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Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands. His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glarw upon; Restless it rolls, now flx'd, and now anon Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this mom three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most


By Heaven 1 it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air I l What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share; The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.


Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

, Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;

',' Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory I
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met—as If at home they could not die —
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 1



There shall they rot—Ambition's honour'd fools! * Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay I Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts—to what? — a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?


1 Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief I | As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's meed And tears of triumph their reward prolong! Till others fall where other chieftains lead Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays the theme of transient song.'

'See ArresDlx, Note A.

f £" There let them rot — while rhymers tell the fools How honour decks the turf that wraps their clay t Liars avaunt 1" — MS.] 5 rThis stanza is not in the original MS. It was written at Newstead, in August, 1811, shortly after the battle of Arbuera.]

• f/1 At Seville, we lodged in the house of two Spanish unmarried ladies, women of character, the eldest a fine woman, the younjrest pretty. The freedom of manner, which is general here, astonished me not a little; and, in the course of further observation, 1 find that reserve is not the characteristic of Spanish belles. The eldest honoured your unworthy son with very particular attention, embracing him with great t*^1-Tnesi at parting (I was there but three days\ after cutbng off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one of her


Enough of Battle's minions I let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings I for their country's good, And die, that living might have proved her shame; Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild Ilapine's path pursued.


Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud SevUla4 triumphs unsubdued: Yet Is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-for prey 1 Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. Inevitable hour I 'Gainst fate to strive Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood Is vain, or Hlon, Tyre might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.


But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds j Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds; Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck 5 sounds; Here Folly still his votaries lnthralls; [rounds; And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls.


Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet: Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet I


How carols now the lusty muleteer? Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No 1 as he speeds, he chants " Viva cl Key l"s And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.

own, about three feet in length, which 1 send, and beg you will retain till my return. Her last words were, * Adios, tn hermoso ! me gusto roucho.' 'Adieu, vou pretty fellow 1 you please me much.' " — Lord B. to Hit Mother* Aug. 1809.]

s [A kind of fiddle, with only two strings, played on by a bow, said to have been brought by the Moors Into Spain.]

« " Viva el Rey Fernando 1" Long live King Ferdinand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They are chicfiy in dispraise of the old king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. 1 have heard many of them : some of the airs are beautiful. Don Manuel Godby, the Principe de la Pax, of an ancient but decayed famil}-, was born at lfa. dajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish guards; till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, e>c ate. It Is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country.


On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground; And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest; Still does he mark it with triumphant boast; And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.


And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet: 1 Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.


At every turn Morena's dusky height
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load;
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'crflow'd,
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch,
The magazine in rocky durance stowM,
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch,
The ball-piled pyramid s, the ever-blazing match,


Portend the deeds to come: — but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; A little moment delgneth 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!


And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign? Mo step between submission and a grave? The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? And doth the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel?

The red cockade, with " Fernando VII.," in the centre. * Atl who hare seen a battery will recollect the pyramidal form In which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through which I passed in my way to Seville.

3 Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by her valour elevated herself to the highest rank of heroines. When the Author was at Seville, she walked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of the Junta. — TThe exploits of Augustina, the famous heroine of both the sieges of Saragoza, are recorded at length in Southey's History of the Peninsular War. At the time when she first attracted notice, by mounting a battery where her lover had fallen, and working a gun in his room, she was in her twenty, second year, exceedingly pretty, and in a soft feminlno style


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'uet jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.


Te 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, Heard her light, lively tones In Lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, [chase. Thin the closed ranks, and lead In Glory's fearful


Her lover sinks— she sheds no ill-timed tear; Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post; Her fellows flee — she checks their base career; The foe retires—she heads the sallying host: Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? Who can avenge so well a leader's fall? What maid retrieve when man's fiush'd hope Is lost? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foll'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ?*


Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, But form'd for all the witching art3 of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, "Us but the tender fierceness of the dove, Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: In softness as in firmness far above Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great


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 1 Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak!

of beauty. She has further had the honour to be painted by Wilkie, and alluded to in Wordsworth's Dissertation on tho Convention (misnamed) of Cintra; where a noble passage concludes In these words:—"Saragoza has exemplified a melancholy, yea, a dismal truth, — yet consolatory and full of joy, — that when a people are called suddenly to fight for their liberty, and are sorely pressed upon, their best field of battle is the floors u|ion which their children have played; the chambers where the family of each man has slept; upon or under the roofs by which they have beeu sheltered ; In the gardens of their recreation ; in the street, or in the marketplace; before the altars of their temples, and among their congregated dwellings, blazing or uprooted."}

* " Slgilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo

Vestigto demonstrant mollitudiuem." Al l. Grl.


