PELAYO:

OR,

THE CAVERN OF COVADONGA.

CANTO FIRST.

I.

'Tis sweet, when ev'ning's shades are closing round, To hear the laurell'd victor's trumpet sound;

'Tis sweet to seek the couch of rest,

When by a light gay heart 't is prest

In balmy sleep, sweet dreams for guest:
The warrior whose army gains the day-
The labourer at eve who whistles gay-
The miser counting o'er his hoard with joy-
The father sporting with his laughing boy—
The maid whose gentle bosom knows to swell,
When tolls at ev'ning's hour the vesper-bell,
And her fond lover whispers his farewell-
The rosy infant hush'd upon its mother's breast-
The very dog that sinks before the door to rest-

All! hail the ev'ning's close;
The hour for calm repose

Is sweet to such as those!

II.

But though that hour of peace and rest is come,
And sinks beneath the western hills the sun,
And in the heavens fades its roseate glow,
Yet stormy is the Moorish Chieftain's brow;
Such sleep, such soothing dreams he cannot know;-
But why? The war he waged hath not been vain;
His sword hath waved victorious o'er the plain
Where on their bloody couch his foes lie slain;
He hath reap'd the harvest of his spoils,

And the hour has come when end his toils;
Now may he seek the merry banquet's revelry,
Or from the wine-cup's sparkling brim drink cheerily,
Or rest his wearied head

Upon his gorgeous bed.

To him, alas! the ev'ning hour no respite brings,

For busy fancy never tires her wings,

But still with vain desires his bosom wrings:
Though laurel wreaths his temples bind,
Still doth the canker gnaw his mind—

The more he gains, his hopes the higher soar-
Ambition's unquench'd flame but thirsts the more,
Tow'ring beyond the skies

At each new gained prize:
Alas! how soon, when won,

'Twill lose its gilded charm!—

It naught avails that thousands bow the knee,
And yield him all the meed of victory—

Boots not the trophy, won in glory's name, The gorgeous splendour of his fair domain;Chill discontent, with visage pale, Snatches away the fairy veil;

In ev'ry joy her arrow flings;

With each new spoil new venom brings. The humble lab'rer at his cottage hearth Knows not the empty void, the chilling dearth, That fills such chieftain's breast,

And robs him of his rest.

Far sooner might we envy him

Than yon proud lord, whose ev'ry whim
Granted ere scarce 'tis told,

Palling as soon, grows cold.

III.

When ev'ning dews begin to rise,
His toil and labour done,

The former seeks for calm repose
Within his cottage home;

As through the field he gaily plods his way,
Reviews with joy the labours of the day,

Nor wishes more than he has got,
And that by his own toil was bought:
The bread is sweet his labours earn,

And sweet his sleep when labour 's done ;
No furrow on his brow is traced by care;
She flies before his frank and joyous air:-

He envies not the wealth of kings;

The produce that his toiling brings,

The riches that from earth's kind bosom springs,

The golden harvest she bestows,

Is all the wealth he asks or knows.
Contentment, peace, and joviality,

Are beaming in his sparkling, sprightly eye,
The ruddy glow of health is on his cheek,
And all his looks calm happiness bespeak.

And when he reaches his cottage hearth,
What scenes of joy and heart-felt mirth,
What greetings warm, meet his return,
And all his raptured senses charm!

IV.

Oh! ye who call earth dull and void of charms, who

feel

Few hours of bliss along life's clouded path may steal, Come now, and let your fancy gently glide,

To peep with me at his gay fire-side;

Come, view the young and tender woman there,
Whose spotless brow scarce knows the touch of care,
One hand in his-the other clasp'd

Around the smiling infant on her breast,
Whose soft and dimpled cheek to hers is prest;
On him she turns her beaming smile,

Warm from a heart that ne'er knew guile,
And he would spurn the pride of monarch's life,
Unshared, unsoothed by that adoring wife.
Enough e'en in that very thought to chase away
Your vain imaginings and welcome joy's glad ray.

V.

And when at night he sinks to rest,
By no aspiring thoughts opprest,

His sleep-his joyful dreams-what must they be?
Sweet-but not sweeter than reality!-

And gently thus his bark glides down

Life's troubled wayward tide;

The name of grief is scarcely known,
Or aught of care beside.

Ye, who have been toss'd on life's billowy surge,
On the uncertain waves, that one moment urge
To hope's wide harbour seen anear—
Then leave you victims of despair,
To whom joys fleeting hour

Like the stray sunbeam's glimpse hath been,
Whose momentary ray is seen

To light some ruin'd tower,
Then fade in storm and rain,
No more to shine again!-
Pause! If ever such as ye
Like cottage scene should see;
For though you chanced to be
Of birth and high degree,

You'd envy such as they,

And gladly change life's anxious cares
For joy as calm, as sweet as theirs.

VI.

But roving fancy, ever free,

In dreams of their futurity,

Has let me stray

Too far away;

Forgive me, gentle reader, if I rove

To dwell on calm content and wedded love,
When
my tale's not of the cottage's sweet repose,
But must the scenes of bloody war disclose.