TRUIT & TIA, and tf, had Harold loved,
De Eream "E be loved since Rapture is a dream;
But now is witward bosom was moved,
Fie not yet had be frank of Lethe's stream;

And lately bad be learn it with truth to deem
so crateful as his wings:

one, bow soft soe'er he seem,

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind. Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; Not that Philosophy on such a mind Eer deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes: But Passion raves herself to rest, or flies; And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: Pleasure's pallid victim! life-abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.

LXXXIV.

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate :
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song ;
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway,
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate,
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay,

TO INEZ.

1

NAY, smile not at my sullen brow;
Alas! I cannot smile again:

Yet heaven avert that ever thou

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.

2

And dost thou ask what secret woe

I bear, corroding joy and youth ? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang, even thou must fail to soothe ?

3

It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most.

It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see:

To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

5

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before.

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.

7

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

8

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;

And all my solace is to know,

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

LXXXV.

Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu !

Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?
When all were changing thou alone wert true,

First to be free and last to be subdued:

And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye;
A traitor only fell beneath the feud:
Here all were noble, save Nobility;

None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry;

LXXXVI.

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!
They fight for freedom who were never free;

A Kingless people for a nerveless state,

Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,

True to the veriest slaves of Treachery:

Fond of a land which gave them nought but life,
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty;

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,

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?
Lock t'er the ravage of the reeking plain;
Look on the bands with female slaughter red;
buried slain.

Them to the dogs resin the

Then to the ritine let each corse remain;

Albeit zworthy of the prey-bird's maw,

Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, Long mark the barle-feld with hideous awe: Thas caly may our soos onceive the scenes we saw!

Nor vet, 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.
Fallon nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd:

Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease

Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain’d.

Not all the blood at Talavera shed,

Nor all the marvels of Barossa's fight,

Nor 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,