Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50) (198 page)

LXI.

 
Oft have I dreamed 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.
 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore
 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;
 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy
In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!

LXII.

 
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,
 
Which others rave of, though they know it not?
 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
 
And thou, the Muses’ seat, art now their grave,
 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,
 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,
And glides with glassy foot o’er yon melodious wave.

LXIII.

 
Of thee hereafter. - Even amidst my strain
 
I turned aside to pay my homage here;
 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;
 
Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear;
 
And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear.
 
Now to my theme - but from thy holy haunt
 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;
 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne’s deathless plant,
Nor let thy votary’s hope be deemed an idle vaunt.

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 glades.

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.

LXVI.

 
When Paphos fell by Time - accursèd Time!
 
The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee -
 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;
 
And Venus, constant to her native sea,
 
To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,
 
And fixed 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 thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;
 
Yells the mad crowd o’er entrails freshly torn,
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e’en affects to mourn.

LXIX.

 
The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.
 
London! right well thou know’st the day of prayer:
 
Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan,
 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:
 
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
 
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.

LXX.

 
Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,
 
Others along the safer turnpike fly;
 
Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware,
 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie.
 
Ask ye, Bœotian shades, the reason why?
 
’Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,
 
Grasped 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!
 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,
 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary:
 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free
 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there)
 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;
 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare:
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.

LXXII.

 
The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,
 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;
 
Long ere the first loud trumpet’s note is heard,
 
No vacant space for lated wight is found:
 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,
 
Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,
 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;
 
None through their cold disdain are doomed to die,
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love’s sad archery.

LXXIII.

 
Hushed is the din of tongues - on gallant steeds,
 
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance,
 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,
 
And lowly bending to the lists advance;
 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:
 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,
 
The crowd’s loud shout, and ladies’ lovely glance,
 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away,
And all that kings or chiefs e’er gain their toils repay.

LXXIV.

 
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,
 
But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore
 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
 
The lord of lowing herds; but not before
 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o’er,
 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:
 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more
 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed -
Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.

LXXV.

 
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
 
The den expands, and expectation mute
 
Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls.
 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
 
And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:
 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.

LXXVI.

 
Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away,
 
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;
 
Now is thy time to perish, or display
 
The skill that yet may check his mad career.
 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;
 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;
 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:
 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes:
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes.

LXXVII.

 
Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,
 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;
 
Though man and man’s avenging arms assail,
 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.
 
One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse;
 
Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears,
 
His gory chest unveils life’s panting source;
 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears.

LXXVIII.

 
Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
 
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,
 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray:
 
And now the matadores around him play,
 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:
 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way -
 
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,
Wraps his fierce eye - ’tis past - he sinks upon the sand.

LXXIX.

 
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.
 
He stops - he starts - disdaining to decline:
 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
 
Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
 
The decorated car appears on high:
 
The corse is piled - sweet sight for vulgar eyes;
 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by.

LXXX.

 
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain:
 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights
 
In vengeance, gloating on another’s pain.
 
What private feuds the troubled village stain!
 
Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe,
 
Enough, alas, in humble homes remain,
 
To meditate ‘gainst friends the secret blow,
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life’s warm stream must flow.

LXXXI.

 
But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
 
His withered sentinel, duenna sage!
 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts,
 
Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage,
 
Have passed to darkness with the vanished age.
 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen
 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage),
 
With braided tresses bounding o’er the green,
While on the gay dance shone Night’s lover-loving Queen?

LXXXII.

 
Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved,
 
Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream;
 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,
 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe’s stream:
 
And lately had he learned with truth to deem
 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:
 
How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem,
 
Full from the fount of joy’s delicious springs
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.