Childe Harolds Pilgrimage | Page 7

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.
LXI.
Oft have I dreamed 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 hallowed 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 cave,
And glides 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