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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

Alings. 2

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 curst Cain'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.


“ Medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat." -Luc. " Full from the heart of Joy's delicious springs

Some bitter bubbles up, and e'en on roses stings." – MS.)

2 ["


1. Nay, smile not at my sullen brow;

Alas! I cannot smile again : Yet Heaven avert that ever thou

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.

2. And dost thou ask what secret woe

I bear, corroding joy and youth ? And wilt thou vainly seek to know

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. Jt is that weariness which springs

From all I meet, or hear, or see : To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

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.

What Exile from himself can flee? 1

To zones though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be,

The blight of life — the demon Thought. 2

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Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,

And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime 't is mine to go,

With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

What is that worst ? Nay do not ask

In pity from the search forbear :
Smile on — nor venture to unmask

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there, 3


• What exile from himself can flee?

To other zones, howe'er remote,
Still, still pursuing clings to me

The blight of life — the demon Thought." - MS.]
3 [“ Written January 25. 1810.” — MS.]
3 In place of this song, which was written at Athens, January
25. 1810, and which contains, as Moore says, “ some of the dreariest
touches of sadness that ever Byron's pen let fall,” we find, in the
first draught of the Canto, the following: -

Oh never talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies;
It has not been your lot to see,

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz.

LXXXV. Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu ! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ? When all were changing thou alone wert true, First to be free and last to be subdued : And if amidst a scene,

shock so rude,

Although her eye be not of blue,

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses,
How far its own expressive hue
The languid azure eye surpasses !

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole

The fire, that through those silken lashes
In darkest glances seems to roll,

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes:
And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses,
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel,
And curl'd to give her neck caresses.

Our English maids are long to woo,

And frigid even in possession;
And if their charms be fair to view,

Their lips are slow at Love's confession:
But born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is,
And who, when fondly, fairly won, -
Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz ?

The Spanish maid is no coquette,

Nor joys to see a lover tremble,
And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble.
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely;
And, though it will not bend to gold,
'T will love you long and love you dearly.

The Spanish girl that meets your love

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial,
For every thought is bent to prove

Her passion in the hour of trial.

Some native blood was seen thy streets to die;
A traitor only fell beneath the feud : 1

Here all were noble, save Nobility ;
None hugg’d a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry !

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!”

When thronging foemen menace Spain,

She dares the deed and shares the danger ;
And should her lover press the plain,
She hurls the spear, her love's avenger.

And when, beneath the evening star,

She mingles in the gay Bolero,
Or sings to her attuned guitar

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero,
Or counts her beads with fairy hand

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper,
Or joins devotion's choral band,
To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper ; -

In each her charms the heart must move
Of all who venture to behold her

Then let not maids less fair reprove

Because her bosom is not colder :
Through many a clime 't is mine to roam

Where many a soft and melting maid is,
But none abroad, and few at home,

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz. Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the governor of Cadiz, in May, 1809.

2“ War to the knife.” Palafox's answer to the French general

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