XLVII. Not so the rustic with his trembling mate Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet! XLVIII. How carols now the lusty muleteer? Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds, he chants, "Viva el Rey!" And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. L. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, LII. Portend the deeds to come:-but he whose nod Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; LIII. And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign? No step between submission and a grave? The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? And doth the Power that man adores ordain \Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel? LIV. Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. LV. Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. LVI. Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear; What maid retrieve when man's flush'd 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, Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; 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 clutch! Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak! VOL. I. D LIX. Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow LX. Oh, thou Parnassus! (13) whom I now survey, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by LXI. Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! |