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; (9)
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.
LI.
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 pallisade, the fosse o'erflowed,
The station'd bands, the never vacant watch,
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd,
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch,
The ball-pil'd pyramid, the ever blazing match, (10)
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 deigueth 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 uufurl'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,
No 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
Is it for this the Spanish maid arous'd,
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
And, all unsex'd, the Anlace hath espous'd,
Sung the loud song, and dar'd 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'net jar,
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead [tread.
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to
LV.
Ye 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,
Thin the clos'd ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.
LVI.
Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-tim'd 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 flush'd hope is lost?
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall? (11)
LVII.
Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons,
But form'd 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 mute;
In softness as in firmness far above
Remoter females, fanı'd 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: (12)
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!
Who round the North for paler dames would seek?
How poor their forms appear! how languid,wan,and weak.
LIX.
Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
Match me, ye harams of the land! 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 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.
Oh, thou Parnassus! (13) whom I now survey
Not in the phrenzy of a dreamer's eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
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 passing by,
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string,
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave [her wing.
Oft have I dream'd 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 Thec!
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
Whose fate to distant homes confin'd their lot,
Shall I unmov'd 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' seat, art now their grave,
Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot,
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the grave,
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.
LXIII.
Of thee hereafter-Ev'n amidst my strain
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here;
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom 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,
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt,
But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was
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; (14)
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
The fascination of thy magic gaze?
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 deign'd to flee;
And fixed her shrine within these walls of white;
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she
Her worships, but, devoted to her rite,
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.
LXVII.
From morn till night, from night till startled Morn
Peeps blushing on the Revels' laughing crew,
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn,
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,
Tread on each others 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.
LXIX.
The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.
London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer; Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artizan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air; Thy coach of Hackney, whisky, one horse chair, And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl, To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair; · Till the tir'd jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian Churl.
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