LXI. Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name LXII. Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, LXIII. Of thee hereafter. - Ev'n amidst strain my I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd 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, Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades LXV. Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days; (') Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, LXVI. When Paphos fell by time accursed Time! To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee; A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. LXVII. From morn till 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. LXVIII. The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; What hallows it upon this Christian shore? 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 throng'd 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. (1) Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. LXIX. The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. LXX. Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why? (') 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. LXXI. All have their fooleries-not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea! 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 LXXII. The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die A's moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. (1) This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the best situation for ask ing and answering such a question; not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capita' of Boeotia, where the first riddle was propounded and solved. LXXIII. Hush'd is the din of tongues on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-pois'd lance And lowly bending to the lists advance; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. LXXIV. In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, The lord of lowing herds; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er Can man achieve without the friendly steed Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. LXXV. Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His tail; LXXVI. 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 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. LXXVII. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, LXXVIII. Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, And now the Matadores around him play, Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps nis fierce eye- 'tis past he sinks upon the sand! LXXIX. Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 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; LXXX. Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, aud cheers the Spanish swain In vengeance gloating on another's pain. What private feuds the troubled village stain! To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow. |