers the prince's palace fair:
296
There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son,
297
Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware
298
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,
299
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.
301
Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan.
302
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow;
303
But now, as if a thing unblest by man,
304
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!
305
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow
306
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide;
307
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how
308
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;
309
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide.
311
Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!
312
Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!
313
With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,
314
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,
315
There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by
316
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll,
317
Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry,
318
And sundry signatures adorn the roll,
319
Whereat the urchin points, and laughs with all his soul.
321
Convention is the dwarfish demon styled
322
That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome:
323
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,
324
And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom.
325
Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's plume,
326
And Policy regained what Arms had lost:
327
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!
328
Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host,
329
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast.
331
And ever since that martial synod met,
332
Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name;
333
And folks in office at the mention fret,
334
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.
335
How will posterity the deed proclaim!
336
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,
337
To view these champions cheated of their fame,
338
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here,
339
Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?
341
So deemed the Childe, as o'er the mountains he
342
Did take his way in solitary guise:
343
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,
344
More restless than the swallow in the skies:
345
Though here awhile he learned to moralise,
346
For Meditation fixed at times on him,
347
And conscious Reason whispered to despise
348
His early youth misspent in maddest whim;
349
But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew dim.
351
To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits
352
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:
353
Again he rouses from his moping fits,
354
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.
355
Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal
356
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;
357
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll,
358
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,
359
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.
361
Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,
362
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen;
363
And church and court did mingle their array,
364
And mass and revel were alternate seen;
365
Lordlings and freres—ill-sorted fry, I ween!
366
But here the Babylonian whore had built
367
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen,
368
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,
369
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to garnish guilt.
371
O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,
372
(Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!)
373
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,
374
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.
375
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
376
And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
377
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace.
378
Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air
379
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.
381
More bleak to view the hills at length recede,
382
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:
383
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!
384
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,
385
Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend
386
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows—
387
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend:
388
For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes,
389
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes.
391
Where Lusitania and her Sister meet,
392
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?
393
Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet,
394
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?
395
Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride?
396
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?—
397
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,
398
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall
399
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul
401
But these between a silver streamlet glides,
402
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook,
403
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides.
404
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,
405
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,
406
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow:
407
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke:
408
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know
409
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.
411
But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed,
412
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along
413
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,
414
So noted ancient roundelays among.
415
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng
416
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest;
417
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong;
418
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest
419
Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed.
421
Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land!
422
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,
423
When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band
424
That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore?
425
Where are those bloody banners which of yore
426
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale,
427
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?
428
Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale,
429
While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail.
431
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?
432
Ah! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate!
433
When granite moulders and when records fail,
434
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date.
435
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate,
436
See how the mighty shrink into a song!
437
Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great?
438
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue,
439
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?
441
Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance
442
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries,
443
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,
444
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:
445
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,
446
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar!
447
In every peal she calls—'Awake! arise!'
448
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
449
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?
451
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
452
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
453
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
454
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
455
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?—the fires of death,
456
The bale-fires flash on high:—from rock to rock
457
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe:
458
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
459
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.
461
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
462
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
463
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
464
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
465
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
466
Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet
467
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;
468
For on this morn three potent nations meet,
469
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.
471
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
472
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
473
Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery,
474
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
475
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
476
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
477
All join the chase, but few the triumph share:
478
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
479
And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array.
481
Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
482
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
483
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.
484
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
485
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
486
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
487
Are met—as if at home they could not die—
488
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
489
And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain.
491
There shall they rot—Ambition's honoured fools!
492
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
493
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
494
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
495
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
496
With human hearts—to what?—a dream alone.
497
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
498
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
499
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?
501
O Albuera, glorious field of grief!
502
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,
503
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
504
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed.
505
Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed
506
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
507
Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
508
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
509
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.
511
Enough of Battle's minions! let them play
512
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:
513
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay,
514
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
515
In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim
516
Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good,
517
And die, that living might have proved her shame;
518
Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud,
519
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.
521
Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way
522
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:
523
Yet is she free—the spoiler's wished-for prey!
524
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude,
525
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.
526
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive
527
Where Desolation plants her famished brood
528
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive,
529
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.
531
But all unconscious of the coming doom,
532
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;
533
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,
534
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds;
535
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds;
536
Here Folly still his votaries enthralls,
537
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:
538
Girt with the silent crimes of capitals,
539
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls.
541
Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate
542
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,
543
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,
544
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.
545
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star
546
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:
547
Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,
548
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;
549
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet.
551
How carols now the lusty muleteer?
552
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,
553
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,
554
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?
555
No! as he speeds, he chants 'Viva el Rey!'
556
And checks his song to execrate Godoy,
557
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day
558
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy,
559
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.
561
On yon long level plain, at distance crowned
562
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
563
Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
564
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest
565
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:
566
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,
567
Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon's nest;
568
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,
569
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.
