XXXI.

It was a woe to say, “Farewell, my Spain! The sunny and the vintage land, farewell!” --I could have died upon the battle-plain For thee, my country! but I might not dwell In thy sweet vales, at peace. The voice of song Breathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along; The citron’s glow is caught from shade and dell: But what are these? upon thy flowery sod I might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts out to God!