Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto the First

[Extracts]

                             XIV.

   On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
      And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.
      Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
      New shores descried make every bosom gay;
      And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way,
      And Tagus dashing onward to the Deep,
      His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;
      And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
    And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.

                              XV.

    Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
      What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
      What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!
      What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!
      But man would mar them with an impious hand:
      And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge
      'Gainst those who most transgress his high command,
      With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge
    Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge

                              XVI.

    What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!
      Her image floating on that noble tide,
      Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,
      But now whereon a thousand keels did ride
      Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,
      And to the Lusians did her aid afford:
      A nation swoln with ignorance and pride,
      Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword
    To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.

                             XVII.

    But whoso entereth within this town,
      That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,
      Disconsolate will wander up and down,
      'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee;
      For hut and palace show like filthily:
      The dingy denizens are reared in dirt;
      Ne personage of high or mean degree
      Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
    Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwashed, unhurt.

                             XVIII.

    Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes--
      Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?
      Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes
      In variegated maze of mount and glen.
      Ah, me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,
      To follow half on which the eye dilates
      Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken
      Than those whereof such things the Bard relates,
    Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates.

                              XIX.

    The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,
      The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,
      The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrowned,
      The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,
      The tender azure of the unruffled deep,
      The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,
      The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,
      The vine on high, the willow branch below,
    Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.

                              XX.

    Then slowly climb the many-winding way,
      And frequent turn to linger as you go,
      From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,
      And rest ye at "Our Lady's house of Woe;"
      Where frugal monks their little relics show,
      And sundry legends to the stranger tell:
      Here impious men have punished been, and lo!
      Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,
    In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

                              XXI.

    And here and there, as up the crags you spring,
      Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path:
      Yet deem not these Devotion's offering--
      These are memorials frail of murderous wrath:
      For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath
      Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife,
      Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;
      And grove and glen with thousand such are rife
    Throughout this purple land, where Law secures not life.

                             XXII.

    On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,
      Are domes where whilome kings did make repair;
      But now the wild flowers round them only breathe:
      Yet ruined Splendour still is lingering there.
      And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair:
      There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son,
      Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware
      When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,
    Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.

...
        XXXV.

    Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic Land!
      Where is that standard[58] which Pelagio bore,
      When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band
      That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?
      Where are those bloody Banners which of yore
      Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale,
      And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?
      Red gleamed the Cross, and waned the Crescent pale,
    While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail.

...
        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.
...
        XC.

    Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
      Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,
      Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
      Have won for Spain her well asserted right.
      When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?
      When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?
      How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
      Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
    And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil!