Farewell, dear village, Oh, farewell!
Soft on the gale the murmur dies;
I hear thy solemn evening bell;
Thy spires yet glad mine aching eyes,
Tho' frequent falls the dazzling tear,
I'd scorn to shrink at fate's decree; Yet think not cruel maid that e'er
I'll breathe another sigh for thee.
In vain thro' shades of frowning night,
Mine eyes thy rocky coast explore;
Deep sinks the fiery orb of light;
I view thy beacons now no more.
Rise billows, rise! blow hollow wind!
Nor night, nor storms, nor death I fear;
Ye friendly bear me hence to find
That peace which fate denies me here.
Oh never talk again to me
Of northern climes and British ladies;
It has not been your lot to see,
Like me, the lovely Girl of Cadiz.
Although her eye be not of blue,
Nor fair her locks like English lasses,
How far its own expressive hue,
The languid azure eye surpasses!
Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole
The fire, that through those silken lashes
In darkest glances seems to roll,
From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal
In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel And curl'd to give her neck caresses.
Our English maids are long to woo,
And frigid even in possession;
And if their charms be fair to view,
Their lips are slow at love's confession:
But born beneath a brighter sun,
For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is,
And who,—when fondly, fairly won-
Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ?
The Spanish maid is no coquette,
Nor joys to see a lover tremble,
And if she love, or if she hate,
Alike she knows not to dissemble.
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold—
Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely;
And, though it will not bend to gold,
'Twill love you long and love you dearly.
The Spanish girl that meets your love
Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial,
For every thought is bent to prove
Her passion in the hour of trial.
When thronging foemen menace Spain,
She dares the deed and shares the danger;
And should her lover press the plain,
She hurls the spear, her love's avenger.
And when, beneath the evening star,
She mingles in the gay Bolero,
Or sings to her attuned guitar,
Of Christian knight or Moorish hero,
Or counts her beads with fairy hand
Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper,
Or joins devotions choral band,
To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd Vesper;
In each her charms the heart must move,
Of all who venture to behold her;
Then let not maids less fair reprove
Because her bosom is not colder:
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam
Where many a soft and melting maid is,
But none abroad, and few at home,
May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz.
["The girl of Cadiz" was found in the original MS. of the first Canto of Childe Harold, in place of the song "To Inez."]
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the ess,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
[From the Hebrew Melodies. "These stanzas," says the Editor of Byron's Works, vol. 10, p. 75, were written by Lord Byron, on returning from a ball-room, where he had seen Mrs. (now Lady) Wilmot Horton, the wife of his relation the present Governor of Ceylon. On this occasion, Mrs. W. H. had appeared in mourning, with numerous spangles on her dress."]
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf in the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen :
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heav'd and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
[From the Hebrew Melodies.]
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
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