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LXIV. But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was See round thy giant base a brighter choir, [young, Nore'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung, The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire: Ar! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. LXV. Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, [days; Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways While boyish blood is mantling who can 'scape The fascination of thy magic gaze? * Cherub-nydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to * taste thy dear delusive snape.
LXXII. 't The lists are oped, the spacitus 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 danies 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 moonstruck 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 costly 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 The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, Lestaught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steed— Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.
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 thund'ring way. Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past--he silks upon the sand!
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.” LXXXIIX. 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 deigned 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 :
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unhai m'd he bears
Pleasure's pall'd victim life-abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting dooul
Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done, Fresh legions pour adown the Pyreneen: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'm nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : Strange retribution now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain'd. XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera lavish of the dead, Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight, When small she breathe her from the blushing toil. How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil
Cold is the heart, fair Greece' that looks on thee Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved: Dull is the eye that will not weep to see [moved Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines re. By British hands, which it had best behooved To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved. And once again thy hapless bosom gored And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to norther: climes abhorr'd ' XVI. But where is Harold shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? Little reck'd he of all that men regret; No loved one now in feign'd lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes: Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave, But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes
""" preserved the walls he loved to shield before.