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To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,
The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.
The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.
But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,
To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever,
And brain delirious with the day-star's rage,
To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever,
And brain delirious with the day-star's rage,
Can make me know such grief, as thus to fever,
With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee;
To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,
And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!
With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee;
To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,
And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!
Ah me! how oft will fancy's spells, in slumber,
Recall my native country to my mind!
How oft regret will bid me sadly number
Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!
Recall my native country to my mind!
How oft regret will bid me sadly number
Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!
Wild Murcia's vales and loved romantic bowers,
The river on whose banks a child I played,
My castle's antient halls, its frowning towers,
Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade;
The river on whose banks a child I played,
My castle's antient halls, its frowning towers,
Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade;
Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,
Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,
Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor,
And turn each pleasure past to present woe.
Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,
Full oft shall memory trace, my soul's tormentor,
And turn each pleasure past to present woe.
But, lo! the sun beneath the waves retires;
Night speeds apace her empire to restore;
Night speeds apace her empire to restore;