571
And whomsoe'er along the path you meet
572
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,
573
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:
574
Woe to the man that walks in public view
575
Without of loyalty this token true:
576
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;
577
And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue,
578
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak,
579
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.
581
At every turn Morena's dusky height
582
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load;
583
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,
584
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,
585
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed,
586
The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch,
587
The magazine in rocky durance stowed,
588
The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch,
589
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,
591
Portend the deeds to come:—but he whose nod
592
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,
593
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;
594
A little moment deigneth to delay:
595
Soon will his legions sweep through these the way;
596
The West must own the Scourger of the world.
597
Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day,
598
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled,
599
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled.
601
And must they fall—the young, the proud, the brave—
602
To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign?
603
No step between submission and a grave?
604
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?
605
And doth the Power that man adores ordain
606
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal?
607
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?
608
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,
609
The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of steel?
611
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
612
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
613
And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused,
614
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?
615
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
616
Appalled, an owlet's larum chilled with dread,
617
Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar,
618
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead
619
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.
621
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
622
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
623
Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
624
Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower,
625
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
626
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
627
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
628
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,
629
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.
631
Her lover sinks—she sheds no ill-timed tear;
632
Her chief is slain—she fills his fatal post;
633
Her fellows flee—she checks their base career;
634
The foe retires—she heads the sallying host:
635
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?
636
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?
637
What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost?
638
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
639
Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered wall?
641
Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons,
642
But formed for all the witching arts of love:
643
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
644
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
645
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
646
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate:
647
In softness as in firmness far above
648
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;
649
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.
651
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed
652
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:
653
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,
654
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:
655
Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much
656
Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek
657
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!
658
Who round the North for paler dames would seek?
659
How poor their forms appear? how languid, wan, and weak!
661
Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
662
Match me, ye harems! of the land where now
663
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud
664
Beauties that even a cynic must avow!
665
Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow
666
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,
667
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters—deign to know,
668
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find,
669
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.
671
O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey,
672
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye,
673
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
674
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
675
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!
676
What marvel if I thus essay to sing?
677
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by
678
Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string,
679
Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing.
681
Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name
682
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:
683
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame
684
That I in feeblest accents must adore.
685
When I recount thy worshippers of yore
686
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;
687
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
688
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy
689
In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!
691
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
692
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
693
Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,
694
Which others rave of, though they know it not?
695
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
696
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,
697
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,
698
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,
699
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.
701
Of thee hereafter.—Even amidst my strain
702
I turned aside to pay my homage here;
703
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;
704
Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear;
705
And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear.
706
Now to my theme—but from thy holy haunt
707
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;
708
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,
709
Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle vaunt.
711
But ne'er didst thou, fair mount, when Greece was young,
712
See round thy giant base a brighter choir;
713
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung
714
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire,
715
Behold a train more fitting to inspire
716
The song of love than Andalusia's maids,
717
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:
718
Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades
719
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.
721
Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast
722
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days,
723
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,
724
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.
725
Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!
726
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape
727
The fascination of thy magic gaze?
728
A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,
729
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.
731
When Paphos fell by Time—accursed Time!
732
The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee—
733
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;
734
And Venus, constant to her native sea,
735
To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,
736
And fixed her shrine within these walls of white;
737
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she
738
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,
739
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.
741
From morn till night, from night till startled morn
742
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew,
743
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn;
744
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,
745
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu
746
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns:
747
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu
748
Of true devotion monkish incense burns,
749
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.
751
The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest;
752
What hallows it upon this Christian shore?
753
Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast:
754
Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar?
755
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore
756
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn:
757
The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;
758
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,
759
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e'en affects to mourn.
761
The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.
762
London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer:
763
Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan,
764
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:
765
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
766
And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;
767
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair;
768
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,
769
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.
771
Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,
772
Others along the safer turnpike fly;
773
Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware,
774
And many to the steep of Highgate hie.
775
Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why?
776
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,
777
Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery,
778
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,
779
And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn.
781
All have their fooleries; not alike are thine,
782
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea!
783
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,
784
Thy saint adorers count the rosary:
785
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free
786
(Well do I ween the only virgin there)
787
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;
788
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare:
789
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.
791
The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,
792
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;
793
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,
794
No vacant space for lated wight is found:
795
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,
796
Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,
797
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;
798
None through their cold disdain are doomed to die,
799
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.
801
Hushed is the din of tongues—on gallant steeds,
802
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance,
803
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,
804
And lowly bending to the lists advance;
805
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:
806
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,
807
The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely glance,
808
Best prize of better acts, they bear away,
809
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.
811
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,
812
But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore
813
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
814
The lord of lowing herds; but not before
815
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er,
816
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:
817
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more
818
Can man achieve without the friendly steed—
819
Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.
