VI.

Not Spain, not Spain doth tamely bear the yoke, Her sturdy peasants the Guerrillas swell, And, see, where gather ’neath Guerníca’s oak Her passionate sons to list the tuneful shell Which ’neath its shade a maiden strikes so well. One hand alone the loud guitarra wakes So potently: ’tis Blanca gives the spell! Through every pause the Basque pandéro breaks, And Blanca thus i’ th’ crowd each nerve and fibre shakes:--