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Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl. But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount, when Greece was Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. young,

See round thy giant base a brighter choir ;
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair,
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire,

Others along the safer turnpike fly;

Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love than Andalusia's maids,

And many to the steep of Highgate hie.

Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why? Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:

'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, Ah! that to these were given such oeaceful shades

Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery. As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her

In whose dread name both men and maids are glades. LXV

sworn, Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast

| And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance

till morn. Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days,

LXXI. But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,

All have their fooleries ; not alike are thine, Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.

Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!

Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape

Thy saint adorers count the rosary: The fascination of thy magic gaze?

Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,

(Well do I ween the only virgin there) And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.

From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; LXVI.

Then to the crowded circus forth they fare:

Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion When Paphos fell by time-accursed Time!

share. The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee

LXXII. Tl.e Pleasures fled, but sought as warın a clime;

The lists are ope'd, the spacious area clear'd, And Venus, constant to her native sea,

Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee,

Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white;

Ne vacant space for lated wight is found :
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,

Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,

Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye,
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.

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 From morn till night, from night till startled Morn

archery. Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew,

The song is heard, the rosy garland worn;
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,

Hush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant steeds, Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu

With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised He bids to sober joy that here sojourns :

lance, Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu

Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, Of true devotion monkish incense burns,

And lowly bending to the lists advance ; And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.

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, The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest;

Best prize of better acts, they bear away, What hallows it upon this Christian shore ?

And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. Lol it is sacred to a solemn feast :

LXXIV Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar?

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore

But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn:

Stands in the centre, eager to invade The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more ;

The lord of lowing herds; but not before Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,

The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er Nor shrinks the feinale eye, nor eve'n affects to

Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: mourn.

His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more

Can man achieve without the friendly steed-
The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.

Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer: Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan,

LXXV. And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air :

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo! the signal falls, Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, | The den expands, and Expectation mute And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl; Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; | Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,

And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,

The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe :

But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His withered sentinel, Duenna sage!
His first attack, wide waving to and fro

And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage,

Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. LXXVI.

Who late so frec as Spanish girls were seen Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd : away.

(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage), Away, thou heedless boy 1 prepare the spear; With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, Now is thy tiine to perish, or display

While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving The skill that yet may check his mad career.

Queen ? With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer

LXXXII. On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved, Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dreamı;

He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes: But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream: speak his woes.

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, Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,

Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;

Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom Though man and man's avenging arms assail,

flings. Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.

One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse;
Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears,

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
His gory chest unveils life's panting source ;

Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;

Not that Philosophy on such a mind Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he

E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful cyes:

But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies; bears.

And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, LXXVIII.

Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,

Pleasure's pallid victim ! life-abhorring gloom Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,

Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,

dooin. And foes disabled in the brutal fray:

LXXXIV. And now the Matadores around him play,

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand :

But view'd them not with misanthropic hate ; Once more through all he bursts his thundering

Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the way

song; Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,

But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past-he sinks upon the

Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : sand!

Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, LXXIX.

And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,

Pour'd forth this unpremeditated Jay, Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.

To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier He stops--he starts--disdaining to decline:

day. Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,

ΤΟ ΙΝΕΖ, Without a groan, without a struggle dies.

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, The decorated car appears : on high

Alas! I cannot smile again : The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyes;

Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by.

And dost thou ask what secret woc

I bear, corroding joy and youth?
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites

And wilt thou vainly seek to know
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain: 1 A pang even thou must fail to soothe?
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights

It is not love, it is not hate,
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain.

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, What private feuds the troubled village stain !

That bids me loathe my present state, Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the

And fly from all I prized the most : foe, Enough, alas, in humble homes remain,

It is that weariness which springs To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow,

From all I meet, or hear, or see: For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm To me no pleasure Beauty brings; stream must flow,

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.


It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

Look on the hands with female slaughter red;
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore,

Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,
That will not look beyond the tomb,

Then to the vulture let each corse remain;
But cannot hope for rest before.

Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,

Let their bleachd bones, and blood s unbleaching
What Exile from himself can fice?
To zones, though more and more remote,


Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:
Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
The blight of life-the demon Thought.

Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake :

Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,

Fresh legions pour adow the Pyrenees :
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,

Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,

Fallen nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she frees
With many a retrospection curst;

More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd.
And all my solace is to know,

Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd,
What is that worst? Nay, do not ask-

While o'er the parent clinie prowls Murder unre. In pity from the search forbear :

Smile on-nor venture to unmask

Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.

Not all the inarvels of Barossa's fight,

Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu!

Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.

When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ?

When shall she breathe her from the blushing When all were changing, thou alone wert true,

toil? First to be free, and last to be subdued.

How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,

Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye,

And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the A traitor only fell beneath thc feud :

soil ? Here all were noble, save nobility;

None hugg'd a conqueror's chain save fallen And thou, my friend ! since unavailing woe

Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the

strainSuch be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, They fight for freedom, who were never free; Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain : A kingless people for a nerveless state,

But thus unlaureld to descend in vain, Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, True to the veriest slaves of Treachery;

And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, While glory crowns so many a meaner crest! Pride points the path that leads to liberty ;

What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest ? Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,

XCII. War, war is still the cry, War even to the knife !'t

Oh, known the earliest, and esteeind the most! LXXXVII.

Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards

Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, know,

In dreams deny me not to see thee here! Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife :

And Morn in secret shall renew the tear Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe

Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, Can act, is acting there against man's life:

And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, From flashing scimitar to secret knife,

Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, War mouldeth there each weapon to his need

And nourned and mourner lie united in repose. So may he guard the sister and the wife,

хст. So may he make each curst oppressor bleed,

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage. So may such foes deserve the most remorseless Ye who of him may further seek to know, deed!

Shall find some tidings in a future page,

If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.
Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?

Is this too much? Stern Critic, say not so: Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain :

Patience ! and ye shall hear what he behell

In other lands, where he was doom'd to go: * Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the

Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, governor of Cadiz, in May 1809.

+ Palafox's answer to the French general at the Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands siege of Saragoza.

were quellid,



Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven -but thou, alas, Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Didst never yet one mortal song inspire

Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps : Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,

Is that a temple where a God may dwell? And is, despite of war and wasting fire,*

Why, even the worm at last disdains her shatter'd And years, that bade thy worship tu expire :

cell But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, Of men who never felt the sacred glow

Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, bestow.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul. II.

Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, Ancient of days I august Athena! where,

The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit,
Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul? And Passion's host, that never brook'd control:
Gone-glimmering through the dream of things Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,
that were:

People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?
First in the race that led to Glory's goal,
They won, and passed away-is this the whole ?

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour !

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole

* All that we know is, nothing can be known.' Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun! tower,

Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers groan Dim with the inist of years, grey fits the shade of With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. power.

Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimneth best; III.

Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron:

There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! Come-but molest not yon defenceless urn!

| But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. Look on this spot-a nation's sepulchre !

VIII. Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn.

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be Even gods must yield-religions take their turn:

A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 'Twas Jove's-'tis Mahomet's; and other creeds

To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee Will rise with other years, till man shall learn

And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;

How sweet it were in concert to adore Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built With those who made our mortal labours light! on reeds.

To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! iv.

Behold each mighty shade reveald to sight, Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know

right! Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given,'

IX. That being, thou wouldst be again, and go,

There, thou --whose love and life together fied, Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so

Have left me here to love and live in vainOn earth no more, but mingled with the skies!

Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe?

When busy memory flashes on my brain ? Regard and weigh yon dust before it Aies :

Well-I will dream that we may meet again, That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.

And woo the vision to my vacant breast : v.

If aught of young Remembrance then remain, Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty inound;

Be as it may Futurity's behest,

For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit Far on the solitary shore he sleeps :t

blest! He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; But now not one of saddening thousands weeps,

Here let me sit upon this massy stone,

The marble co!umn's yet unshaken base ! * Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the ex. plosion of a magazine during the Venetian siege.

Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite throne ! It was not always the custom of the Greeks to Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace burn their dead; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their decease; and he was indeed neglected . The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixwho had not annual games near his tomb, or festivals teen columns, entirely of marble, yet survive : oriin honour of his memory by his countrymen, as ginally there were one hundred and fifty. These Achilles, Brasidas, etc., and at last even Antinous, columns, however, are by many supposed to have be. whose death was as heroic as his life was infamous. Tionged to the Pantheon.

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The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place.

By British hands, which it had best behoved It may not be: nor even can Fancy's eye

To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Restore what time hath labour'd to deface.

Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; And once again thy hapless bosom gored, Unmoved the Moslemn sits, the light Greek carols by. And snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern clines

abhurr'd! XI.

XVI." But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane

But where is Harold ? shall I then forget On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee,

To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave!

Little reck'd he of all that men regret; The latest relic of her ancient reign

No loved one now in feign'd lament could rave; The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?

No friend the parting hand extended gave,
Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be !
England! I joy no child he was of thine :

Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes.

Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; Thy free-born men should spare what once was

But Harold felt not as in other times, free; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine,

And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. And bear these altars o'er the long reluctant brine.


He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea,

Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast,

When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath

The white sails set, the gallant frigate tight, spared:

Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, Cold as the crags upon his native coast,

The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, His mind as barren and his heart as hard,

The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand pre

The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, pared,

So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard,

XVIII. Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,

And oh, the little warlike world within ! And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's

The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, chains.

The hoarse command, the busy humming din, XIII.

When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : What I shall it e'er be said by British tongue

Hark to the Boatswain's call the cheering cry, Albion was happy in Athena's tears?

While through the seaman's hand the tackle Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung.

glides ; Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears;

Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears

Strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides, The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears, Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand,

XIX. Which envious Eld forbore, and Tyrants left to

White is the glassy deck, without a stain, stand.

Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks: XIV.

Look on that part which sacred doth remain Where was thine Ægis, Pallas, that appallid

For the lone Chieftain, who majestic stalks, Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? *

Silent and fear'd by all: not oft he talks Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthrallid, With aught beneath him, if he would preserve His shade from Hades upon that dread day

That strict restraint, which broken, ever baulks Bursting to light in terrible array !

Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve What I could not Pluto spare the chief once more, From law, however stern, which tends their strength To scare a second robber from his prey?

to nerve. Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore,

xx. Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield be Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale, fore.

Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; xv.

Then inust the pennant-bearer slacken sail,

That lagging barks may make their lazy way. Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on thee,

Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved;

To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze! Dull is the eye that will not weep to see

What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines re

Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, moved

The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like

these 1 • According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous . To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on as the Scottish peer.-See Chandler.

deck during action,

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