"Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, But formed for all the witching arts of love." Photogravure from an original drawing by Edmund H. Garrett

Childe Harold.

Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.

LXI.

Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious name
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame
That I in feeblest accents must adore.
When I recount thy worshippers of yore
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy

In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! 35

LXII.

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed 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 turned aside to pay my homage here;

Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear;

And hailed 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 deemed 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.

LXV.

Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days; 36

But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,

Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.
Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape-