In softness as in firmness far above | |
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; | |
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. | |
LVIII | |
The seal Love’s dimpling finger hath impress’d | |
595 | Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: |
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 Phœbus woo’d in vain to spoil her cheek, | |
600 | 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 now1 | |
605 | 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, | |
610 | There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find, |
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. | |
LX | |
Oh, thou Parnassus!2 whom I now survey, | |
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer’s eye, | |
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, | |
615 | 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, | |
620 | Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing. |
LXI | |
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. | |
625 | 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! | |
LXII | |
630 | Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, |
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, | |
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow’d scene, | |
Which others rave of, though they know it not? | |
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, | |
635 | 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 glassy foot o’er yon melodious wave. | |
LXIII | |
Of thee hereafter. – Ev’n amidst my strain | |
640 | 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 | |
645 | 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. | |
LXIV | |
But ne’er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was oun | |
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, | |
650 | 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: | |
655 | 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; | |
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, | |
660 | 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, | |
665 | 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, | |
670 | To nought else constant, hither deign’d to flee; |
And fix’d her shrine within these walls of white; | |
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she | |
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, | |
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. | |
LXVII | |
675 | 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 | |
680 | 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; | |
685 | 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; | |
690 | 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: | |
695 | Then thy spruce citizen, wash’d artisan, |
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: | |
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, | |
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl; | |
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair; | |
700 | Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, |
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. | |
LXX | |
Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribbon’d fair, | |
Others along the safer turnpike fly; | |
Some Richmond-hill ascend some scud to Ware | |
705 | And many to the steep of Highgate hie. |
Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why? | |
‘Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, | |
Grasp’d in the holy hand of Mystery, | |
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, | |
710 | 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! | |
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, | |
Thy saint adorers count the rosary: | |
715 | 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 | |
720 | The lists are oped, the spacious area clear’d, |
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; | |
Long ere the first loud trumpet’s note is heard, | |
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found: | |
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, | |
725 | Skill’d in the ogle of a roguish eye, |
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; | |
None through their cold disdain are doom’d to die | |
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love’s sad archery. | |
LXXIII | |
Hush’d is the din of tongues – on gallant steeds, | |
730 | With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-pois’d lance |
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, | |
And lowly bending to the lists advance; | |
Rich are their scarfs, their charges featly prance: | |
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, | |
735 | The crowd’s loud shout and ladies’ lovely glance, |