Blackening her lovely domes, with traces rude. Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls. XLVII. Not so the rustic-with his trembling mate No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet! XLVIII. How carols now the lusty muleteer? Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds he chants "Viva el Rey!" And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. L. 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 grect: Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; 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 The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, LII. Portend the deeds to come:-but he whose nod A little moment deigneth 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 unfurl'd, And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd. LIII. And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel? LIV. Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared 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 bayonet jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. 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, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. LVI. Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear; What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost? LVII. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; LVIII. The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 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 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 poet's love to laud; Match me, ye harems of the land! where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. LX. O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey, Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 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. 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. 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. Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. |