CANTO I. 2. "A few short hours and He will rise And I shall hail the main and skies, Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; 3. "Come hither, hither, my little page! 6 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 4. Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, And have no friend, save these alone, 5. My father bless'd me fervently, 66 Enough, enough, my little lad! 6. yeoman, "Come hither, hither, my staunch · Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 7. My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, And when they on their father call, What answer shall she make?' "Enough, enough, my yeoman good, But I, who am of lighter mood, 8. "For who would trust the seeming sighs Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave 9. "And now I'm in the world alone, But long ere I come back again, 10. "With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! My native Land-Good Night!" CANTO I. XIV. On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 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! Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! 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, Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, un hurt. XVIII. Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes In variegated maze of mount and glen. Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken XIX. The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The vine on high, the willow branch below, XX. Then slowly climb the many-winding way, In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. (1) 1) The Convent of "Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa Señora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. [Since the publication of this poem, I have been informed of the misapprehension of the term Nossa Señora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde, or mark over the , which alters the signification of the word: with it, Peña signifies a rock; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter the passage; as though the common acceptation affixed to it is "Our Lady of the Rock," I may well assume the other sense from the seve rities practised there.] 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 offeringThese 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. (1) XXII. On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, XXIII. Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, (1) It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen; but that Englishmen were daily butchered: and so far from redress being obtained, we were requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defending himself against his allies. I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they generally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend: had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have "adorned a tale " instead of telling one. The crime of assassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished! |