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That bids me loathe my present state,
And fly from all I prized the most :
. 4. It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see : To me no pleasure Beauty brings ;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.
. . 6. 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.
And taste of all that I forsake;
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
8. 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 the worst.
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 dye; 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 life, Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ;
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife; [(18) War, war is still the cry, "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 remorseless
LXXXVIII. 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 unbleach
ing stain, Long mark the battle field with hideous awe: Thus only may, our sons conceive the scenes we
LXXXIX. Nor yet, 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 unre
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 blusbing
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
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! • What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,