Selected Poems
Page 11
Once form’d thy Paradise, as not aware
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.
XXIII
Here didst thou dwell here schemes of pleasure plan
280
Beneath yon mountain’s ever beauteous brow:
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man,
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide;
285
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;
Swept into wrecks anon by Time’s ungentle tide!
XXIV
Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!1
Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!
290
With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,
There sits in parchment robe array’d, and by
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll,
Where blazon’d glare names known to chivalry,
295
And sundry signatures adorn the roll,
Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soul.
XXV
Convention is the dwarfish demon styled
That foil’d the knights in Marialva’s dome:
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,
300
And turn’d a nation’s shallow joy to gloom.
Here Folly dash’d to earth the victor’s plume,
And Policy regain’d what arms had lost:
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!
Woe to the conqu’ring, not the conquer’d host,
305
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania’s coast!
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.
310
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
315
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,
320
For Meditation fix’d at times on him;
And conscious Reason whisper’d to despise
His early youth, misspent in maddest whim;
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim.
XXVIII
To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits
325
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;
330
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,
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians’ luckless queen;
335
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,
340
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt.1
XXX
O’er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,
(Oh that such hills upheld a freeborn race!)
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,
345
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,
350
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.
XXXI
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,
355
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,
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection’s woes.
XXXII
360
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?
365
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,
370
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;
375
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.1
XXXIV
But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass’d
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along
380
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,
So noted ancient roundelays among.
Whilome upon his banks did legions through
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest:
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong;
385
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 land!
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,
When Cava’s traitor-sire first call’d the band
390
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?2
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,
395
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.
400
Pride!
bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate,
See how the Mighty shrink into a song!
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great?
Or must thou trust Tradition’s simple tongue,
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?
XXXVII
405
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,
410
And speaks in thunder through yon engine’s roar:
In every peal she calls – ‘Awake! arise!’
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia’s shore?
XXXVIII
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
415
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
420
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.
XXXIX
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep’ning in the sun,
425
With deathshot 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;
430
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,
435
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share;
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
440
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!
445
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.
XLII
450
There shall they rot – Ambition’s honour’d fools!
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
455
With human hearts – to what? – a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?
XLIII
Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief!
460
As o’er thy plain the Pilgrim prick’d his steed,
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed!
Peace to the perish’d! may the warrior’s meed
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
465
Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.
XLIV
Enough of Battle’s minions! let them play
Their game of lives and barter breath for fame:
470
Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay,
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
In sooth ’twere sad to thwart their noble aim
Who strike blest hirelings! for their country’s good,
And die, that living might have proved her shame;
475
Perish’d, perchance, in some domestic feud,
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine’s path pursued.
XLV
Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:
Yet is she free – the spoiler’s wish’d-for prey!
480
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 famish’d brood
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive,
485
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:
490
Nor here War’s clarion, but Love’s rebeck sounds;
Here Folly still his votaries inthralls;
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
495
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
500
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?
505
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 ‘Vivã el Rey!’1
And checks his song to execrate Godoy,
510
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
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,
515
Wide scatter’d hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;
And, scathed by fire, the greensward’s darken’d vest
Tells that the foe was Andalusia’s guest:
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,
Here the bold peasant storm’d the dragon’s nest;
520
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.
L
And whomsoe’er along the path you meet
&
nbsp; Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:1
525
Woe to the man that walks in public view
Without of loyalty this token true:
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue,
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke,
530
Could blunt the sabre’s edge, or clear the cannon’s smoke.
LI
At every turn Morena’s dusky height
Sustains aloft the battery’s iron load;
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,
535
The bristling palisade, the fosse o’erflow’d,
The station’d bands, the never-vacant watch,
The magazine in rocky durance stow’d,
The holster’d steed beneath the shed of thatch,
The ball-piled pyramid,2 the ever-blazing match,
LII
540
Portend the deeds to come: – but he whose nod
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;
A little moment deigneth to delay:
Soon will his legions sweep through these their way;
545
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,
550
To swell one bloated Chief’s unwholesome reign?
No step between submission and a grave?
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?
And doth the Power that man adores ordain
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant’s appeal?
555
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,
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,
560
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 bay’net jar,
565
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,
570
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady’s bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power,