LII. Portend the deeds to come:-but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurl'd, And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd. LIII. And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign? No step between submission and a grave? And doth the Power that man adores ordain And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel? LIV. Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 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, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. VOL. I. E LVI. Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear; Her chief is slain-she fills his fatal post; 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? (11) LVII. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 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 Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: (12) Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak! Match me, ye LIX. climes! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye harams of the land! where now 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, There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. LX. Oh, thou Parnassus! (13) 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, 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; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! |