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And saw, with eye of boding gloom, the land receding fast.

"Blow, blow ye winds, and waft us from Xeres' glorious plain,

Then be ye calm, while I pronounce a Moor's curse on Spain.

"Thou did'st bow, Spain, for ages, beneath a Moorish


And save Asturia's mountain sons, there were none to strike a stroke;

On mountain top and lowland plain, thy fate was still the same,

Thy soldiers drew dull scymitars, and the crescent


"The days, which saw our martial deeds, are fled to come no more;

A warrior monarch rules thee now, and we give the battle o'er;

Abencarrage wakes not, when the battle trumpets call, And Abderame sleeps in death, beside th' Alhambra's wall.

"I leave to thee, my curse, proud Spain! a curse upon thy clime;

Thou shalt be the land of dastard souls, a nursery of


And yet, as if to mock her sons, and make their dark doom worse,

No land shall boast more glorious skies, than the lovely land I curse.

"Thy kings shall wear no royal type, save a diadem alone,

And their sovereignty by cruelty and a withering eye

be known.

"T were waste of time to speak my curse; for, Spain, thy sons shall see,

That magic can invoke no fiend, worse than thy kings will be.

"And that blind faith, thou holdest from the Prophet of the Cross,

A faith thy children have profaned, and its better doctrines lost;

By the lords that faith shall give thee, not less shalt thou be gored,

Because they grasp a crucifix, instead of spear and sword.

"Bright eyes are in thy land, Spain, and thy virgins want no charms,

But thou art cursed to know no truth in either heart

or arms;

Their bosoms shall no pillow be, for aught is kind or brave,

But lull in mere illicit love, the sensual priest and slave.

"Thy sway shall reach to distant lands, shall yield thee gold and gem,

But a burning and a bloody sword, shall thy sceptre be o'er them,

Till vengeance meet the murderous bands, from thine accursed shore,

And give them of the land they seek,—a grave of clotted gore."

The Guadalquiver's banks shall be divested of their pride,

The castles of our valiant race deck no more the mountain side,

And Ruin's mouldering hand shall sweep to Spain's remotest shore,

And all her fertile regions weep the exile of the Moor.


My way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocking tide;
And many an eye has followed me

Where billows clasp the worn sea-side.

My plumage bears the crimson blush,
When ocean by the sun is kissed!
When fades the evening's purple flush,
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.

Full many a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep,
My ear has heard the sea shell breathe
O'er living myriads in their sleep.

They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem,

Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown
The glorious dwellings made for them.

At night upon my storm-drenched wing,
I poised above a helmless bark,
And soon I saw the shattered thing
Had passed away and left no mark.

And when the wind and storm had done,
A ship, that had rode out the gale,
Sunk down-without a signal gun,
And none was left to tell the tale.

I saw the pomp of day depart,—

The cloud resign its golden crown, When to the ocean's beating heart, The sailor's wasted corse went down.

Peace be to those whose graves are made Beneath the bright and silver sea !— Peace that their relics there were laid With no vain pride and pageantry.



This spacious mausoleum holds

Proud dust in many a worshipped shrine; Yon massive golden urn enfolds

The Founder of our line.

In gloomy grandeur, here are laid
The gods, our regal race have made.

Yes, here are sleeping side by side

The gods, Assyrian queens have borne ; Warriors of madmen deified,

And tyrants overthrown.

Why, since my sires are all divine,
Am I, their son, without a shrine ?

I have unto my people been

A father, brother and a friend! Go to the Western Island-men

Go eastward to mine empire's end; If there be one hath wrong of me, Him, fourfold recompense shall see.

I loved the glittering javelin not-
I did not love war's bloody suit;
I left the field where nations fought,
To listen to the lute;

I passed the prancing war-horse by,
To gaze at beauty's melting eye.

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