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1. Nav, 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, ev’n 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 scarcé a charn for me.
5. 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-e'er I be,
The blight of life-the demon Thought.
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake;
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
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.
LXXXV. Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu ! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ? When all were changing thou alone wert true, 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 die : A traitor only fell beneath the feud : 17)
Here all were noble, save Nobility; None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chi.
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 Pride points the path that leads to Liberty:
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, a War even to the knife
LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 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, So may such foes deserve the most reniorseless deed!
LXXXVII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain; Look on the hands with female slaughter red; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, Then to the vulture let each corse remain; Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unblea
ching stain, Lopg mark the battle-field with hideons awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!
LXXXIX. Nor vet, alas! the dreadful work is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder un.
Fall'o han her fein now Colum
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 When shall she breathe her from the blushing
toil? How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the
XCI. And thou, my friend ! 19-since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest?
XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! Dear to a heart where 'nought was left so dear! Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, In dreams deny me not to see thee here! And Morn in secret shall renew the tear Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier,
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose.
XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much ? stern Critic! say not so: Patience and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doom'd to go:
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands
NOTES TO CANTO 1.
Yes! sigh'd o’er Delphi's long deserted shrine.
Stanza i. line 6. The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock. «One,» said the guide, "of a king who broke his neck hunting.» His majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement.
A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cowhouse.
On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain; probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the Dews of Castalie.
Since the publication of this poem, I have been informed of the misapprehension of the term Nossa Señora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde, or mark over the ñ, which alters the signification of the word: with it, Peña