And, all unsex'd, the Anlace hath espous'd, Sung the loud song, and dar'd the deed of war? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to 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,

Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, Thin the clos'd ranks, and lead in Glory's

fearful chase.

LVI.

Her lover sinks - she sheds no ill-tim'd tear;
Her chief is slain
she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee - she checks their base career
The foe retires she heads the sallying host:
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?
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", But form'd for all the witching arts of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: In softness as in firmness far above Remoter females, fam'd for sickening prate; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perehance

as great.

LVIII.

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath im

press'd

Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: 12

Herlips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:
Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much
Hath Phœbus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek,
Which glows yet smoother from his amo-
rous clutch!

Who round the North for paler dames would

seek ?

wan, and weak!

How poor their forms appear! how languid,

LIX.

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to

laud;

Match me, ye harams of the land! where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 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 phrenzy of a dreamer's eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!
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 dreamed of Thee! whose glorious

name

Who knows not, knowsnot 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 confin'd their lot, Shall I unmov'd behold the hallow'd 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.

Of thee hereafter.

LXIII.

Ev'n amidst my strain I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear, And hail'd 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 deem'd 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 Grecce 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; 14