LV. Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 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? LVII. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: In softness as in firmness far above Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. LVIII. The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 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 Pho-bus 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! LIX. Match me, ye elimes! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye harems of the land! where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ; Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, H 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 dream'd 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. I tremble, and can only bend the knee; In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! LXII. Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. LXIII. Of thee hereafter.-Ev'n amidst my strain I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; 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, 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. |