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In Spain, in my own country, night and morn
Where all good people curse me in their prayers ;
Where every Moorish accent that I hear
Doth tell me of my country's overthrow,
Doth stab me like a dagger to the soul;
Here, here, in desolated Spain, whose fields [sons
Yet reek to heaven with blood, whose slaughtered
Lie rotting in the open light of day,
My victims: said I mine? Nay, nay, Count Illan,
They are thy victims! at the throne of God,
Their spirits call for vengeance on thy head ;
Their blood is on thy soul. Even I myself, -
I am thy victim too; and this death more
Must yet be placed in hell to thy account.

O my dear country! O my mother Spain !
My cradle and my grave! for thou art dear;
And, nursed to thy undoing as I was,
Still, still I am thy child, and love thee still.
I shall be written in thy chronicles .
The veriest wretch that ever yet betrayed
Her native land! From sire to son, my name
Will be transmitted down for infamy!
Never again will mother call her child
La Caba: an Iscariot curse will lie
Upon the name, and children in their

songs Will teach the rocks and hills to echo with it Strumpet and traitoress!

This is thy work, father! Nay, tell me not my shame is washed away,

a Chris

That all this ruin and this misery
Is
vengeance

for
my.wrongs.

I asked not this;
I called for open, manly, Gothic vengeance.
Thou wert a vassal, and thy villain lord
Most falsely and most foully broke his faith ;
Thou wert a father, and the lustful king
By force abused thy child! Thou hadst a sword :
Shame on thee to call in the cimeter
To do thy work! Thou wert a Goth,

tian, Son of an old and honorable house: It was my boast, my proudest happiness, To think I was the daughter of Count Illan. Fool that I am to call this African By that good name! Oh, do not spread thy hands To me! and put not on that father's look ! Moor! turbaned misbeliever! renegade! Circumcised traitor! Thou Count Illan, thou ! Thou

my

dear father? — Cover me, ( Earth! Hell, hide me from the knowledge !

BRISTOL, 1802.

THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL

SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

SONNET I.

DELIA

AT PLAY.

She held a Cup and Ball of ivory white,
Less white the ivory than her snowy hand !
Enrapt, I watched her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in innocent delight,
Her taper fingers twirled the giddy ball,
Now tossed it, following still with EAGLE sight,
Now on the pointed end inficed its fall.
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed.
Methought the BALL she played with was my

HEART;
(Alas! that sport like that should be her pride !)
And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart :
Shall I not, then, the cruel fair condemn
Who on that dart IMPALES My BoSoM'S GEM?

SONNET II.

TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA'S PORTRAIT.

Rash painter! canst thou give the orB OF DAY
In all its noontide glory, or portray
The DIAMOND that ath wart the tapered hall
Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light?
Even if thine art could boast such magic might,
Yet, if it strove to paint my angel's EYE,
Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call
Heaven's vengeance on thy sin. Must thou be told
The CRIME it is to paint DIVINITY?
Rash painter! should the world her charms behold,
Dim and defiled as there they needs must be,
They to their old idolatry would fall,
And bend before her form the pagan knee,
Fairer than VENUS, DAUGHTER OF THE SEA.

SONNET III.

HE PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE

FOR DELIA.

SOME have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.
Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I view her everywhere:
Her ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,
My goddess-maid, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR ;
For Love annihilates the world to me!
And, when the weary Sol around his bed
Closes the SABLE CURTAINS of the night,

K

VOL. II.

SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight She shines confest. When every sound is dead, The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to roll The surge of music o'er my wavy

brain. Far, far from her my body drags its chain ; But sure with Delia I exist A SOUL.

SONNET IV.

THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A

PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOR.

I would I were that portly gentleman,
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,
Who hangs in Delia's parlor! for, whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the SUNBEAMS of her eyes,
And he unblamed may gaze upon MY FAIR,
And oft MY FAIR his favored form surveys.
Oh HAPPY PICTURE, still on her to gaze!
I

envy and jealous fear alarms,
Lest the stRONG glance of those divinest charms
WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,
When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that portly gentleman,
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane!

him ;

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