LIX. Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow LX. Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, Not in the frenzy 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 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, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, LXIII. Of thee hereafter.-Even amidst my strain 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, Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. LXVI. When Paphos fell by Time-accursed Time! To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee; 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 mourn. LXIX. The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. LXX. Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. Ask ye, Baotian shades! the reason why? 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn. LXXI. All have their fooleries-not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea! Thy saint adorers count the rosary: Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. |