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Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find,
Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,
But gaze beneath thy clouded canopy
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,
Of thee hereafter.—Even amidst my strain
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,
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, Behold a train more fitting to inspire 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 glade
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. Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! While boyish blood is mantling who can ’scape The fascination of thy magic gaze?
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.
When Paphos fell by Time—accursed Time ! The queen who conquers all must yield to theeThe Pleasures. fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native sea, To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee; And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white : Though not to one dome circumscribeth she Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.
LXVII. From morn till night, from night till startled Morn Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu
Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.
LXVIII. The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; What hallows it upon this Christian shore? . Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar ? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o’erthrown beneath his horn ; The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more ;
Yells the mad crowd o’er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects to mou
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, · To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair ;
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: