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LVIII. The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressid 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 Phæbus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch !

Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan,and weak.

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'o a cynic must avow; Match me those Mouries, 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.

Oh, thou Parnassus! (13) whom I now survey
Not in the phrenzy of a dreamer's eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
But soaring 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
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 vaidly dare to soar,

But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee !

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
Whose fate to distant homes confin'd their lot,
Shall I unmoy'd 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, art now their grave,
Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot,

Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the grave,
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.

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 fạte, to every freeborn bosom dear,
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear.
Now to my theme-but from thy holy baunt
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.

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was
See round thy giant base a brighter choir,

[young, Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more iban mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Nyrst 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.

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 forth 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?

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

C 2

When Paphos fell by Time--accursed Time !

queen who conquers all must yield to thee
The Pleasures fed, but sought as warm a clime;
And Venus, constant to her native sea
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee;
And fixed her sbrine within these walls of white;
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she

Her worships, but, devoted to her rite,
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.

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 others kibes. A long adieu
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns ;
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 hallows 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 smug apprentice gulp their weekly air; Thy coach of Hackney, whisky, one-horse chair, And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl, To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair ;

Till the tir'd jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian Churl.

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, Boeotian 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 morą,

All have their foolexies-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:
Much is the VIRGIN teaz'd to shrive them free
(Well do I ween the only virgin there)
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;

Then to the crowded circus forth they fare,
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.

The lists are op'd the spacious area clear'd,
Thousands on thousands pil'd are seated round;
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,
No vacant space for lated wight is found;
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye,
Yet ever well inclin'd to heal the wound;

None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die,
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.

LXXIII. Hush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light pois'd lance, Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, And lowly bending to the lists advance; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, The crowds' loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,

Best prize of better acts, they bear away, And all that Kings or chiefs e'cr gain their toils repay.

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la costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd,
But all afoot, the light limb'd Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herbs; but not before
The ground, with cautious tread, is travers d o'er ;
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more

Can man achieve without the friendly steed,
Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and Expectation mute
Gapes round the silent Circle's people'd walls.
Buunds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe;
Here, there, he points his toreatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd; away,
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;
Now is thy time, to perish, or display
The skill that yet may check his mad career.
With well-tim'd croupe the nimble coursess veer;
On foams the bull, but not unscath'd he goes?
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear;

He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; [woes.
Dart follows dart; lance, lance, loud bellowings speak his.

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,
Nor the wild plunging of the tortur'd horse;
Though man and man's avenging arms assail,
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.
One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse
Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears,
His gory chest unveils life's panting source,

Tho' death-struck still his feeble frame he rears,
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd be bears.

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