Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,

  Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,

  Heard 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.

  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:

  Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?

  Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall?

  What maid retrieve when man’s flushed hope is lost?

  Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,

  Foiled by a woman’s hand, before a battered wall?

  LVII.

  Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons,

  But formed 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,

  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 impressed

  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 wooed 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 poets love to laud;

  Match me, ye harems! of the land where now

  I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud

  Beauties that even a cynic must avow!

  Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow

  To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,

  With Spain’s dark-glancing daughters - deign to know,

  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,

  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,

  Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing.

  LXI.

  Oft have I dreamed 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,

  Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,

  Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,

  Which others rave of, though they know it not?

  Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,

  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. - Even amidst my strain

  I turned aside to pay my homage here;

  Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;

  Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear;

  And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear.

  Now to my theme - but from thy holy haunt

  Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;

  Yield me one leaf of Daphne’s deathless plant,

  Nor let thy votary’s hope be deemed an idle vaunt.

  LXIV.

  But ne’er didst thou, fair mount, when Greece was young,

  See round thy giant base a brighter choir;

  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:

  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,

  But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,

  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,

  And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.

  LXVI.

  When Paphos fell by Time - accursèd 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,

  To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,

  And fixed 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.

  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

  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;

  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:

  The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;

  Yells the mad crowd o’er entrails freshly torn,

  Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e’en affects to mourn.

  LXIX.

  The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.

  London! right well thou know’st the day of prayer:

  Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan,

  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;

  Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,

  Provoking envious g
ibe from each pedestrian churl.

  LXX.

  Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,

  Others along the safer turnpike fly;

  Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware,

  And many to the steep of Highgate hie.

  Ask ye, Bœotian shades, the reason why?

  ’Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,

  Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery,

  In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,

  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:

  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.

  The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,

  Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;

  Long ere the first loud trumpet’s note is heard,

  No vacant space for lated wight is found:

  Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,

  Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,

  Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;

  None through their cold disdain are doomed to die,

  As moon-struck bards complain, by Love’s sad archery.

  LXXIII.

  Hushed is the din of tongues - on gallant steeds,

  With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance,

  Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,

  And lowly bending to the lists advance;

  Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:

  If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,

  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 arrayed,

  But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore

  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

  Can man achieve without the friendly steed -

  Alas! too oft condemned 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.

  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

  His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.

  LXXVI.

  Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: 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.

  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.

  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 stretched a mangled corse;

  Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears,

  His gory chest unveils life’s panting source;

  Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;

  Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears.

  LXXVIII.

  Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,

  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:

  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.

  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;

  Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,

  Hurl the dark bull 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

  In vengeance, gloating on another’s pain.

  What private feuds the troubled village stain!

  Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe,

  Enough, alas, in humble homes remain,

  To meditate ‘gainst friends the secret blow,

  For some slight cause of wrath, whence life’s warm stream must flow.

  LXXXI.

  But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,

  His withered sentinel, duenna sage!

  And all whereat the generous soul revolts,

  Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage,

  Have passed to darkness with the vanished 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.

  Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved,

  Or dreamed 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 learned with truth to deem

  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.

  LXXXIII.

  Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,

  Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;

  Not that Philosophy on such a mind

  E’er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes:

  But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;

  And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,

  Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:

  Pleasure’s palled victim! life-abhorring gloom

  Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom.

  LXXXIV.

  Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;

  But viewed them not with misanthropic hate;

  Fain would he now have joined 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,

  Poured forth this unpremeditated lay,

  To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.

  TO INEZ.

  Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,

  Alas! I cannot smile again:

  Yet Heaven avert that ever thou

  Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.

  And dost thou ask what secret woe

  I bear, corroding joy and youth?

  And wilt thou vainly seek to know

  A pang even thou must fail to soothe?

  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:

  It is that weariness which springs

  From all I meet, or hear, or see:

  To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

  Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

  It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

  The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore,

  That will not look beyond the tomb,

  But cannot hope for rest before.

  What exile from himself can flee?

  To zones, though more and more remote,

  Still, still pursues, where’er I be,

  The blight of life - the demon Thought.

  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!

  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.

  What is that worst? Nay, do not ask -

  In pity from the search forbear:

  Smile on - nor venture to unmask

  Man’s heart, and view the hell that’s there.