L. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet: 9 Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 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. VOL. I. 3 LIII. And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal, 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, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase. LVI. Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear; What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost? Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall?". LVII. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; LVIII. The seal love's dimpling finger hath impress'd Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: "" 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 those houries, whom ye scarce allow 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, What marvel if I thus essay to sing? 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 In silent joy to think at last I look on thee! LXII. Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, LXIII. yon Of thee hereafter.-Ev'n amidst my strain 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, The song of love than Andalusia's maids, Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades |