Childe Harolds Pilgrimage | Page 7

with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.
LXIII.
Of thee hereafter.--Even amidst my strain?I turned aside to pay my homage here;?Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;?Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear;?And hailed 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 deemed 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,?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.
LXVI.
When Paphos fell by Time--accursed Time!?The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee -?The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;?And Venus, constant to her native sea,?To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,?And fixed 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 revel's 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 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 thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;?Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,?Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e'en 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, washed artizan,?And smug 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 ribboned 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??'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,?Grasped 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:?Much is the Virgin teased 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.
LXXII.
The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,?Thousands on thousands piled 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,?Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,?Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;?None through their cold disdain are doomed to die,?As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.
LXXIII.
Hushed is the din of tongues--on gallant steeds,?With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised 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 crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely glance,?Best prize of better acts, they bear away,?And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.
LXXIV.
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,?But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore?Stands in the centre, eager to invade?The lord of lowing herds; but not before?The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed 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 condemned for him to bear and bleed.
LXXV.
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,?The den expands, and expectation mute?Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.?Bounds 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 threatening front,