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, Foil'd by a woman's hand before a batter'd wall?

(11)

LVII.

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons,
But form'd 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 impress'd Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch (12)

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 woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous [seek? Who round the North for paler dames would How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak!

clutch!

LIX.

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye harams of the land! where now

I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud

Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow;

Match me those Houries, 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.

Oh, thou Parnassus! (15) whom I now survey,
Not in the phrenzy of a dreamer's eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,

But soring 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 dream'd 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 hallow'd scene,

Which others rave of, though they know it not? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thou, the Muses' seat, are 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.-Ev'n amidst my strain I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear, And hail'd 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 deem'd 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;

(14)

But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,
Calls for 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?

༤

A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.

LXVI.

When Paphos fell by Time-accursed Time! The queen who conquers all must yield to theeThe Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native sea, To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee; And fix'd 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 Revels 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 sojurns:
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 hollows 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 throng'd Arena shakes with shouts for more; Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n 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, wash'd artizan, And snug 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 gibe from each pedestrian Churl.

LXX.

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd 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, Baotian shades! the reason why? (15)
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,

Grasp'd 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 :