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—accursed Time!
   The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee—
   The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a cli