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 clime;
   And Venus, constant to her native sea,
   To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee,
   And fixed her shrine within these walls of white;
   Though not to one dome circumscribeth she
   Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.

LXVII.

   From morn till night, from night till startled morn
   Peeps blushing on the revel’s laughing crew,
   The song is heard, the rosy garland worn;
   Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,
   Tread on each other’s kibes.  A long adieu
   He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: 
   Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu
   Of true devotion monkish incense burns,
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.

LXVIII.

   The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest;
   What hallows it upon this Christian shore? 
   Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: 
   Hark! heard you not the forest monarch’s roar? 
   Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore
   Of man and steed, o’erthrown beneath his horn: 
   The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;
   Yells the mad crowd o’er entrails freshly torn,
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e’en affects to mourn.

LXIX.

   The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. 
   London! right well thou know’st the day of prayer: 
   Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan,
   And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 
   Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
   And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;
   To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair;
   Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.

LXX.

   Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,
   Others along the safer turnpike fly;
   Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware,
   And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
   Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why? 
   ’Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,
   Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery,
   In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,
And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn.