Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;
   Match me, ye harems! of the land where now
   I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud
   Beauties that even a cynic must avow! 
   Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow
   To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,
   With Spain’s dark-glancing daughters—­deign to know,
   There your wise Prophet’s paradise we find,
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.

LX.

   O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey,
   Not in the frenzy of a dreamer’s eye,
   Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
   But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
   In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 
   What marvel if I thus essay to sing? 
   The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by
   Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string,
Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing.

LXI.

   Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name
   Who knows not, knows not man’s divinest lore: 
   And now I view thee, ’tis, alas, with shame
   That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
   When I recount thy worshippers of yore
   I tremble, and can only bend the knee;
   Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
   But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy
In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!

LXII.

   Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
   Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
   Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,
   Which others rave of, though they know it not? 
   Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
   And thou, the Muses’ seat, art now their grave,
   Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,
   Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,
And glides with glassy foot o’er yon melodious wave.

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.