steel?
LIV
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
560
And, all unsex‘d, the anlace hath espoused,
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
Appall’d, an owlet’s larum chill’d with dread,
Now views the column-scattering bay’net jar,
565
The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead
Stalks with Minerva’s step where Mars might quake to tread.
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,
570
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady’s bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza’s tower
Beheld her smile in Danger’s Gorgon face,
575
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.
LVI
Her lover sinks – she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain – she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee – she checks their base career;
The foe retires – she heads the sallying host:
580
Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?
Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall?
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? 1
LVII
585
Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons,
But form’d for all the witching arts of love:
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
‘Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
590
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
595
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: 2
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 Phœbus woo’d in vain to spoil her cheek,
600
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 climes! which poets love to laud;
Match me, ye harams of the land! where now1
605
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,
With Spain’s dark-glancing daughters – deign to know,
610
There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find,
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.
LX
Oh, thou Parnassus!2 whom I now survey,
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer’s eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
615
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,
620
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.
625
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
630
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow’d scene,
Which others rave of, though they know it not?
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
635
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. – Ev’n amidst my strain
640
I turn’d aside to pay my homage here;
Forgot the land, the
LIV
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,
560
And, all unsex‘d, the anlace hath espoused,
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar
Appall’d, an owlet’s larum chill’d with dread,
Now views the column-scattering bay’net jar,
565
The falchion flash, and o’er the yet warm dead
Stalks with Minerva’s step where Mars might quake to tread.
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,
570
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady’s bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza’s tower
Beheld her smile in Danger’s Gorgon face,
575
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.
LVI
Her lover sinks – she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain – she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee – she checks their base career;
The foe retires – she heads the sallying host:
580
Who can appease like her a lover’s ghost?
Who can avenge so well a leader’s fall?
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? 1
LVII
585
Yet are Spain’s maids no race of Amazons,
But form’d for all the witching arts of love:
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,
‘Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,
590
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
595
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: 2
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 Phœbus woo’d in vain to spoil her cheek,
600
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 climes! which poets love to laud;
Match me, ye harams of the land! where now1
605
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,
With Spain’s dark-glancing daughters – deign to know,
610
There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find,
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.
LX
Oh, thou Parnassus!2 whom I now survey,
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer’s eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
615
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,
620
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.
625
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
630
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow’d scene,
Which others rave of, though they know it not?
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
635
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. – Ev’n amidst my strain
640
I turn’d aside to pay my homage here;
Forgot the land, the
Similar Books
