 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
 | Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems |  |
Dark glooms the cloud o'er Spain's devoted land,
Gone is the glory that of old she wore;
The stern Hidalgo's halls no longer stand,
The minstrel's harp is vocal now no more,
And e'en an humble bard from that far shore
The weary Genoese toiled so long to gain,
Must sing, with stranger-tongue, her wondrous lore—
Must wake her slumbering lyre, perchance in vain,
Ere breaks the wave of Time, and Darkness rules again!
Gone is the glory that of old she wore;
The stern Hidalgo's halls no longer stand,
The minstrel's harp is vocal now no more,
And e'en an humble bard from that far shore
The weary Genoese toiled so long to gain,
Must sing, with stranger-tongue, her wondrous lore—
Must wake her slumbering lyre, perchance in vain,
Ere breaks the wave of Time, and Darkness rules again!
So much yet lingers still, her name around
Of wild romance, that Poesy loves to hear—
That stirs the soul, as doth the trumpet's sound,
'Till the dark Past seems living, breathing near;
He fain would weave one lay, tho' dry and sere
The laurel leaves he twines. Oh! for the fire
Of those old bards, who woke the smile or tear
By turns within their breasts who heard the lyre!
Alas! that such renown could with their names expire.
Of wild romance, that Poesy loves to hear—
That stirs the soul, as doth the trumpet's sound,
'Till the dark Past seems living, breathing near;
He fain would weave one lay, tho' dry and sere
The laurel leaves he twines. Oh! for the fire
Of those old bards, who woke the smile or tear
By turns within their breasts who heard the lyre!
Alas! that such renown could with their names expire.
| Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems | |