 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
189
I.
Thou land of love and loveliness, what dreamsOf pomp, and beauty, and old chivalry
Haunt the green borders of thy mighty streams,
Imperial Spain! Years and long ages fly,
Leaving the palace and the mountain tower
Buried beneath their purple bed of rose;
But still thy morn in dewy brightness glows,
Still falls thy eve the same enchanted hour;
The same pure splendour lightens from thy moon,
Rolling along that boundless upper flood,
Whose waves are clouds, her solemn-moving throne.
And prouder still, the heart is unsubdued
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With naked hands his jewell'd coronal;
And tore the sceptre from the Moslem king,
Sending him, from Granada's ivory hall,
To make with fox and wolf his rocky lair,
And perish in the Alpuxarras bare.
Spain! thou hast had thy day of toils and woes,
And, for the sword, thy hand has felt the chain;
But, when the giant from his slumber rose,
The Frank was swept, like mist, from mount and plain.
Now to my tale, a tale of long past years,
Of pains, and joys, strong faith, and love's bewitching tears.
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |