XII.

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew,
As glad to waft him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam :
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
Repeated he, but in his bosom slept

The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.
XIII.

But when the sun was sinking in the sea,

He seized his harp, which he at times could string
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deem'd he no strange car was listening:

And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight.
While flew the vessel on hier snowy wing,

And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last « Good Night.»

5.

'My father bless'd me fervently,

Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again."«Enough, enough, my little lad Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry.

6.

«Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
Or shiver at the gale?»-
'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful check.

XIV.

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
New shores descried make every bosom Gay;
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way,
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,

His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,

XX.

Then slowly climb the many-winding way,
And frequent turn to linger as you go,
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,
And rest ye at << our Lady's house of woe;»2
Where frugal monks their little relics show,
And sundry legends to the stranger tell :
Here impious men have punished been, and lo!
Deep in you cave Honorius long did dwell,

XXVI.

And ever since that martial synod met,
Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name;
And folks in office at the mention fret,

And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.
How will posterity the deed proclaim!
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,

To view these champions cheated of their fame,
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here,
Where scorn her finger points through many a coming
year?

XXVII.

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he Did take his way in solitary guise:

Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee More restless than the swallow in the skies: Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, For meditation fix'd at times on him; And conscious reason whisper'd to despise His early youth, mispent in maddest whim; But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim.

XXVIII.

To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits,
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:
Again he rouses from his moping fits,

But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;
And o er him many changing scenes must roll
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,

Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.

XXIX.

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,5
Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless queen;
And church and court did mingle their array,
And mass and revel were alternate seen;
Lordlings and freres-ill-sorted fry I ween!
But here the Babylonian whore hath built

A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen,
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,
And bow the knee to pomp that loves to varnish guilt.

ΧΧΧ.

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce filis, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. Oh there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share.

ΧΧΧΙ.

More bleak to view the hills at length recede,
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend:
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows-
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend :
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes,

XXXII.

Where Lusitania and her sister meet,

Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? Or Dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?— Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul:

XXXIII.

But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, That peaceful still twixt bitterest foemen flow; For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.6

XXXIV.

But, ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd,
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along

In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,
So noted ancient roundelays among.
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng

Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest:
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong;
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd.

XXXV.

Oh, lovely Spain! renown'd, romantic laud! Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?? Where are those bloody banners which of yore Waved o'er thy sons, victorious, to the gale, And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale, While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail.

XXXVI.

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? Ah! such, alas' the hero's amplest fate! When granite moulders and when records fail, A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, See how the mighty shrink into a song! Can volume, pillar, pile preserve the great? Or must thou trust tradition's simple tongue, When flattery sleeps with thee, and history does thee wrong?

XXXVII.

Awake! ye sons of Spain! awake! advance!
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries,
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar :
In every peal she calls-« Awake! arise!»
Sav, is her voice more feeble than of yore,

XXXVIII.

Hark-heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note!
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?-the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high-from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

XLIV.

Enough of battle's minions! let them play
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay,
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
In sooth, 't were sad to thwart their noble aim
Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country s good,
And die, that living might have proved her shame;
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud,

XXXIX.

Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon
Flashing afar,-and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done;
For on this morn three potent nations meet,

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

XL.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery,
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And guash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share;
The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
And havoc scarce for joy can number their array.
XLI.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met-as if at home they could not die-
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

XLV.

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:
Yet is she free-the spoiler's wish'd-for prey!
Soon, soon shall conquest's fiery foot intrude,
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.
Inevitable hour! 'gainst fate to strive
Where desolation plants her famished 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;
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds:
Not here war's clarion, but love's rebeck sounds;
Here folly still his votaries enthralls:

And young-eyed lewdness walks her midnight rounds:
Girt with the silent crimes of capitals,

Still to the last kind vice clings to the tott ring walls.

XLVII.

Not so the rustic-with his trembling mate
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.
No more beneath soft eve's consenting star
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet :

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 chaunts:-« Viva el Rey!» 8 And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day, When first Spain's queen behield the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulterate joy.

XLIX.

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, Wide-scatter'd hoof-marks diut the wounded ground; And, scathed by fire, the green sward's darken'd vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: Bere was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the bold peisant storm'd the dragon's nest; Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.

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 doughters-deign to know
There your wise prophet's paradise we find,

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, and owlet's larum chill'd with dread,

LX.

Oh, thon Parnassus!13 whom I now survey,
Not in the frenzy 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,

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, Beard 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 closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase.

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, 't is, 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!