Milch me, ye cllmfs! which poets love to laud;
Match me, ye harems of the land I where now'
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud
Beauties that ev"n a cynic must avow;»
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow
To taste the gale lest Love shouU ride the wind,'
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters 3 — deign to

Their your wise Prophet's paradise we find,
ILs black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.


Oh, thou Parnassus 4 * whom I now survey, Sot in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, Bat soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty 1 What marvel if I thus essay to sing? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Woold gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Tboagh from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.


Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name
Woo knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas I with shame
That I in feeblest accents must adore.
When I recount thy worshippers of yore
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;

i my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
h thy cloudy canopy
la tilent joy to think at last I look on Thee !5


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' scat, art now their grave, 6
Sume gentle spirit still pervades the spot.
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,

i glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.?

1 Tab stanza was written in Turkey. 'r» Brantles that need not fear a broken vow.** — MS.] 'f" Long Mack hair, dark languishing eyes, clear olive ewEt.leT.hons, and forms more graceful in motion than can be omcervwj by an Englishman, used to the drowsy, listless air <d has countrywomen, added to the most becoming dress, and, «t the nsir time, the roost decent in the world, render a •swissti beauty Irresistible." — B. to his Mother, Aug. 18090 "Ttese stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at the tm* at Parnassus, now called Aj««h,{* (Llakura), Dec. 1809. [■* Upon Parnassus, going to the fountain of Delphi —IV, Vn 1*0*, 1 saw a flight of twelve eagles (Hobhouse wr* thry were vultures — at least In conversation), and I ewava saw omen. On the day before, I composed the lines to fwjsssssssss (in Childe Harold), and on beholding the birds, had asssas) tasst Apollo had accepted my homage. 1 have at least tad taw nans* and fame of a poet, during the poetical period

■ wfc (tVswa twenty to thirty);— whether it will last is another tssskcr : bat I hare betm a votary of the deity and the place, mti ata grsttefol for what he has done In my behalf, leaving a* ftature to bis bands, as 1 left the past." — B. Diary, 1821.J

'p Casting the eye over the site of ancient Delphi, one eanwa pnasiMy imagine what has become of the walls of the

■ ■■I mi building* which are mentioned in the history of its tmma ssuwriinceTjoe, — buildings which covered two miles of Ihissbi With use exception of the few terraces or supporting vstu, nothing now appears. The various robberies by Sylla, 5»«m, and Coustantinc, are Inconsiderable; for the removal of

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Of thec hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 1 turn'd aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Her fate, to every freeboni l«osom 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, 8 Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt.


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.


Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;9 But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. Ah, Vice 1 how soft are thy voluptuous ways 1 While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape The fascination of thy magic gaze ? >o A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.


When Paphos fell by Time — accursed Time! The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee — The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native sea, To nought else constant, hither dcign'd to flee, And flx'd her shrine within these walls of white; Though not to one dome clrcumscribcth she Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright 11

the statues of bronze, and marble, and Ivorv, could not greatly affect the general appearance of the city. The acclivity of the hill, and the foundations being placed on rock, without cement, would no doubt render them comparatively easy to be removed or hurled down into the vale below ; but the vale exhibits no appearance of accumulation of hewn stones; and the modern village could have consumed but few. In the course of so many centuries, the debris from the mountain must have covered up a great deal, and even the rubbish itself may have acquired a soil sufficient to conceal many- noble remains from the light of day. Yet we see no swellings or risings in the ground, Indicating the graves of the temples. All therefore is mystery, and the Greeks may truly say, • Where stood the walls of our fathers ? scarce the mossy tombs remain I'" —11. W. Williams''$ Travels in Greece, vol. il. p. 254.]

7 r- And walks with glassy steps o'er Aganippe's wave." — MS.]

■ [" Some glorious thought to my petition grant"— MS.] s Seville was the Hispalis of the Itomans. 10 r** Xhe lurking lures of thy enchanting gaze." — MS.] '> f" Cadiz, sweet Cadiz 1—it is the first spot in the creation. The beauty of its streets and mansions is only excelled by the liveliness of its inhabitants. It is a completo Cythera. full of

the finest women in cashire witches of 1809.]

; the Cadiz belles being the Laniard B, to his Mother, 12




From morn ttll night, from night till startled Morn Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, The song Is heard, the rosy garland worn; Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.'


The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest: What hallows it upon this Christian shore? Lo I it is sacred to a solemn feast: Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn; The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more j Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn.


The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer: Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl; To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 4


Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, Others along the safer turnpike fly; Some Rlchmond-hili ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why?' "Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath* with draught, and dance till morn. *


All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea I Soon as the matin bell proclalmeth 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.

'r . " monkish temple* share

Thenours misspent.and all in turns is love and prayer."—MS.] 1 f ADil droughty then alights, and roars for Roman purl."

5 This was written at Thebes, and consequently In the best situation for asking and answering such a question ; not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capital of Bceotia, where the Urst riddle was propounded and solved.

4 [ Lord Byron alludes to a ridiculous custom which formerly prevailed at the public-houses in Highgate, of administering a burlesque oath to all travellers of the middling rank who stopped there. The party was sworn on a pair of horns, fastened, " never to kiss the maid when he could the mistress; nev^r to eat brown bread when be could get white; never to drink small lieer when he could get strong , " with many other injunctions of the like kind, — to all which was added the saving clause, —44 unless you like it best"]'


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


Hush'd Is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-pois'd Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, [lance, 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.


In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, But all afoot, the llght-llmb'd Matadore Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed 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 I 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 flx'd: away, Away, thou heedless boy I 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.

* [" In thus mixing up the light with the solemn. It was the Intention of the poet to imitate Ariosto. But It is far easiei to rise, with grace, from the level of a strain generally familiar, iuto an occasional short bust of pathos or splendour, than tr interrupt thus a prolonged tone of solemnity by any descent Into the ludicrous or burlesque. In the former case, th< transition may have the effect of softening or elevating ; while in the latter, It almost Invariably shocks; — for the sami reason, perhaps, that a trait of pathos or high feeling, li comedy, has a peculiar charm; while the intrusion of comi* scenes into tragedy, however sanctioned among us by habi and authority, rarely fails to offend. The poet was ulmael convinced of the failure of the experiment, and in none of tb, succeeding cantos of Childe Harold repeated it." — Moorb.3

* The croupe is a particular leap taught In the



A^ain he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Xor 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 1 unseam'd appears, His gory chest unveils life's panting source; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Stifgering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears.


FoO'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,
Shite the red cloak and poise the ready brand:
Once more through all he bursts his thundering

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Trips his fierce eye—'tis past—he sinks upon the sand! >


There his vast neck just mingles with the 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 2— Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurt the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.


Seen 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. 5


Bnt Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, His wither'd centinel, Duenna sage I And all whereat the generous soul revolts, Which the stem dotard deem'd he could encnge, 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 lover-loving Queen?

1 [The reader will do well to compare Lord Byron** animate! picture of the popular " sport " of the Spanish nation, with the very circumstantial details contained in the charming * Letters of Don Lcuradio Doblado," (1. e. the Rev. Blanco '•Khilt) published in 182*. So inveterate was, at one time, the rase of the people for this amusement, that even boys miSKled its features in their play. In the slaughter-house Itself the professional bull-fighter gave public lessons; and *uch mas the force of depraved custom, that ladies of the biftbest rank were not ashamed to appear amidst the filth and horror of the shambles. The Spaniards received this fport from the Moors, among whom it was celebrated with great fop and splendour — See various Notes to Mr. Lockhart's Collection of Ancient Spanish Ballads. 1822.]


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 leam'd with truth to deem Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: Flow fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs1 Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.5


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 j And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb. Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: Pleasure's pall'd victim I life-abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.


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.



Nat, 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 tbou vainly seek to know

A pang, cv'n 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:


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.

1 T" The trophy corse Is reared — disgusting prize " — Or,

•* The corse is reared — sparkling the chariot flies." — MS.] 3 rM The Spaniards are as revengeful as ever. At Santa Otella I heard a young peasant threaten to stab a woman (an old one to be sure, which mitigates the offence), and was told, on expressing some small surprise, that this ethic was by no means uncommon."— MS.]

*" Medio de fonte leporum,

Surgit amari aliquld quod in ipsis floribus angat." —

5 ["" Some bitter hubbies up, and e'en on roses slings." — MS]


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