XII. The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, The silent thought, nor from his lips did come But when the sun was sinking in the sea, He seized his harp, which he at times could string And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 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? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; XIV. On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, His fabled golden tribute bent to pay; XX. Then slowly climb the many-winding way, And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. XXVI. And ever since that martial synod met, And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. To view these champions cheated of their fame, 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, But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. XXIX. Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,5 A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 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, 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, In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest: 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! And all must shield their all, or share subjection's woes. When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore' XXXVIII. Hark-heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note! XLIV. Enough of battle's minions! let them play Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. Or in a narrower sphere wild rapine's path pursued. XXXIX. Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands, Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. XL. By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 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 tott ring walls. XLVII. Not so the rustic-with his trembling mate Ah! monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 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; The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart His black-eyed maids of heaven, angelically kind. of steel? LIV. Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, ¡Appall'd, and owlet's larum chill'd with dread, LX. Oh, thon Parnassus!13 whom I now survey, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 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! |