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But Jealousy has fled : his bais, his bolts,
His wither'd centinel, Duenna sage !
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
Which the stern dotard deern'd he could encage,
Have pass’d to darkness with the vanish'd age.
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen,
(Ere War uprose in bis volcanic råge,)
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green,
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen?
Oh! many a time, and oft, bad 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 learn’d with truth to deem
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem,
Full froin the fount of Joy's delicious springs
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. (')
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 ;
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
Jlad buried long his hopes, no more to rise :
Pleasure's pallid victim ! 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 bis 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.
" Meiso de fonte loporum Surgit nmari aliqui l quod in ipsis Noribus angut." III. -D
1. Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ;
Alas! I cannot smile again : Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.
2. And dost thou ask, what secret woo
I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ?
3. 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:
4. 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.
5. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wnnderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.
6. What Exile from himself can flee?
To Zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be,
The blight of life — the demon Thought.
Yet others rapt in plensure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake ;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.
What is that worst? Nay do not ask —
In pity from the search forbear :
Smile on - nor venture to unmask
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.
Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu !
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ?
When all were changing thou alone wert true,
First to be free and last to be subdued :
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,
Some native blood was seen thy streets to die ;
A traitor only fell beneath the feud ; (")
Here all were noble, save Nobility ;
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry!
Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate !
They fight for freedom who were never free;
A Kingless people for a nerveless state,
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery :
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ;
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,
War, war is still the cry, “ War even to the knise !" (")
Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know,
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strise :
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foo
Can act, is acting there against man's life:
From flashing scimitar to secret knife,
(1) Alluding lo the conduct and death of Solano, the governor of Cadiz. · (2) “ War to the knife.” Palafox's answer to the French general at the siego or Saragoza.
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need
guard the sister and the wife, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed !
Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ;
Look on the hands with feinale slaughter red;
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,
Then to the vulture let each corse remain ;
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain,
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe :
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!
Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees :
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd:
Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd,
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain'd.
Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,
Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blignt?
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
And Freedomn's stranger-tree grow native of the soil !
And thou, my friend ! (-) — since unavailing woe
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain
1) The Honourable I*. W**. of the Guards,who died of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mino. To the short space of one month, I have lost her who gave me being, and most of those who had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction :
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,
Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complaiv :
But thus unlaureld to descend in vain,
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest!
What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest ?
Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most !
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear !
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
In dreams deny me not to see thee here !
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear
of Consciousness awaking to her woes,
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier,
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,
And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose.
Here is one fytte of Ilarold's pilgrimage :
Ye who of him may further seek to know,
Shall find some tidings in a future page,
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moc.
Is this too much ? stern Critic! say not so
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go:
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld,
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd.
" Insatiato archer! could not one suffice ?
T'hy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain,
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had hil'd her horn." I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment of greater honours, against the ablest candidates, !han those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently established his fame on tho spot where it was acquired : while his softer qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved him tuo well to envy his superiority.