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. XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds; And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. XLVII. Not so the rustic-with his trembling mate Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, XLVIII. How carols now the lusty muleteer? As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 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 Woe to the man that walks in public view Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,10) LII. Portend the deeds to come:-but he whose nod A little moment deigneth to delay: Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; The West must own the Scourger of the world. Ah! 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 The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel? 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, an 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: 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?11) LVII. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 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: 1) 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 harams of the land! where now * I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. LX. Oh, thou Parnassus! 13) whom I now survey, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 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. LXI. Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! LXII. Happier in this than mightiest bard 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. |