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« A few short hours and he will rise

To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

My dog howls at the gate.

« ‘Come hither, hither, my little page!

Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,

Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along.'

4.

a 'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,

But thee—and one above.'

5.

a ‘My father bless'd me fervently,

Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh

Till I come back again.''Enough, enough, my little lad!

Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry.

6.

«'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?

Or shiver at the gale?'-
Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.

« ‘My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,

What answer shall she make?'-
‘Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.'

« For who would trust the seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes

We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave

No thing that claims a tear.

9.

« And now I'm in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea :
But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again,

He'd tear me where he stands.

10.

« With thee, my bark, I 'll swiftly go

Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st ine to,

So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!

And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

My native land—Good night!»

XIV.
On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
New shores descried make every bosom gay;
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way,
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;

And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.

XV. Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! But man would mar thein with an impious hand: And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge Gainst those who most transgress his high command, With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.

XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! Her image floating on that noble tide, Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, But now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, And to the Lusians did her aid afford: A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.

XVII.
But whoso entereth within this town,
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,
Disconsolate will wander up and down,
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee;
For hut and palace show like filthily:
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt;
Ne personage of high or mean degree

Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, unb

XVIII.
Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes-
Why, nature, waste thy wonders on such men?
Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes
In variegated maze of mount and glen.
Ah, me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,
To follow half on which the eye dilates
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken

Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates?

XIX.
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd,
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd,
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,
The tender azure of the unruffled deep,
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,

The vine on high, the willow-branch below,
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.

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