LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. TO INEZ. I. NAY, smile not at my sullen brow, Should'st weep, and haply weep in vain. 2. And dost thou ask, what secret woe 3. It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low ambition's honours lost, 4. It is that weariness which springs 5. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 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. ༡. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 8. Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 9. 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 ! None hugged a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry! LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 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 deed! LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Let their bleached bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 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 enchained. Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained. 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 blushing toil? 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 soil! XCI. And thou, my friend!-since unavailing woe By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, XCII. Oh! known the earliest, and esteemed the most! XCIII. repose. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled END OF CANTO I. |