5. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom But cannot hope for rest before. 6. 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. 7. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, And taste of all that I forsake ; 8. 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 In pity from the search forbear: Smile on-nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? First to be free and last to be subdued : And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye, A traitor only fell beneath the feud : Here all were noble, save Nobility! None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry! LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! They fight for freedom who were never free, A Kingless people for a nerveless state; Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, True to the veriest slaves of Treachery: Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!" LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, Can act, is acting there against man's life: From flashing scimitar to secret knife, War mouldeth there each weapon to his need So may he guard the sister and the wife, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed- LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw; Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done; It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain'd. XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera lavish of the dead, Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil! XCI. And thou, my friend!—since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain- K But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd. |