821
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
822
The den expands, and expectation mute
823
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.
824
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
825
And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
826
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:
827
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
828
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
829
His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.
831
Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away,
832
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;
833
Now is thy time to perish, or display
834
The skill that yet may check his mad career.
835
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;
836
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;
837
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:
838
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes:
839
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.
841
Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,
842
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;
843
Though man and man's avenging arms assail,
844
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.
845
One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse;
846
Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears,
847
His gory chest unveils life's panting source;
848
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;
849
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears.
851
Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
852
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
853
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,
854
And foes disabled in the brutal fray:
855
And now the matadores around him play,
856
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:
857
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way—
858
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,
859
Wraps his fierce eye—'tis past—he sinks upon the sand.
861
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
862
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.
863
He stops—he starts—disdaining to decline:
864
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
865
Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
866
The decorated car appears on high:
867
The corse is piled—sweet sight for vulgar eyes;
868
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
869
Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by.
871
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
872
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain:
873
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
874
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain.
875
What private feuds the troubled village stain!
876
Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe,
877
Enough, alas, in humble homes remain,
878
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow,
879
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow.
881
But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
882
His withered sentinel, duenna sage!
883
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
884
Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage,
885
Have passed to darkness with the vanished age.
886
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen
887
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),
888
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green,
889
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen?
891
Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved,
892
Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream;
893
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,
894
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream:
895
And lately had he learned with truth to deem
896
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:
897
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem,
898
Full from the fount of joy's delicious springs
899
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
901
Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
902
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;
903
Not that Philosophy on such a mind
904
E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes:
905
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;
906
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
907
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:
908
Pleasure's palled victim! life-abhorring gloom
909
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.
911
Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;
912
But viewed them not with misanthropic hate;
913
Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song,
914
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?
915
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:
916
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway,
917
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate,
918
Poured forth this unpremeditated lay,
919
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.
921
Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,
922
Alas! I cannot smile again:
923
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
924
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.
925
And dost thou ask what secret woe
926
I bear, corroding joy and youth?
927
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
928
A pang even thou must fail to soothe?
929
It is not love, it is not hate,
930
Nor low Ambition's honours lost,
931
That bids me loathe my present state,
932
And fly from all I prized the most:
933
It is that weariness which springs
934
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
935
To me no pleasure Beauty brings;
936
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.
937
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
938
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore,
939
That will not look beyond the tomb,
940
But cannot hope for rest before.
941
What exile from himself can flee?
942
To zones, though more and more remote,
943
Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
944
The blight of life—the demon Thought.
945
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,
946
And taste of all that I forsake:
947
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
948
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
949
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,
950
With many a retrospection curst;
951
And all my solace is to know,
952
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.
953
What is that worst? Nay, do not ask—
954
In pity from the search forbear:
955
Smile on—nor venture to unmask
956
Man's heart, and view the hell that's there.
958
Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!
959
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?
960
When all were changing, thou alone wert true,
961
First to be free, and last to be subdued.
962
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,
963
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye,
964
A traitor only fell beneath the feud:
965
Here all were noble, save nobility;
966
None hugged a conqueror's chain save fallen Chivalry!
968
Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!
969
They fight for freedom, who were never free;
970
A kingless people for a nerveless state,
971
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,
972
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery;
973
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life,
974
Pride points the path that leads to liberty;
975
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,
976
War, war is still the cry, 'War even to the knife!'
978
Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know,
979
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife:
980
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe
981
Can act, is acting there against man's life:
982
From flashing scimitar to secret knife,
983
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need—
984
So may he guard the sister and the wife,
985
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed,
986
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!
988
Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?
989
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain:
990
Look on the hands with female slaughter red;
991
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,
992
Then to the vulture let each corse remain;
993
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,
994
Let their bleached bones, and blood's unbleaching stain,
995
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:
996
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!
998
Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done;
999
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees:
1000
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,
1001
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.
1002
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she frees
1003
More than her fell Pizarros once enchained.
1004
Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease
1005
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained,
1006
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained.
1008
Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
1009
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,
1010
Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
1011
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.
1012
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?
1013
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?
1014
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
1015
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
1016
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil?
1018
And thou, my friend! since unavailing woe
1019
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain—
1020
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,
1021
Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain:
1022
But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain,
1023
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,
1024
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,
1025
While glory crowns so many a meaner crest!
1026
What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest?
1028
Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most!
1029
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!
1030
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
1031
In dreams deny me not to see thee here!
1032
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear
1033
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes,
1034
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier,
1035
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,
1036
And mourned and mourner lie united in repose.
1038
Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage.
1039
Ye who of him may further seek to know,
1040
Shall find some tidings in a future page,
1041
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.
1042
Is this too much? Stern critic, say not so:
1043
Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld
1044
In other lands, where he was doomed to go:
1045
Lands that contain the monuments of eld,
1046
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled.
|
