Constance De Castile A Poem, in Ten Cantos. By William Sotheby |
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 | Constance De Castile |  |
XIV.
Now the green vales are left behind:Slowly the length'ning battles wind
Through glens, where wolves at random prowl,
And bay the moon with ceaseless howl.
More slow the toilsome march ascends
Where the bold mountain range extends,
Where eagles in their aerie rest
On the top cliff's ice-mantled crest,
And famine on her bleak domain
Frowns o'er the rocks that barrier Spain.
The minstrels lead the host along,
And cheer the march with harp and song.
| Constance De Castile | |