by Byron
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza’s tower
Beheld her smile in Danger’s Gorgon face,
575
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.
LVI
Her lover sinks – she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain – she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee – she checks their base career;
The foe retires – she heads the sallying host:
580
Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?
Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall?
What maid retrieve when man’s flush’d hope is lost?
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
Foil’d by a woman’s hand, before a batter’d wall?1
LVII
585
Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons,
But form’d for all the witching arts of love:
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
‘Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
590
Pecking the hand that hovers o’er her mate:
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:2
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
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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;1
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,
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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?1
‘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,
Best prize of better acts, they bear away,
And all that kings or chiefs e’er gain their toils repay.
LXXIV
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array’d,
But all afoot, the light-limb’d Matadore
740
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herds; but not before
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o’er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more
745
Can man achieve without the friendly steed –
Alas! too oft condemn’d for him to bear and bleed.
LXXV
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and Expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls.
750
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
755
His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.
LXXVI
Sudden he stops; his eye is fix’d: away,
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear:
Now is thy time, to perish, or display
The skill that yet may check his mad career.
760
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes;
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.
LXXVII
765
Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;
Though man and man’s avenging arms assail,
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.
One gallant steed is stretch’d a mangled corse;
770
Another, hideous sight! unseam’d appears,
His gory chest unveils life’s panting source;
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm’d he bears.
LXXVIII
Foil’d, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
775
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,
And foes disabled in the brutal fray:
And now the Matadores around him play,
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:
780
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way -
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,
Wraps his fierce eye – ’tis past – he sinks upon the sand!
LXXIX
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.
785
He stops – he starts – disdaining to decline:
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
The decorated car appears – on high
The corse is piled – sweet sight for vulgar eyes –
790
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.
LXXX
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain.
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
795
In vengeance, gloating on another’s pain.
What private feuds the troubled village stain!
Though now one phalanx’d host should meet the foe,
Enough, alas! in humble homes remain,
To meditate ’gainst friends the secret blow,
800
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life’s warm stream must flow.
LXXXI
But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
His wither’d centinel, Duenna sage!
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
Which the stern dotard deem’d he could encage,
805
Have pass’d to darkness with the vanish’d age.
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen,
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,)
With braided tresses bounding o’er the green,
While on the gay dance shone Night’s lover-loving Queen?
LXXXII
810
Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved,
Or dream’d he loved, since Rapture is a dream;
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe’s stream;
And lately had he learn’d with truth to deem
815
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:
How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem,
Full from the fount of Joy’s delicious springs
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.1
L
XXXIII
Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
820
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;
Not that Philosophy on such a mind
E’er deign’d to bend her chastely-awful eyes:
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
825
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:
Pleasure’s pall’d victim! life-abhorring gloom
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom.
LXXXIV
Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;
But view’d them not with misanthropic hate:
830
Fain would be now have join’d the dance, the song;
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:
Yet once he struggled ’gainst the demon’s sway,
And as in Beauty’s bower he pensive sate,
835
Pour’d forth this unpremeditated lay,
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.
To Inez
I
Nay, smile not at my sullen brow;
Alas! I cannot smile again:
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
840
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.
2
And dost thou ask, what secret woe
I bear, corroding joy and youth?
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang, ev’n thou must fail to soothe?
3
845
It is not love, it is not hate,
Nor low Ambition’s honours lost,
That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I prized the most:
4
It is that weariness which springs
850
From all I meet, or hear, or see:
To me no pleasure Beauty brings;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.
5
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore;
855
That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.
6
What Exile from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where-e’er I be,
860
The blight of life – the demon Thought.
7
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne’er, at least like me, awake!
8
865
Through many a clime ‘tis mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,
Whate’er betides, I’ve known the worst.
9
What is that worst? Nay do not ask –
870
In pity from the search forbear:
Smile on – nor venture to unmask