TO INEZ. 1 NAY, smile not at my sullen brow; Yet heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 2 And dost thou ask what secret woe 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. 4 It is that weariness which springs 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; 8 Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 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 Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. LXXXV. Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? 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; None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry; LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, So LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, War mouldeth there each weapon to his need- So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, LXXXIX. Nor yet, 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. Fall'n 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. XC. 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? XCI. And thou, my friend!—since unavailing woe XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most! XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd. |