The Works of Lord Byron Volume II Part 6

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 uns.e.xed, the Anlace[76] hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?

And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appalled, an owlet's 'larum chilled with dread,[77]

Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar,[cr]

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, Marked 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, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.

LVI.

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 flushed hope is lost?

Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered wall?[11.B.]

LVII.

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, But formed for all the witching arts of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 'Tis 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 n.o.bler sure, her charms perchance as great.

LVIII.

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed[cs]

Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:[12.B.]

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 wooed 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![78]

LIX.

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye harems of the land! where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow;[ct]

Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, With Spain's dark-glancing daughters--deign to know, There your wise Prophet's Paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.

LX.

Oh, thou Parna.s.sus! whom I now survey,[79][13.B.]

Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,[cu]

But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty!

What marvel if I thus essay to sing?

The humblest of thy pilgrims pa.s.sing 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 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![80]

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 gla.s.sy foot o'er yon melodious wave.[cv]

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;[cw]

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,[81]

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;[14.B.]

But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,[82]

Calls forth a sweeter, though ign.o.ble praise.

Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!

While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape[cx]

The fascination of thy magic gaze?

A Cherub-Hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.

LXVI.

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 deigned to flee, And fixed her shrine within these walls of white: Though not to one dome circ.u.mscribeth She Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand Altars rise, for ever blazing bright.[83]

LXVII.

From morn till night, from night till startled Morn[84]

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.[85] A long adieu He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu[cy]

Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And Love and Prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.[cz]

LXVIII.

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest: What hallows it upon this Christian sh.o.r.e?

Lo! 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 thronged arena shakes with shouts for more; Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn.

LXIX.[86]

The seventh day this--the Jubilee of man!

London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer: Then thy spruce citizen, washed artisan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: Thy coach of hackney, whiskey,[87] one-horse chair, And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl,[da]

To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.[db]

LXX.