LXII.

Happier in this than mightiest bards 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.

LXIII.

Of thee hereafter.-Ev'n amidst my strain
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here;
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;
Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear;
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear.
Now to my theme-but from thy holy haunt
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt.

LXIV.

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was

young,

See round thy giant base a brighter choir;

Nor e'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:

Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades

As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.

LXXI.

All have their fooleries-not alike are thine,
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea!
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,
Thy saint adorers count the rosary;

Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free
(Well do I ween the only virgin there)

From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;

Then to the crowded circus forth they fare; Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.

LXXII.

The lists are oped, the spacious 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 dames 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 moon-struck 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-pois'd lance,
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,.

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 travers'd o'er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed;
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, no more

Can man achieve without the friendly steed—
Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.

LXXV.

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and Expectation mute
Gapes around the silent circle's peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:

Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro

His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

LXXVI.

Sudden he stops; his eye

is fix'd-away,

Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;
Now is thy time to perish, or display

The skill that yet may check his mad career.
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear;
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes:
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak
his woes.

LXXVII.

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; Though man and man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse; Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, His gory chest unveils life's panting source; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears.

LXXVIII.

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 thundering way— Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,

Wraps his fierce eye--'tis past-he sinks upon the sand!

CANTO THE SECOND

I.

COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven !-but thou, alas,
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war, and wasting fire,
And years that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire

Of men who never felt the sacred glow

That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts be

stow.

II.

Ancient of days! august Athena ! where,

Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone-glimmering through the dream of things that

were:

First in the race that led to Glory's goal,

They won, and pass'd away—is this the whole?
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole

Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

III.

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! Come-but molest not yon defenceless urn; Look on this spot-a nation's sepulchre ! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. Even gods must yield-religions take their turn: 'Twas Jove's-'tis Mahomet's; and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on

reeds.