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.

Hush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and lightpoised 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.

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 conyuge hand,

Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past-he sinks upon

the sand!

ed o'er,

Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:

His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steed, Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes round 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.

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

spine,

Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies,
He stops he starts-disdaining to decline:
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle, dies.
The decorated car appears-on high
The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar
eyes-

Four steeds that spurn the rein,as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain.

Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. What private feuds the troubled village stain!

Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe,

Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's

warm stream must flow.

But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
His wither'd centinel, Duenna sage!
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could
encage,

Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age.

Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage), With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, While on the gay dance shone Night's loverloving Queen?

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.

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 herself 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 resting doom.

│It 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.

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?

To Zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be, The blight of life-the demon, Thought.

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 'tis 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.

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.

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.

And dost thou ask, what secret woe
I bear, corroding joy and youth?
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang, even thou must fail to soothe?

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:

stood?

When all were changing thou alonewerttrue,
First to be free and last to be subdued:
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,
Some native blood was seen thy streets to die;
A traitor only fell beneath the feud:
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!"

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe

Can act, is acting there against man's life: From flashing scimitar to secret knife, War mouldeth there each weapon to his

need

So may he guard the sister and the wife, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain; Look on the hands with female slaughter red; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, Then to the vulture let each corse remain; Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain,

Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!

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. Fallen nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she

frees

Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose.

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.

CANTO II.

COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven!—but thou, alas!

That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so

On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies.

Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound;
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps:
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around;
But now not one of saddening thousands
weeps,

Nor warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell.
Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd
heaps:

Is that a temple where a God may dwell? Why even the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell!

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall,
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul:
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall,
The dome of Thought, the palace of the
Soul:

Behold through each lack-lustre,eyeless hole,
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit
And Passion's host, that never brook'd
control:

Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! "All that we know is, nothing can be known." Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun?

Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best;

Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: There no forced banquet claims the sated guest,

But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest.

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be
A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;
How sweet it were in concert to adore
With those who made our mortal labours
light!

To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more!
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight,
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who
taught the right!

There, thou!—whose love and life together fled,

Have left me here to love and live in vain--Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead,

When busy Memory flashes on my brain?
Well-I will dream that we may meet again,
And woo the vision to my vacant breast:
If aught of young Remembrance then remain,
Be as it may Futurity's behest,
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit
blest!

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, The marble column's yet unshaken base; Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne: Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace That latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. It may not be: nor even can Fancy's eye Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh,

Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by.

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee
The latest relic of her ancient reign;
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be!
England! I joy no child he was of thine:
Thy free-born men should spare what once
was free;

Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared:

Cold as the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared,

Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains.

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, Albion was happy in Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung,

Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; The ocean-queen, the free Britannia bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears,

Tore down those remnants with a Harpy's hand, Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.

Where was thine Aegis, Pallas! that appall'd Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd,

His shade from Hades upon that dread day, Bursting to light in terrible array!

more,

To scare a second robber from his prey? Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before.

Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee,

Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed

By British hands, which it had best behoved To guard those relica ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,

And once again thy hapless bosom gored, And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr'd!

But where is Harold? shall I then forget
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave?
Little reck'd he of all that men regret ;
No loved-one now in feign'd lament could

rave;

No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes: Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave;

But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes.

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea, Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight, When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,

The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight; Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,

The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, So gaily curl the waves hefore each dashing

prow.

And oh, the little warlike world within! The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, The hoarse command, the busy humming din, When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high:

Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry!

While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides;

Or school-boy Midshipman that, standing by, Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks:

Look on that part which sacred doth remain

Silent and fear'd by all-not oft he talks, With aught beneath him, if he would

preserve

That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely

swerve

From Law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve.

Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale!

Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;

Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, That lagging barks may make theirlazy way. Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze!

What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these!

The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;

Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe:

Such be our fate when we return to land! Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; A circle there of merry listeners stand, Or to some well-known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were

free to rove.

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore;

Europe and Afric on each other gaze! Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor

Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze: How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase;

But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down.

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel We once have loved, though love is at an end: The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.

Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,

When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?

Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend, Death hath but little left him to destroy! Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy?