And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 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.16) 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 curstCain's unresting doom. LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; But view'd them not with misanthropic hate: Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song; But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay, To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. TO INEZ. 1. Nay, smile not at my sullen brow; Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 2. And dost thou ask, what secret woe 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 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. 6. What Exile from himself can flee? To Zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be, The blight of life-the demon Thought. 7. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, Oh! may they still of transport dream 8. Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 9. What is that worst? Nay do not ask- Smile on-nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. LXXXV. Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry! LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! They fight for freedom who were never free; A Kingless people for a nerveless state, Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, True to the veriest slaves of Treachery: Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride points the path that leads to Liberty; Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!.18) LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw! LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n 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 un. restrain'd. xc. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Have won for Spain her well asserted right. 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! XCI. And thou, my friend!19-since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain: But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, In dreams deny me not to see thee here! And Morn in secret shall renew the tear Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much? stern Critic! say not so: Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doom'd to go: Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd. www |