The Sun.
London, England, 1824-02-03 00:00:00

P 0 E T It Y.

LITTER TO A FRIEND.
(WItITTEN IN SPAIN.)
I'll rouse my dormant muse--:She that bath lain
So long inert, shall rise, and soar, and sing,
Ye Gods how she shall sing !--altho' her strain
Be not of the sweetest,—and if a string
Or two of her wild harp should burst in twain,
From being much neglected, and thus bring
Discord, and harsh confusion in the song,
It shall be loud at least, and not too long.
Where are the spirits of the mighty dead ?
(A pretty question truly—where indeed)
1 mean of those great heroes who are said
To have liv'd in ages past, and were decreed
To roam about the world, ill used, worse fed ;_
And sometimes, but not often, made to bleed :
Could I but call them, I would tell them plain
That I have gone thro' more, much more, in Spain.
I've long since thought friend L . . . n that the acts,
Prais'd, and be prais'd, in every ancient's page,
Those mighty deeds, those valorous attacks,
Of Heroes, whom they thrust upon the stage,
If once they were rcduc'd to simple facts,
Would read but poorly, in the present age:
But now those actions are consign d to glory,
Becauie a lying poet tells the story.
First comes great Homer—prince of all the throng—
'What are his warriors when compar'd with ours.
Their Grecian names indeed, sound well in song,
But still those doughty chiefs, with all their pow'rs,
Requir'd in years alone, just twice as long,
To take a town, as we should do in hours;
And Agamemnon's self, and great Ajax,
Could never have withstood brave Marshall Saxe.
Virgil comes next—he who in dulcet strain
First sings of gentle shepherds, with their crooks
Leading their flocks, and hems, o'er Mantua's plain;—
But when he tells his tale in many books
Of one who wander'd long upon the main,
What are his voyages to Captain Cooks ?
And all his galleys with their many oars,
They were but cock boats to our seventy fours. •
And Quintus Curtius too, has handed down
To after ages, Alexander's name,
And loaded it with honour, and renown,
For having hit upon the way to tame
A vicious horse—There's not about the town

A single jockey, but could do the same:
Nay, more in this respect the name of Saunders
Ought to rank higher than great Alexanders.
With Ovid I've no quarrel—his sweet lyre
NVas tun'd to love, and love is in all ages
Much of the same complexion—that sacred fire
When lighted up in youth, by beauty, rages
With ferce unquenchable, and only higher,
For being sometimes thwarted by your sages,
Who lengthen out their homilies of froth,
And 'preach of prudence, judgment, and forth.
But of love matters I can only speak
In what is said to be the general. style,
For tho' mine eye hath oft perus'd the cheek
Of loveliness, and linger'd in her smile
Yet ere my heart was wounded, it:could seek
Shelter in cold indifference from her wile,
And Cupid when he aims his shafts at me,
Might tire them just as well at an old tree.
For I'm a widower—you startle the're—
Imagination from my early birth
Hath wedded me to one of form sofair,
Of so much beauty, innocence, and worth,
That having sought her long, and ev'r) where,
I cannot find this paragon on earth.
Now she's the same as dead who has no life,
Therefore I've put on mourning for my wife.
Once, and once only, did I fondly deem
11;luy eba!terthseeafiricthtinhidofnoat
mbeoernnhialgl in vain--
.7And I awoke unto a sense of pain,
Which clings about ine stilL--But to my theme,
Namely, the pleasures of a tour in Spain,
Where, tho' few comforts on the Traveller wait,
Tho' heat, and toil, and hardship, be his fate,
Yet when the sun in golden pomp bath set,
And o'er the azure reigns the evening star,
Castilian damsels, witb their eyes of jet.
And dark brown cheeks, assemble from afar,
And fastening orpthe ebatt'ring castanet,
Listen to catch the sound of the guitar,
Whose well known air invites them, or to dance,
Or join their voices, in an old Romance :
ROMANCE.
My lover is bold and free,
And oh he bath swornnitoiamneig,
°of the cypress tree,
Which still waves o'er
her tomb.
lit gloom,
Topp
luck
repairhick
me a branchatthehour f

And as the hour of twelve draws nigh,
Low on my bended knees,
I'll breathe a prayer at the Virgin's shrine,
That her soul may rest in ease.—

- • The Moor he conquer'd the Christian King,
And many a slave did make
But when he saw the young Princess,
Released them for her sake.
For the daughter of the Christian King,
Was exceedingly fair to see,
And the Moor bath sworn by Mahomet,
That she his bride shall be.
Butli
theteLlaadstyoffaiarl hl
heratb braidedrace her hair,
As
And cast a long and thick black veil,
Over her lovely face.
And many a pray'r to the Lady fair
Was made without avail,
That she should appear in court and hall
Without that thick black veil.
The Moor he built her a princely bower,
And a stately Alcazar,
And in the middle a lofty tower,
For her to look out afar :
And many an hour from that high tower
She turn'd towards the plain,
Where the battle was fought against the:3l°er,
In which her lover was slain.
At length that lovely Lady died,
And then they rais'd her veil,
And the Moor he came to see his bride,
But her cheek was wan and pale.
And loudly did he mourn for her,
And shedding many a tear,
He bent, and kiss'd her clay cold lip ,
As she slept upon the bier.
And legends say, that night and day,
After she was dead,
A golden ray was seen to play,
Above that Lady's head.

Now lovers so bola and free,
To prove their constancy,
Repair at the hour of midnight gloom,
To pluck a branch of the cypress tree,
Which still waves v'er her tomb.

But soon the shadows of the ev'Mng melt
Into obscurity, and it is night
The freshness of the mountain breeze is felt
Fanning the blood--above, where all is bright
The Galaxy shines like a studded belt,
Encircling the firmament with light;
And, midst the stillness, the guitar again
Is heard to sound, but to a deeper strain :
SERENADE.
Wherefore, oh wherefore, from my senses flies
Thine influence, sweet sleep
surely there's poison in her liquid eyes,
And mine have drank too deep.
The spell which binds my soul too late I know,
Others have felt it too ;
And they are many that are doom'd to woe,
The happy—oh how few !
Music's sweet language is unknown to men,
But there are those who deem
That loveliness can understand it, when
It mingles with her dream.
Then my Guitar in dulcet measures keeping,
Soft o'er her slumbers b%ak,
Thus she will listen to those vows while sleeping,
She doth but scorn awake ;
And Love's deep strain with magic force endued,
Breathe in irvpassion'd tone,
Till ley thy charmed eloquence subdued,
Her soul-shall be mine own.