XII.

Yet art thou lovely! Song is on thy hills: O sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, That lull’d my boyhood, how your memory thrills The exile’s heart with sudden-wakening pain! Your sounds are on the rocks:--that I might hear Once more the music of the mountaineer! And from the sunny vales the shepherd’s strain Floats out, and fills the solitary place With the old tuneful names of Spain’s heroic race.